"You say. When we see, we will be sure." Coral took out another five hundred pesos. "Here. Fifteen hundred. That is good pay. Now get their names."
"I want dollars!"
Coral shook his head. "Boy, for dollars, you must bring me the men."
"I will get their names!" Rico grabbed the money. He folded the bills and put them in a secret money pocket he wore. "I will go back and listen at the windows."
"Good," Ramirez told him. "Go, watch them. We will send men soon to watch. Tell them what you see, what the North Americans and soldiers do. My men will pay you a few dollars.''
Rico ran down the stairs to the crowded sidewalk. Pushing through the crowds, he ran to the corner and jumped on a bus. But he did not return to the warehouse.
Why waste his time for pesos? The two old men of the Ochoas had paid him only fifteen hundred pesos. Rico knew others who would buy information about criminals pretending to be soldiers of the Mexican army.
Rico would sell the information again.
This time, he would demand dollars or stay silent.
"A thousand dollars?" the sergeant asked, not believing the ragged boy who stood at the door to his apartment.
"I know something very important. About some gringos and Mexican soldiers. They have money and machine guns."
"Soldiers? Machine guns?"
"Maybe they are the ones from the Viaducto. If you pay me, I will take you to them."
"I don't have that money." The sergeant considered the problem. He motioned the boy to step in. "But I will call my unit..."
"Tell them I want dollars."
"Don't we all?"
Walls of office lights towered above the street. As the gray evening became night, workers from the buildings crowded the sidewalks. Junior executives talked with young women in color-coordinated corporate uniforms. Buses stopped, the workers surging in through the doors. Others strolled toward the subway station two blocks away, talking to one another, buying newspapers and magazines from the newsstands lining the boulevard.
Across the street, in the circular driveway of a flashy hotel, taxis vied for tourist fares. Lyons watched as a blond, sunburned European argued with a taxi driver. The tourist pointed to the black hood covering the meter. The driver shook his head. He whistled to a traffic cop. The city policeman, then a hotel doorman joined the argument.
Lyons stood in a doorway a few steps from the entry to a long-distance telephone office. As he had that morning, he held newspapers and a tourist map under his left armpit to cover the unmistakable shape of his shoulder-holstered Colt. Vato and Jacom circled in the rented cars. Police standing on the corners did not allow any parking.
Inside the telephone office, Gadgets and Blancanales called Stony Man. Lyons could not see them from where he stood. But he had an unobstructed view of the entry and the street in front. In a few minutes, after Gadgets recorded the coded reply from Stony Man, Able Team would have the translation and evaluation of Gunther's ravings.
They needed an address, the name of a building. Somewhere in the recordings of the fascist colonel's drug delirium, there had to be a key.
Vato passed in one of the rented cars. He did not look at Lyons, but Lyons knew that Vato had scanned the telephone office and the street as he passed.
Headlights flashed across the sidewalk and a heavy Chevrolet pulled to the curb. Lyons stepped back into the doorway, taking his hand-radio from his coat pocket. He counted four wide-shouldered men inside. They looked through the windows of the telephone office. Lyons watched the Chevrolet, his thumb on the radio's transmit key. He would not risk betraying their location until he knew...
One man pointed. Then three men threw open the doors of the Chevy and rushed toward the telephone office. One man stood at the entry, watching the sidewalk. As the other two went inside, their right hands going to shoulder-holstered pistols, Lyons hissed into the radio.
"Nazis! They're..."
A woman screamed. Noises. People on the sidewalk stopped. The gunman stationed at the door turned and looked inside. Gadgets''s voice called from Lyons's radio.
"Hold them! We haven't got it all yet. Can you?"
"They're already in there."
"The two that ran in here? They are past tense."
"How much longer?"
A full-powered Detroit engine roared as another Chevrolet slipped around the corner. The driver skidded the car to a stop in front of the telephone office. Three more gunmen ran for the entry, Uzis in their hands. The people on the sidewalks scattered.
Bursts of autofire shattered the evening. A plate-glass window fell onto the sidewalk.
Going to one knee, Lyons gripped his Colt Government Model in both hands. He lined up the sights on the driver of the first Chevrolet, checked the sidewalk for bystanders, then squeezed off a silenced shot.
Blood splashed the inside of the windshield. The driver slumped over the steering wheel, the engine screaming with frenzied rpm as the dead man's foot pressed down the accelerator. Then the driver fell sideways onto the transmission lever.
Tires smoking, the Chevy raced backward, shearing off two doors of a parked taxi. The out-of-control sedan continued backward into the wide boulevard, scraped off a car's taillights and smashed into the side of a bus. Hundreds of cars skidded to a stop.
Sprinting from the doorway, Lyons ran for the other car. He saw the driver turning in the front seat, his hand coming up with an automatic. Lyons sidestepped to the left and the driver fired, the back windshield of the Chevrolet suddenly fracture-white, the 9mm slug passing high over Lyons's head.
A silent 3-shot burst of .45-caliber slugs from Lyons punched holes in the crystals of broken glass, the impacts of the hollowpoints like hammers slamming the dashboard. He continued around the Chevrolet and fired again, point-blank through the driver's window. Three more hollowpoints tore into the wounded man. Lyons reached inside and took the keys from the ignition.
An Uzi fired a last burst. Lyons ran toward the telephone office and looked inside. Dead men sprawled everywhere. A woman ran from the front doors, screaming, tottering on her high heels. Gadgets and Blancanales followed her out. Blancanales held his Beretta 93-R autopistol in a two-hand grip. Gadgets had his bag of gear in one hand, an Uzi in the other. Another Uzi hung on his shoulder.
A shotgun boomed. A block away, Lyons saw a muzzle flash twice, the cracks coming an instant later. Headlights wavered. A second pair of headlights accelerated from behind the first, and the shotgun fired again. Lyons heard a crash.
"Where are the cars?" Gadgets shouted.
"We'll take that one." Lyons ran toward the windshield-shattered Chevrolet and jerked open the door. He pulled the dead man out.
Another weapon fired somewhere on the next block. Lyons dropped to a crouch. But no bullets came. Listening for a moment, he heard no more shots, only blaring horns.
Vato's rental arrived, sliding sideways as it stopped. Vato held out Lyons's Atchisson with one hand, the forestock braced on the window trim. "There are many of them!'' he shouted.
"Where's Jacom?"
"Back there, coming. Get in!"
"Take them." Lyons pointed to his partners. "I'll wait for Jacom."
Lyons pulled his Atchisson out of Vato's car window. Vato passed him another 7-round box-mag of 12-gauge shells as Blancanales and Gadgets got out of the Chevrolet and into the small car. Gadgets leaned across the back seat and pushed the door open.
"Get in! What're you waiting for?"
"Jacom! Where is he?" Lyons crouchwalked into the open, the muzzle of the Atchisson straight up as he scanned the street for the Yaqui teenager. "I'm not leaving him here..."