He crawled onto the roof, forcing himself to move slowly, to distribute his weight on the sheet metal without the roof buckling or popping. He turned slowly and looked down to Blancanales and Ricardo. Blancanales whispered a last instruction to the teenager, then prodded him up.
Ricardo moved quickly and silently, his teeth clenched now with determined courage. He scrambled onto the roof. Lyons motioned him flat. The teenager obeyed instantly. As the bus swayed, he sideslipped down the rain-slick enamel of the roof. He reached out with a hand and a foot and braced himself against the cargo rack's side rail.
A moment later, Blancanales followed.
"No problems?" Lyons whispered.
"I had my ear against the bus. No noise, no questions."
"All right! We're on our way." Lyons crept across the roof to bundles of gear. He checked the bundles by touch. He felt plastic and cloth in one. Tents? Camouflage tarps for the bus? His hands found heavy boxes perhaps boxes of ammunition. Leaning against the bundles, he hooked his boots around the cargo rail.
Loosing the sling, he eased his Atchisson off his back. He checked the safety, then dropped out the magazine and pocketed it. He pulled back the actuator to eject the chambered shell into his hand. The action locked back. He put a finger in the chamber and felt gritty mud.
He turned the autoshotgun muzzle down and shook it. A plug of mud plopped out of the barrel. Hinging the weapon open, he held the receiver group to the sky, letting the rain wash the mechanism. Then he turned the chamber upward. With his cupped hand, he funneled rainwater into the chamber. Rain poured into the barrel and flowed out the muzzle.
In instants of lightning white, Blancanales watched, smiling. "Not the way to clean a weapon, mister."
"Then pass me your cleaning rod."
"Didn't bring one."
"I suggest you check your own barrel for obstructions."
"Next time you go for a roll in the mud," Blancanales instructed his partner in a whisper, "use a rubber band to secure a bit of cellophane or plastic over the barrel. Trick I learned in the monsoons."
"You got cellophane over the barrel of your two-oh-three?"
"No."
In a flash of lightning, he saw Blancanales cleaning mud out of his M-203 grenade launcher.
With a low laugh, Lyons snapped the Atchisson closed. He slipped the shell into the chamber and eased the bolt closed. Slapping in the magazine, he slung the autoshotgun over his shoulder and checked the auto-Colt and Colt Python. He continued his preparation by touch-checking his bandolier of ammunition and the grenades in his pockets.
When they went through the gates of the plantation-fortress, he would need all his firepower. No doubt about it.
Beside him, he heard Blancanales whispering into his hand-radio, "Wizard. Wizard. Political here."
Lyons monitored the transmission on his own radio.
He heard Blancanales's voice. But only snatches of static answered. Blancanales tried key code.
Static-distorted clicks answered. Blancanales keyed out a series of clicks. A series of clicks answered.
"The mountain and the electrical storm are breaking up the signal," Blancanales explained. "But he knows we're okay."
"What happens when we go in?" Lyons asked.
"You suggested this. Don't you have a plan?"
"Haven't had the time to think that far ahead."
Blancanales laughed softly. "Then give it some thought. You're running out of time."
"The radio down there. This is the gang the Wizard monitored, right?"
"Most likely."
"So I figure their radio's the same as the black box we found in the jeep. We'll send out a call to Gadgets and the lieutenant. They'll monitor it on the jeep's radio."
"But if it's like the one we captured, it has a coded digital lock."
"Oh, yeah Ah, I don't know what..."
"Face it, Carl. We'll be on our own. Consider that before you open fire."
"Yeah, yeah. But this ride is our ticket into the plantation. We got the chance to grab Quesada and drag him out."
"Remember what the lieutenant told us. Concentric rings of defenses, electronic security, mines, bodyguards and militia on the inside, army react-units on call. Against two of us."
"All those defenses face out," Lyons said pointedly. "We're going in quiet. If we can take Quesada, they won't know what's happening until it's too late."
"We shall see" Blancanales pronounced.
Taillights flashed ahead. Simultaneously, Lyons and Blancanales went flat, pressing themselves against the bundles of cargo. Brakes squealed.
The bus sounded its airhorn. Soldiers shouted back. Downshifting with a lurch, the bus slowed to a crawl. Lyons looked over the side.
A rush of black water surged against the side of the bus. Branches and forest flotsam struck the sheet metal. The engine revved and the bus tilted upward. The tail-lights lit a wash of rocks and broken concrete.
With a roar of engines, the troop trucks ahead picked up speed. The clouds of diesel soot stank even in the continuing downpour. The bus driver floored the accelerator and slammed through the gears.
Bouncing and shuddering on the flooded road, the bus raced the trucks. Lights appeared to one side. Lyons saw a lantern on the steps of a turquoise cantina. Headlights revealed whitewashed buildings and a narrow street paved with stones.
The bus swerved and accelerated. Lyons pressed himself to the roof and watched with one eye as the bus paralleled the troop trucks.
Quesada's assassins shouted from the bus windows, laughing and jeering at the soldiers. In the backs of the open trucks, with only plastic tarps around their shoulders to shelter them from the storm, the soldiers returned the jeers. Like two competing sports teams, the militiamen and the soldiers cursed one another and urged their drivers faster. The bus passed one truck, then the other.
Headlights illuminated the back of the bus. Belching diesel smoke, the bus pulled ahead of the trucks. The bus shook and rattled as it hurtled downhill. The tires sprayed mud higher than the windows. Careering through curves, the bus left the trucks far behind.
But other taillights appeared. Lyons raised himself to look ahead. In the headlights of the bus, he saw a jeep with M-60 machine guns mounted on pedestals, one in the front seat aiming forward, the other in the back. Four soldiers rode in the jeep.
The jeep's brake lights flashed. The bus slowed. The jeep whipped through a turn, the bus following a moment later. Now the vehicles traveled on a paved road.
Kilometers away, the lights of a small city shimmered through the rain and wind. Lyons heard rumbling and squeaking. He looked back to see the troop trucks pass the turnoff without slowing. He nudged Blancanales to rise.
"Can't be San Francisco Gotera," Blancanales told him. "The town hasn't had electricity for years."
"Ricardo!" Lyons hissed.
The teenager spoke quickly to Blancanales. Blancanales turned to Lyons.
"That's the plantation," he said. "What happened back there on the road?"
"They had a race. That's a jeep up front there. I think it's the army officers. The troop trucks went straight. Going back to the garrison, I guess."
"Like at the farmhouse." Blancanales considered what he had observed. "The soldiers stay in the trucks, the officers work with the militia leaders. Perhaps the officers will be meeting with Quesada."
On the paved road, the jeep and bus maintained a steady hundred kilometers per hour. Only a few minutes after they left the mountain road, they saw the lights of a guard tower. The jeep slowed. Taking a last look, the two men of Able Team saw a sentry open a chain link gate topped with razor wire.
Praying that the guard in the watchtower could not distinguish their forms among the bundles and boxes of gear, Lyons and Blancanales and the teenage Ricardo pressed themselves flat on the roof of the bus. The vehicle slowed to a crawl as it lurched over a series of speed bumps. Voices called out, then the bus accelerated again, following a hundred meters behind the jeep.