The questions became a puzzle without a solution. For another hour, he replayed the scene in his mind over and over again, considering Pardee's actions and Furst's words, then straining to remember every detail of his experiences with Furst years before, in Los. Angeles. He knew Furst's biography: military schools as a child and teenager; honors from an exclusive Eastern university; officer training in the army, followed by commendations and decorations in Vietnam. But then Furst had fallen apart: a bad marriage to a debutante, a boring corporate career; squandering family money to invest in a movie starring himself; then the fast lane life with the beautiful people of Beverly Hills, including the mandatory Porsche and cocaine habit, all financed with credit and family money; finally organizing a team of drug-ruined veterans to operate internationally, but ending with a bungled bank robbery in Culver City.
Lyons laughed out loud. How could he make sense of the man's actions? Nothing Furst did made sense. Born to a good family, Furst threw it away to be a jet-set phony. Leaving prison as an ex-con with only his good looks and Vietnam record to recommend him, he became the commander of a crazy billionaire's private army.
A jeep! Voices! Lyons rolled from the bunk, grabbing the M-16. Holding the gun tight against his leg, he crept toward the rear of the barrack.
He heard the jeep accelerate away, then Blancanales' voice call out: "Thanks for the ride." Lyons reversed direction and rushed silently for the front entry. He stopped Blancanales and Gadgets on the front steps, without himself stepping past the doorway.
"Don't come in," he hissed.
"What?"
"Check the street for surveillance. Look around, I have to know if..."
"We already looked," Blancanales whispered. "We thought we might have people waiting for us."
"What for?"
Gadgets laughed quietly. "You don't know what we've been doing."
Lyons sighed at that. "Wait till I brief you on my adventures."
"We know all about it," Blancanales told him.
"Not the half of it you don't."
They dodged between the barracks to get to the back of a warehouse. The three of them squatted in a shadow while they exchanged stories. Lyons told them of the conference he had overheard, then the confrontation at the camp's gate. Blancanales and Gadgets told of bugging the mansion. Gadgets told them of the new assignment Furst gave him.
"Busy night," Lyons commented.
"Things are starting to pop," Gadgets added.
"Your trip to El Paso," Blancanales said, "will give us a chance to call in reinforcements."
"No chance," Lyons told him. "Mack sorry, John Phoenix is in the Middle East."
"Those guys in Phoenix Force mightbe available," Gadgets added. "But I don't think we need them. It's the three of us against only a hundred and fifty mercenaries... We got them outnumbered!"
"I was thinking of Grimaldi," Blancanales told them. "All these helicopters around..."
"Yeah!" Gadgets slapped his hands together. "But we gotta come up with a plan that uses him. Maybe..."
"How can we come up with a plan," Blancanales said, "when we don't even know what's happening here? We need more information first."
"Don't you two understand what I told you?" Lyons demanded of his friends, incredulous at their scheming. "Furst spotted me. No doubt about it. He's running some kind of scam on me. Maybe he's letting me stay free so he can watch you two. See if you're Feds."
"Makes sense," Blancanales agreed.
"Then why is he sending me to El Paso?" Gadgets insisted.
"That was before he spotted me. Maybe he'll cancel your trip. Maybe send someone else with a shopping list."
"Yeah, could be," Gadgets agreed. "So what do you want to do?"
Lyons grinned. "In the morning which is two and a half hours from now I'm waking up with a bad hangover. Too much booze. And the both of you and me are going to have a bad falling out..."
* * *
The next morning, Commander Furst made a call. He had the only direct telephone link from the base to the outside. Because there were no lines to this mountain base, a microwave system bridged the fifty mile gap to the nearest overland telephone lines. After he dialed the Los Angeles number, Furst gave his name to a 24-hour answering service, then spoke directly to his informant, the owner-president of a computer service company. The businessman said:
"My man Furst. Long time no talk. Is this a business or pleasure call?"
"Information."
"Business in other words. What is it you need to know?"
"Remember Detective Carl Lyons?"
The man laughed. "Bet youhaven't forgotten."
"Find out if he's still in L.A., with the LAPD or what. If he isn't, find out where he is."
"Pay back time. Pay first, a thousand dollars."
Shots popped somewhere in the camp. Then came a burst of auto-weapon fire. Furst jumped from his seat, still holding the receiver. The telephone fell from his desk.
"...what's the noise? Someone shooting?" asked the distant voice.
"I'll wire you the money today. Call you later."
Slamming down the phone, Furst grabbed his rifle from the corner and rushed out. A soldier sprinted across the asphalt to fly up the steps in one stride.
"Who's shooting?" Furst demanded.
"Morgan! He's gone berserk!"
15
Wrestling the M-16 from Lyons' hands, Blancanales swung the plastic-and-steel rifle like a baseball bat. Lyons stepped back, letting the rifle stock slice past him, then jumped forward with a kick-and-punch combination. The kick went into Blancanales' ribs as he back-swung the rifle, which smashed Lyons in the arm and shoulder, and knocked him sideways onto a bunk.
Doubled over with pain from the kick, Blancanales could not press his attack. Lyons bounced back and drove another kick at Blancanales. He blocked it with the rifle, the kick bending the stock where it met the receiver. Gasping from the pain in his ankle, Lyons stumbled. He caught Blancanales' uniform, slamming at his friend's face with one fist and clutching him for support with the other hand.
Blancanales spun, throwing Lyons off him. Lyons sprawled on the floor, scrambled to get to his feet as Blancanales swung the bent rifle overhead and brought it down at Lyons' head. Lyons blocked the rifle with a double-arm X block. The plastic stock flew free, leaving Blancanales with the barrel and receiver assembly only. He swung the shortened rifle over his head again, and brought it savagely down.
Lyons rolled to the side so that the rifle hammered down onto the floor. It bent once more. Lurching forward, his gut hurting from the kick, Blancanales slammed the rifle down a third time. Lyons rolled safe again, but then caught the battered weapon before Blancanales could upswing. Still on the floor, Lyons hooked a foot behind Blancanales' knees and dropped him. The bent and broken rifle now in his hands, Lyons started to rise.
"What is your problem, Mr. Morgan?" Furst asked, standing over him, pointing a Colt automatic at Lyons' face.
"Kill that son of a bitch!" Blancanales roared. He held his ribs as he struggled to breathe.
"I thought you two were friends," said Furst.
Blancanales place-kicked Lyons' ribs. A soldier behind Furst rushed forward and shoved Blancanales away. Lyons groaned, choking, his arms knotted over his stomach, his knees touching his forehead. Blancanales laughed. "How's it feel? Feel good? Here comes the night!"
Lunging forward, shoving the soldier aside, Blancanales aimed a second kick for Lyons' head. Lyons rolled, taking the kick in his shoulder. The impact threw him over. Furst pointed the pistol at Blancanales' head.
"At ease, Marchardo. Take a break or I'll kill you. Soldiers!" Furst motioned to the curious soldiers crowding into the barrack. "Restrain that man. Put this other one on a bunk. Someone go for the medic."
Several men pushed Blancanales back. Some of them slapped Marchardo on the back, congratulating him on a good fight. They laughed, shoving Blancanales back when he tried to get at Lyons again. Finally Blancanales sat on a bunk, and laughed with his guards.