Ten more rockets blasted the house. The explosions threw the front wall over the grounds. Grimaldi circled, watching for survivors.
To his surprise, he saw one general and the woman. It was the general with the most gaudy uniform. He clutched the woman around the throat with one arm, fired a pistol at the helicopter with his other hand.
El Rojo shielded himself with his hysterical sister, put the pistol to her head. He called across the grounds to a cowering sentry: "Radio that pilot that I will kill this woman if he does not..."
Ten almost simultaneous blasts disintegrated their bodies.
* * *
"Soldiers! Surrender!" Lyons spoke into the hand-radio. "Look up at the Monroe house. It's gone. Monroe is dead, the Mexican communists are dead. Furst is dead. Pardee's dead. There's no reason to fight. If you want to chance the desert, make a run for it. Federal officers will be here in minutes. Leave your wounded if you want. We'll see to it that they get to hospitals. There's no reason to continue fighting. It's all over. All the leaders are dead..."
An arm locked around Lyons' neck, lifted him from the concrete. Pardee's voice croaked in his ear: "Wrong, Fed. I'm alive, and you're going to die with your balls down your throat."
The ironlike arm tightened around his neck, taking away Lyons' breath, causing his blood to pound in his head. He tried to call out, couldn't. Striking out wildly, he hammered at Pardee's body of concrete, clawed at his uniform.
"Lyons?" Blancanales shouted across the hangar. "What's going on? Why..."
Unable to answer, Lyons felt his consciousness slipping away. Lights swirled in his vision as he started to die. He lashed out in a frenzy. His right hand grabbed something sticky, a wet cloth. He clutched at it, clawed.
Pardee screamed, dropped him. Lyons rolled away. A kick caught Lyons in one leg, spun him. He crawled away, gasping for air, his vision returning.
A flashlight swept the scene. Lyons saw Pardee. Smeared with blood, his face a hideous mask of contusions and hatred, Pardee swayed on his feet. Blood soaked his uniform. His right arm, the forearm wrapped in cloth and bent like a second elbow, had been strapped to his torso. In his left hand, he held a bayonet.
"Drop the knife!" Blancanales shouted.
Pardee stomped forward, going for Lyons. Blancanales fired his M-203, the two 5.56mm ultra-high velocity slugs punching holes through Pardee, spraying flesh behind him. He didn't stop. Blancanales fifed again, but only one slug hit Pardee, the last round in the rifle's magazine.
"Kill him!" Lyons croaked.
Gadgets stood from cover, calmly sighted on the huge man's head, fired a burst, decapitating Pardee. He finally dropped, the razor-sharp bayonet still in his hand.
Every breath a gasp, Lyons crawled to the hand-radio he'd dropped. From it he heard Gadgets' voice. "That was my contribution to make up for the one-grand bonus you never got, Carl."
Lyons laughed, then pressed the transmit button.
"Everyone who can hear me! Tell your men to Surrender. There's no need for you all to die. Pardee's dead. Come see for yourselves. He's dead."
It was over.