"You don't have an Atchisson," Randall corrected.
"Then what is it?"
"Call it a Konzaki, whatever. Here's the Atchisson." Randall picked up the futuristic selective-fire assault shotgun. He touched the components as he identified each one. "Atchisson made this from existing components. Incorporates the front hand guard and stock from an M-16. Thompson pistol grip. Browning trigger mechanism. What's new is the receiver and bolt. This receiver," he said, indicating the long cylindrical housing going from the barrel to the shoulder pad, "houses the world's heaviest bolt, that is, for an assault weapon. Three pounds. Operates on the blowback principle. Pull the trigger, the firing pin pops the round, the recoil drives the bolt back. This bolt goes all the way back in the receiver tube. Since he went into production, Atchisson's making these with a different look, but the mechanism is the same. Now this is an excellent weapon, but Konzaki didn't like the reciprocating bolt handle. If the handle's moving forward and backward with the bolt, things could get jammed into this long slot here. Didn't like that. So he figured he'd use Armalite components to put together his version..."
"Also," Lloyd interrupted, "he wanted the shotgun to look like an M-16. In the Corps, we learned that the man who carried the unusual weapon got hit first. If an enemy sniper had a platoon coming, and he had the chance to pick the target for his first shot, he'd shoot the man who looked like the officer or weapons specialist. So the man carrying the .45 auto would get hit, or the man with the M-60, or a man carrying the fancy subgun. Andy said he didn't want you drawing more than your share of fire, so he made his shotgun look like a standard weapon."
"Yeah, makes sense," Lyons said.
"Damn right," Lloyd emphasized. "We've been there. We know what you're up against."
"Returning to my discussion of this fascinating creation of our late dear friend," Randall resumed, snapping open the selective-fire assault shotgun Konzaki had custom-fabricated for Lyons. "On the outside, it looks like an oversized M-16. But on the inside, it gets radical. Heavy blowback bolt, heavy springs, heavy buffer spring, heavy trigger mechanism. Operating features of an M-16, but the firepower of 12-gauge. How has it worked?"
"It knocks them down. Almost useless past a hundred feet."
"What about with slugs?" Bob asked.
"I shot at a rifleman one time," Lyons told them. "He was about a hundred yards away."
"A hundred yards!" Lloyd marveled. "With shotgun slugs? You positive?"
"Situation got desperate. They had us in a no-exit ambush. He was moving into a position to fire down on us. I put in a magazine of slugs and kept shooting until one hit him. It was hit him or die."
"But the Konzak got you out," Randall said, nodding.
"Konzak," Lyons repeated. "Yeah, that's the name. Konzak Assault Weapon. So can you check this thing out?"
"Sure, no problem." Randall glanced at the Konzak components.
"What we'll do is X-ray it," Bob suggested. "Eyeball it for extreme wear and tear. Then X-ray it to look for crystallization, hairline cracks."
"What about that super-Colt Konzaki put together?" Lloyd asked. "How's it holding up?"
Lyons took the modified-for-silence Colt Government Model out of the flight bag. The gun had been redesigned and hand machined by Andrzej Konzaki to incorporate the innovations of the state-of-the-art Beretta autopistols. The interior mechanisms of the Colt no longer resembled what Browning had invented and patented. But it fired silent, full-powered .45-caliber slugs, in semiauto and 3-shot-burst modes, at a thousand feet per second.
"How many rounds have you fired through it?" Randall asked as he took the pistol from Lyons. After checking the chamber he folded down the left-hand grip lever and sighted on the wall.
Lyons considered the question for a moment, thinking back over the past year, counting the missions and the firefights. "In action, a few hundred. But after every mission I fire a minimum of a hundred rounds through it. I try to break it at the range..."
"Instead of it breaking in the field," Lloyd added. "There it is, break it when you can fix it. What's the accuracy?"
"At combat distance, it's good enough."
"What's that distance?" Lloyd asked.
"Fifty feet or less. Usually arm's distance."
"What about farther than that?"
"I've got the Interdynamics for that."
"Oh, yeah," Lloyd nodded. "That kit that silences an M-16."
"But only one shot at a time," Bob commented.
"The other guys have got Berettas," Lyons told him. "The Berettas are more accurate at a longer distance, even though they don't have any knock-down power. But then neither does the Interdynamics."
Randall flipped the left-hand grip lever up and down. The lever provided a firm hold for the shooter's left hand, converting the pistol to a compact submachine gun. "When Konzaki started working on this thing, I didn't know what that man thought he was doing. But it worked."
"How's it compare to the Berettas?" Bob asked.
"Nine millimeter was designed for killing Europeans," Lyons told him. "For dangerous people, you need a .45."
The technicians laughed at the sardonic comment.
"Okay, okay." Randall gathered up the weapons. "Time to work. Maybe we can swap jokes after working hours. When do you need these things back?"
"Soon as possible. Immediately. Don't like being without them."
"Konzaki said you were like that," Randall added, his voice going quiet. "We got to get together and talk about that guy. You know, there wasn't a funeral or wake. Nothing. We just got the word that he was gone. Nothing else. It just seems so unreal that he isn't around anymore."
"That's the way it is. But I don't know what I can tell you about it. I'll have to check with my people about what's classified and what isn't."
"He went out on a mission with you?" Lloyd asked, incredulous. "The guy didn't have any legs."
"The action came to him. That's all I can say." The pager at Lyons's belt buzzed. "Speaking of action, I need a phone."
"There..." Randall pointed to a phone on the workbench. "And that line's secure, by the way."
"Secure from the Agency?" Lyons asked.
"No," Randall told him. "Don't say anything you don't want Langley to know."
Lyons dialed a number and waited, then punched in another series of numbers for the access code. Rosario Blancanales, his Puerto Rican partner on Able Team, answered.
"We've got an assignment," the Politician said. "When can you get back?"
"I'm at the Agency workshop."
"Let's don't talk about that on the telephone..." Blancanales began.
"This phone's secure from the public," Lyons said. "But not from the Agency."
"That's an Agency phone?"
"Just don't say anything about business. Any equipment you want me to pick up while I'm here? Agency-type equipment?"
"We can talk. It's an Agency job. We'll be going to Beirut to pick up one of their people. He's gone over to the Amal militia and the Agency wants him for interrogation here."
"Why don't they do their own dirty work?"
"The people they had are deceased."
"So they want us to go?"
"That's the mission. Pick up and bring back."
"What if their man doesn't want to come back?"
"Bang."
"Like that?"
"Just relaying the instructions. Soon as you get here, we go."
"Give me a few hours. Later." Lyons hung up and returned to the technician. "Can you do a rush job on the checkouts?"
"You're working?" Randall asked.
"Dirty work for the Agency."
Randall looked to the two other men. "What do you think?"
Bob shrugged. "Service while you wait."
6
Footfalls crunched on broken glass.
Powell lay on his living-room couch and listened as the slow, careful footsteps advancing, pausing, advancing again approached his apartment door.