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The door gunner saw him. A line of tracers scythed the night as it sought Lyons.

Lyons pointed the Atchisson at the flashing muzzle of the machine gun only fifty feet away. He sprayed full-auto 12-gauge fire. The door gunner died. A mercenary fell back from the hovering helicopter. More Plexiglas showered from the side door. Then the whipping line of tracers, the M-60 still gripped in the dead hands of the gunner, found Lyons.

Lyons saw it as if in slow motion as he willed his body to move. The red line of tracers roared past him, hammering the truck. Slugs hit the shattered windshield, bits of glass flying, then fragments of the plastic dashboard exploded.

Slowed by his adrenalin-heightened perception, Lyons saw the flashing piece of metal and glass hurtling at him. He saw it coming, felt his body dropping though the air as he sought the shelter of the tires and gravel, then it hit him, the impact twisting him.

Lyons slammed into the gravel, his left arm numb. He grabbed for the wound, expecting to find his arm gone or a wound of shattered bone and gore. He felt no blood.

Then, on the gravel next to him, he saw what had hit him: the bullet-warped steel and brilliant silver mosaic of a mirror from the truck.

Wounded by a rearview mirror!

His numb arm hanging, Lyons struggled to his feet. One-handed, he pointed the Atchisson. Beyond the hovering helicopter, a blond European-featured man in a suit ran for the other side door.

"Unomundo!" Lyons screamed, rushing the helicopter, his left arm dangling. With his right hand he fired the Atchisson twice. The action locked back, the weapon empty. Rifle fire flashed from behind him as Quiche men fired bursts at the fleeing mercenaries. Machetes flashed as they chopped wounded Nazis to pieces.

Fumbling with his bandolier, Lyons tried to change magazines one-handed and on the run. He saw Unomundo scramble up toward the Huey's far side door. Lyons could not reload the Atchisson. He threw the assault shotgun aside and pulled his Python.

As the helicopter lifted, he double-actioned slugs into the fuselage. The windshield shattered.

Lyons jumped. He tried to wrap his barely usable left arm around the skid. Blood-slick steel slipped from his failed grasp. Falling ten feet to the gravel, smashing down on his shoulder and side, Lyons rolled over and fired his Python at the underbelly of the Huey. The hammer finally fell on an empty chamber.

As the Indians slaughtered the last Nazi mercenaries with machetes and autofire, Lyons knew he had failed.

The monster Unomundo soared away. The Huey disappeared into the Guatemalan night.

For the first time, Able Team had lost their man. They had destroyed an evil dream, but they had not destroyed the mind that created it.

For the first time, Lyons truly understood what Mack Bolan meant by war everlasting.

Lyons would never rest until he had turned Unomundo's evil onto the monster himself. It might not happen next week, it might not happen next month, but eventually Carl Lyons would do Unomundo...