Death Minus Zero

by Don Pendleton

  It was as if he had warped back into the previous century; the kitchen comprised ancient wood fittings and a heavy wood-burning stove. The family-size table and wooden chairs that sat in the center of the larger room was cluttered with the remains of half-eaten meals and empty beer cans. There was an abused Kenmore cooking stove and a Philco refrigerator with a scratched door. For a moment Schwarz felt as if he had stepped onto the set of The Waltons.

  His fragment of retro imagery was shattered when he heard gunfire from the front of the house. He crossed the kitchen, passed through a doorway and emerged into a large family room.

  He heard a window shatter. Harsh voices were raised in anger.

  Schwarz caught a glimpse of moving figures heading his way along the passage to one side of the room. A sudden crash of sound that could only have come from Lyons’s Atchisson led to the solid thump of a body falling.

  Schwarz picked up a wild shout—someone aware of his precarious position but still defiant. The crackle of autofire cut the cry short.

  Ahead of him he saw a door slam shut as someone took cover...

  * * *

  LYONS AND BLANCANALES met resistance as they moved farther into the house.

  Armed resistance, as a trio of shooters pushed through an open doorway, each trying to be the first to face their attackers. It was not a smart move because it left them uncoordinated, struggling to bring their weapons on target while attempting to find a clear spot to stand.

  Lyons felt like shaking his head at the clumsy tangle of bodies as the three tried to pull themselves clear. His survival instinct took over and he swept up his shotgun and fired. The main impact of the shot caught one guy side-on and opened him up in a burst of ravaged flesh. If he had not had his arm raised, the blast would have severed his arm. As it was, he suffered heavy trauma, his torn flesh exposing the splintered remains of his ribs. His body jerked under the force of the charge.

  Almost in the same second Blancanales triggered his Uzi, laying down a volley at the other extreme. The scything burst ripped into the guy’s chest and through. He suffered damage to heart and lungs, his spine clipped by passing slugs. His legs gave way and he fell back, his finger freezing on the trigger.

  The surviving shooter, blood-spattered and still hyped up by the moment, shrugged his stricken buddies aside, his own subgun seeking a target. It was obvious he still harbored thoughts of taking down Lyons and Blancanales.

  It turned out to be a bad idea and one the guy would never get to rectify.

  In the microsecond it took for him to make his choice, Carl Lyons moved the muzzle of the Atchisson and pulled the trigger. The angle was close enough for maximum effect and literally took the would-be shooter’s head off his shoulders, leaving in its wake a blood-spurting, ripped stump. The headless body remained standing for a few seconds before gravity and a lack of brain commands made it fall...

  * * *

  THE THUD OF boots from the upper floor reached Able Team.

  “I’ll take it,” Blancanales said and broke away to head for the uncarpeted flight of stairs.

  He was halfway up the stairs when a pair of armed guys tumbled into view, racking their weapons as they appeared. Blancanales dropped to one knee, tilting up the muzzle of his Uzi, and burned off a long stream of 9 mm slugs, sweeping the weapon between the two men. Blancanales was a sure shot and his blast ripped into the pair with fatal results. The two men dropped onto the landing, weapons spilling from their fingers.

  Pushing forward again, Blancanales headed to the landing and swept his weapon back and forth, covering both sides as he stepped clear of the stairs. He picked up the beat of running feet seconds before a squat, shaved-headed guy burst into view from the left passage leading off the landing. The guy was naked to the waist and clutching a subgun he was trying to jam a magazine into as he came into view.

  For all his bulk, the guy was fast on his feet and he closed the distance before Blancanales could realign his SMG. The guy let out a wild yell, swinging his subgun at Blancanales, causing the Able Team warrior to step back. The barrel of the subgun slammed against Blancanales’s left arm, above the elbow. The impact was enough to draw a gasp of pain from Blancanales. He felt the arm go partially numb and felt blood soaking into his sleeve where the blow had gashed his flesh.

  Then the bulk of the guy slammed into him, pushing Blancanales across the landing. As the pair struggled to regain balance, the guy swung his subgun again, this time aiming for the Stony Man operative’s head. Blancanales ducked under the blow and used the moment to hammer a clenched fist into the guy’s stomach. The punch hurt and the squat attacker gasped, sucking up the pain as he dropped the subgun. He launched a sideways kick that slammed into Blancanales’s thigh. He then followed up with a second kick that missed its target when Blancanales twisted away from the blow, countering with a snap kick of his own that held enough force to crunch the guy’s left knee.

  The sound of the kneecap shattering was audible to Blancanales, so he repeated the move, the force of the second blow buckling the knee, sending the guy down on his good knee. Continuing his physical attack, Blancanales hit the guy again. This time it was a brutal palm-edge that connected with the target’s nose. It collapsed with a soft sound, blood suddenly gushing down the guy’s face and naked chest. The excruciating pain briefly incapacitated the guy, allowing Blancanales enough leeway to strike again—a second blow to the throat that destroyed everything in its path.

  With his nose crushed and his throat suddenly constricted, the guy toppled to the floor, slowly choking from a lack of air and the blood leaking into his lungs.

  As Blancanales stepped back, sucking breath into his lungs, he put his back to the wall so he could view both passages off the landing in case there were further attacks.

  Movement from inside the room at the end of the landing attracted Blancanales. He heard low voices. His angle of approach allowed him to see inside the room.

  Two figures.

  Both Chinese.

  One of them reached for the pistol tucked under his jacket...and then opened his mouth to shout a warning.

  Blancanales fired, the crackle of his subgun drowning any cry the guy might have made. The short but deadly burst ripped into his body, coring through flesh and tearing at vulnerable organs. The guy staggered back, fell.

  The second guy turned and took short steps that gave him the chance to gain enough momentum to hit the window closest to him. The weak wood frame disintegrated, glass shattered, and the guy disappeared from sight.

  Blancanales crossed to the window, scanned the exterior and saw the guy sliding off the slanting porch roof. The dark-suited figure vanished from sight, then reappeared, running clear of the house.

  Blancanales keyed his com set.

  “One guy out the side window. On foot but moving fast. South side.”

  * * *

  LYONS DIDN’T HESITATE. He laid the shotgun down and pulled out his Python. He took long strides, heading for the rear door, and moved out into the open. As he cleared the porch, head swiveling in the direction of the fleeing figure, a pistol cracked sharply, a slug slamming against the wood surround, blowing a chunk of timber clear.

  Lyons ducked as splinters peppered his cheek, dropping to his left knee as he snapped up the Colt. He picked up on the shooter—a stocky figure half turned in his direction, a raised autopistol in one hand. Flame winked from the muzzle as the guy fired again, this time a double tap that sent the slugs closer than Lyons wanted.

  As soon as the man fired, he twisted around and powered into a run away from the house. Lyons gripped the Python in both hands, steadying his aim, and squeezed off a single shot. He saw the runner’s left shoulder jerk as the heavy slug hit. Despite the shock of the wound, the guy kept moving. Lyons took off after him, angry that his shot had not put the man down.

  As Lyon
s moved, he caught sight of one of the upper windows gaping open. It must have been where the shooter had exited the house after waiting for his chance to get away. Scattered pieces of the window frame and broken glass littered the ground.

  “Not going to happen,” Lyons grumbled to himself.

  If the running shooter thought he could shake off Lyons, he was in for a surprise. Carl Lyons was as fit as most men who went in for extreme sports, and better than most at long-distance running. He pounded along the side of the house, pacing himself as his body responded to the effort. Lyons’s muscles stretched and flexed, his breathing quickly settling into a rhythm.

  The guy cleared the corner of the building and cut off across the open ground. Lyons realized he was heading for the ragged line of trees set back from the remote farmhouse. If the guy got in among the timber, it would be much harder to keep track of him.

  “No way,” Lyons growled.

  He kept moving, his line of travel keeping him directly behind the guy. And Lyons was closing the distance. He called on power reserves and increased his pace. Lyons could see the spreading bloodstain marking the guy’s shoulder; he was losing blood heavily and his arm hung loose at his side.

  Twenty feet from the tree line the guy stopped running. He turned to face Lyons and, for the first time, the Able Team commander saw the guy was Chinese. His face was shiny with sweat and his front was soaked with blood. He said something Lyons couldn’t understand. His right hand raised the auto pistol—and it was no gesture of surrender.

  Lyons extended his arm, steady as he lined up the Colt and squeezed back on the trigger. The big revolver threw out a lance of flame, the barrel held firm in Lyons’s powerful grip.

  The .357 Magnum slug cored in through the target’s chest, plowed its way past bone and tore open the beating heart in a millisecond. The Chinese stepped back, legs losing their stability. He dropped without a sound, his weapon flying from his nerveless fingers. As Lyons closed in, the guy gave a last ragged breath, a line of blood oozing from his open mouth. He gave a final spasm and then lay still.

  Lyons stood over him, put away his Colt and crouched beside the guy. He had spotted a thick bulge under the man’s jacket on the right side. Lyons pulled the jacket open. There was a bulky object pushed into the pocket. He jerked it free and turned it over in his hands. A thick manila envelope.

  Lyons opened it and found a cell phone, a couple of data sticks and a folded number of printed sheets. They were all in Chinese. At the bottom of the envelope was a thick wad of American currency—high-denomination bills. Lyons searched the body and pulled a slim wallet from a back pocket. Satisfied there was nothing else to find, Lyons used his phone to take a shot of the man’s face for the cyber team to scan.

  * * *

  SOMETHING MADE SCHWARZ turn to face the room across from him. He wasn’t sure what had attracted him. Maybe a sixth sense. Even a faint sound that had been picked up by his finely tuned senses. It was enough to draw him to the door. Closer, he picked up a fragment of movement behind the panel.

  Only one way to find out, he said to himself.

  The moment he launched his kick at the door, feeling it vibrate and swing wide, Schwarz stepped to one side so that the burst of autofire from inside the room found no target and simply slammed into the opposite wall of the passage.

  The moment the burst died away, Schwarz made his own move, swinging around and launching himself through the open door in a headlong dive and shoulder roil. The impetus took his feet inside the room, and even as he came to his knees he was scoping for the shooter.

  The shooter was off to one side, crouching and bringing his SMG to line up on the man who had burst into the room. He was a lifetime too slow, because as he came partially upright, Schwarz acquired his target and let go with a solid stream of 9 mm Parabellum slugs that ripped into the guy, stitching him through the middle and kicking him back a number of feet. As Schwarz saw the guy going down, his peripheral vision picked up on a second shooter moving out from the shadows on the far side of the room.

  The guy fired first and Schwarz felt the burn of slugs as they hit his left side. Before he gave in to the pain, Schwarz swept his SMG around and triggered a long burst that tracked across empty space before it found its target. Schwarz saw the guy fall back, a look of astonishment on his face as the tearing impact of Schwarz’s slugs took effect. The burst had ripped in through soft flesh, mangling inner organs; the guy began to hemorrhage inside and felt the rising burn of pain as his body reacted. He was on the floor then, bleeding heavily and losing interest in everything around him as his body began to shut down.

  Schwarz scanned the room, saw no one else and muttered a prayer of thanks. The pain from his wounds was kicking in hot and angry.

  He heard Lyons’s voice over his com asking if they were clear.

  Blancanales acknowledged he was okay.

  Schwarz said, “Room’s clear in here, but I took a hit. Send for a pretty blond nurse and some bandages.”

  He moved to the wall and let himself slide down it, feeling an odd, comforting warmth spread across his body. He kept his subgun in his hands despite feeling somewhat helpless.

  In the distance he heard the thump of feet running and voices shouting. He recognized Blancanales, but soon after felt the world close in around him. The light from the fixture hanging from the ceiling began to shrink, becoming smaller and smaller with each second, until even that went away and it all vanished.

  Sight and sound.

  Just the warmth left that wrapped around him...

  * * *

  BLANCANALES HAD RACED down the stairs and reached the room first. First he saw the two dead men, then Schwarz sprawled, unmoving, against the wall.

  He took out his sat phone and connected with Grimaldi.

  “Bring Dragon Slayer in fast. Gadgets is down. We need to get him medical assistance ASAP.”

  “Firing the lady up now,” Grimaldi said, unflappable as always. “I’ll be there in minutes. I’ve got some medical aid on board. Call home and get them to liaise with the closest hospital. Have them give us the coordinates and we’ll fly Gadgets direct.”

  The moment he ended the call Blancanales dialed in for Stony Man. Barbara Price came on the line. Blancanales wasted no time on introductions. He simply told her what had happened.

  “I’m checking your location and the closest medical facility to you. I’ll relay to Jack.”

  Lyons appeared. “Place is clear,” he said. “How’s Gadgets?”

  “I’ve seen him in better shape,” Blancanales said. “Jack’s on his way. Base is checking for the closest medical facility.”

  Lyons took the phone and spoke to Price.

  “Have the appropriate agencies alerted—there’s a store of weapons here they need to clear. We haven’t had time to check the whole place so there might be more. This looks like the staging area for a possible strike against Zero Command. Just as we thought.”

  “I’ll advise Hal and pass the information on to Phoenix Force, just in case there’s a secondary group set up. Security can be increased until this is all cleared up.”

  “Until Kaplan is found, nothing will be cleared up,” Lyons said, catching Dragon Slayer’s approach through the window. He handed the phone to Blancanales. “Stay with him. I’ll go bring Jack in.”

  Lyons made his way outside and saw the dark configuration of Stony Man’s powerful combat chopper swing in to land close to the house. As soon as it was on the ground, Grimaldi powered down to an idle, keeping the rotors turning slowly. As Lyons walked to meet him, Grimaldi cleared the side hatch and climbed out. He had a med kit over his shoulder and an insulating blanket under his arm.

  “Barb is checking on the closest hospital,” Lyons said. “She’ll alert them and send coordinates through.”

  “Good.”

 
; Grimaldi handed Lyons the blanket and followed him back inside the house, ignoring the bodies, his attention centered on Schwarz.

  The Stony Man operatives carried their semi-conscious teammate out to Dragon Slayer and placed him inside on one of the rear seats that had been moved into stretcher position. With Schwarz strapped in, Lyons stepped aside.

  “Pol, you go in with him,” Lyons said. He pointed to the blood on Blancanales’s sleeve. “Get that checked out.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Let’s get you seen to, as well,” Grimaldi said. “Don’t argue with the boss.”

  “You can call me when you know how Gadgets is,” Lyons said. “Now go. I can hang around until reinforcements arrive. Give me time to look over this place.”

  Knowing it would be futile to argue, Blancanales climbed into the helicopter. Once he was in his seat, Grimaldi powered the hatches shut and Lyons stepped clear as the chopper powered up. He watched it lift effortlessly and swing clear. Grimaldi put the hammer down and the combat machine streaked out of sight.

  * * *

  A SEARCH OF the rest of the house gave up nothing, and Lyons realized what they had was the total. He checked all the bodies, removing any weapons and placing them on the kitchen table. He carried out these operations without conscious thought. He was simply clearing the scene to avoid any logistic problems later.

  He had just returned from upstairs and was standing in the hall when the sound of an approaching vehicle alerted him. Lyons knew it couldn’t be any of the backup vehicles yet. Not enough time had gone by. He stepped out of the house and stood in the shadow of the overhang, watching a dark blue SUV rolling in his direction. It was the same model as the black Escalade parked only a few yards away.

  As the SUV swept into the yard, Lyons and the occupants came eye to eye.

  And the Able Team commander found himself looking at Chinese faces. Two guys in front, one in the rear seat. The man in the rear raised his hand and pointed at Lyons, his mouth moving as he yelled something to his partners. The driver raised his hand and pointed in the direction of the dead man lying in the dirt. The Chinese in the shotgun seat, his window already down, leaned out and started to fire.