Deathbites at-12

by Dick Stivers

  “I’m stepping out for a breath of air. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he told his secretary.

  It took no time to find the battered GMC pickup on the company lot, but there was no one with it. That gave Brognola the problem of finding the terrorists who were probably spread out watching all the entrances to the building. After a moment’s thought he went to his rented Chrysler.

  He started the car and drove carefully through the lot until he came to the pickup truck. He stepped his speed up to about twelve miles per hour and steered the heavy car into the front fender of the truck. The impact was exactly right. It curled the fender into the tire so the truck could not be driven until the fender was straightened or removed. The high-impact bumper on the New Yorker absorbed most of the shock. The crumpling of the fender did poke out one headlight, but Brognola noticed no body damage when he got out and looked.

  It took only eight seconds for a thin man with a knife scar on his left cheek to make his appearance.

  “Why the hell don’t you watch where you’re driving?” the man demanded in a whiny voice.

  “I did,” Brognola assured him. “I hit exactly where I aimed. The trouble is that tinny fender didn’t crumple as it should. It broke one of my headlights.”

  “You did what?”

  “I saw that disgraceful piece of garbage on a private lot, where it has no right to be. So I decided to disable it. Now it can’t be driven away without slicing up the tire. I didn’t count on breaking a headlight. I think you’re going to pay for that.”

  “You think I’m going to do what!”

  Another man drifted over to check the cause of the disturbance. He was a beefy character, dressed in jeans and cowboy boots. He needed a shave.

  “What’s the trouble, Kelby?” the newcomer asked.

  “This asshole ran into my truck deliberately.”

  “Well, he’s seen you now. We’ll have to take care of him.”

  Brognola felt an uneasy prickle across the back of his scalp. These two would be too easy. That meant there were one or two others out there, and if they knew what they were doing, their guns would be trained on him right now.

  Brognola turned and ran, pulling the VP 70Z as he threaded his way between cars, bending almost double to present a smaller target.

  Two bullets came from a low angle and bounced off the roof of a car. Brognola caught sight of the only other terrorist from the corner of his eye. He let his knees buckle as if he was hit. As soon as he was below the rooflines of the cars, he turned and waited.

  The fat goon in cowboy boots appeared first. He had run less than fifty feet, but was already puffing. Two parabellums tore into the terrorist’s chest. He dropped in a pool of death.

  Brognola changed position slowly, duck walking and listening as he went. He kept down and zigzagged toward the spot he last saw the gunman who had shot at him. He could hear the scar-faced terrorist scuffing tarmac as he tried to sneak up on the place where the Fed had dropped from sight.

  Brognola went flat on his stomach, aimed his weapon and waited. Soon scar face’s scuffed shoes came into view two cars down. Brognola put a bullet through each ankle and scrambled away quickly. Two bullets ricocheted off the parking-lot surface inches from his retreating legs. Brognola knew he was not the only one to think about shooting under cars. The whine of the bullets were lost in the screams of the man with two shattered ankles.

  Brognola put his head close to the ground. He saw no one, so he took a few quick steps closer to the screaming man. He paused next to a set of tires and looked below the cars again. Proceeding in that way, he reached the wounded terrorist.

  “Tell me who sent you or I take out your kneecaps as well,” Brognola told the terrorist.

  “They’ll kill me if I say anything,” the man gasped through his panic. He was still in too much shock to feel the pain.

  “And you’ll never walk again if you don’t,” Brognola told him in a loud voice.

  Two more shots rang out. Both bullets jarred the fallen man’s head. He had been shut up forever by one of his own kind.

  Brognola leaped from the ground to the hood of the nearest car, and from there to the roof. Each step took him in the direction of the sound of the last shots.

  The angle worked to Brognola’s advantage. He saw the top of the terrorist’s head before the terrorist had straightened enough to line his gun up on the bouncing Fed. The VP 70Z coughed again. A small neat hole appeared in the top of the terror monger’s head, and much of the back of the skull disappeared in a fine spray of red.

  Brognola looked around. No one had been close enough to pay attention to the shots. Working quickly, he carried the bodies to the battered pickup and tossed them in the back. Luck was with him when he found a tarp in the truck and did not have to search for something to throw over the bodies. He then put the Chrysler back in its parking spot and pulled a suitcase from the trunk.

  It did not take much hunting to find the Ford car with the building inspector in the back. The man was just regaining consciousness.

  “You okay?” the Fed asked as he helped the man to his feet.

  “Groggy as hell. What happened?”

  “Did a large man knock you out and steal your car?”

  The building inspector nodded. “Yeah. That’s right. I remember him now. Wait until I get that son of a bitch.”

  “I’m afraid someone beat you to it,” Brognola told him. He led the city employee to the battered pickup truck and raised the tarpaulin from the dead men’s feet.

  “His idea wasn’t too bright. He got killed trying it.”

  “Trying what?” the inspector asked.

  Brognola showed his Justice Department credentials.

  “You’d really be better off not knowing,” he told the man. “Shall I arrange for a doctor to look at you? I really think you’re fine, but I wouldn’t want you to worry.”

  “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

  Brognola seized the other man’s hand and shook it.

  The inspector drove out of the parking lot.

  Brognola picked up his suitcase and went inside. He went past his secretary with the knees of his pants scuffed. “Slight accident in the parking lot,” he explained. “Nothing serious.”

  Once again he latched the office door. He peeled off the abraded suit and put on another from the suitcase. He reloaded his weapon and continued to wear it.

  *

  Lyons and Devine met in the cross corridor.

  “No sign of a small Oriental woman. No sign of any Oriental women for that matter,” Deborah reported.

  “You check the washrooms?”

  “Of course. Can you think of any way of telling if she’s usually here and just gone for the day?” Deborah asked.

  “We weren’t told to go around asking questions. That would be risky,” Lyons cautioned her. “Let’s just go report to this Brognola sap and get out of here.”

  “Why don’t we just get out of here?”

  “Arouse less suspicion this way.”

  They found their way to the president’s office. The secretary looked at them expectantly.

  “Mr. Brognola said we were to see him when we finished the inspection,” Deborah explained.

  “He’s expecting you. Go right in,” the secretary told them.

  “Well, Mr. Ironman, how safe is our building?” Brognola asked.

  “Clean. No problems,” Lyons reported. “Just keep things shipshape and you won’t have any problems from me.”

  “Good. Then that will make two of us who have no problems. When will you visit next?”

  “Oh, we’ll probably catch you by surprise someday when you’re having tea and don’t expect us.”

  “We’ll try not to get too slack, Mr. Ironman.”

  The three shook hands. Devine and Lyons left.

  “You were good,” Deborah whispered as they headed for the front door.

  “It’s all in the way you hold your sneer,” Lyons confided as he reache
d for the door.

  The door swung inward to meet his hand. He held the door open while Gadgets, Politician and Ti swarmed in.

  Before any of them could react, Lyons snarled. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”

  “Sorry,” Ti said.

  Lyons grabbed Deborah’s arm and stalked out. They went to where they had left the building inspector and his car. Both were gone.

  “Damn!” Carl Leggit exclaimed. “He came to and took off. We better get out of here.”

  10

  July 12, 1742 hours, Atlanta, Georgia

  Lyons and Deborah had to walk almost a mile before they were able to flag a taxi. The walk was made in heavy silence. Lyons had no doubt that Devine had spotted Ti, but could think of no reasonable way of asking her to forget it.

  “Where to?” the cabby asked.

  “Peachtree Plaza,” Lyons grunted.

  The two passengers settled back in stony silence. After a while the quiet began to irritate the driver.

  As they passed a construction site, he piped up. “Atlanta must be the most rebuilt city in history. Did you know that no part of our skyline is the same as it was in 1970?”

  His question was greeted with more silence.

  “The hotel where you’re going, that’s the tallest building in Atlanta. Even that little park they have inside is eight stories high.”

  More silence.

  “You folks already know the city, huh?”

  “What city?” Lyons growled.

  The cabby gave up.

  Lyons paid off the driver and started to saunter along Cain Street. Deborah walked beside him.

  “How come we didn’t take the cab all the way to headquarters?” she asked.

  “And leave a wide trail for anyone who wants to trace us from Elwood?”

  “Why here?” she asked.

  Lyons had told the cabby to let them off at Peachtree Plaza because it was close to the bus depot where he planned to catch another taxi to the industrial section where WAR and its terrorist arm, HIT, had their headquarters. Instead of saying so, he took a poke at Deborah’s preoccupation.

  “Thought we’d spend the night in the tallest building in the city. Nothing like having an indoor park.”

  “Okay,” Deborah replied. Then she made a break for it.

  Lyons could not afford to lose her. First, if she beat him back to HIT headquarters and let them know that Lao Ti was at Elwood, he could do nothing to stop the raid from taking place before Brognola was braced for it. Second, Lyons would not dare to show up in front of Jishin not able to account for Deborah Devine’s whereabouts.

  Lyons barely managed to keep her in sight. She was in good condition and fast on her feet. She seemed better able to steer through the late-rush-hour crush. He followed her for two blocks before finding a sidewalk sufficiently free of pedestrians that he managed to gain ground. She glanced over her shoulder, spotted him and quickly turned into a new building.

  The skyscraper was another new hotel, not yet ready to be opened to the public. Lyons paused just inside the door, looking for Deborah. He wondered how Atlantians knew which building they were in. This one had all the usual features of Atlanta architecture, including glass-walled elevators and an acre of forest glade in the middle of the lobby.

  Lyons guessed that the construction workers were using a back or side door and that someone had left the front door to the lobby open by mistake. Whoever’s carelessness it was, it probably meant that Devine would get away.

  Lyons was about to cross the lobby when he heard a rustle under one of the dogwood shrubs. He plunged into the foliage.

  A foot shot out and kicked his legs out from under him. At the same time, a small fist tried to catch him on the vulnerable spot behind the ear. He rolled as he fell and grabbed the wrist just behind the fist. His other hand grabbed the arm above the elbow. He could have locked the elbow and dislocated something as he rolled. Instead he allowed the arm to bend and tossed Deborah across the path of his fall.

  Lyons hit on his back. The freshly dug soil was as soft as falling on a mattress. Deborah tucked and rolled like a ball, flattening a patch of plants. Lyons lunged after her, staining the knees of his slacks. He caught her ankle and dragged on it before she could regain her feet.

  “Hey, officer, we’re on the same side,” Lyons grunted.

  She took a swipe at his head with her closed fist. He managed to deflect the hand upward with his elbow.

  Lyons twisted her foot. She was forced to roll onto her stomach. Her hands scraped up fistfuls of soft dirt trying to find something to pull on. In the midst of her frantic clawing, she stopped.

  “What did you say?” she asked suddenly.

  She had propped herself on her right elbow and was looking over her shoulder and down the length of her leg to where Lyons lay, one hand on her ankle and the other on her foot. Lyons was grinning at her. There was genuine amusement in the usually icy eyes.

  “I reminded you that we’re on the same side.”

  “What side?”

  “Well, it’s this way, officer.”

  “Where do you get this officer jazz? Do you think you’re in the Army?”

  He let go of her foot and sat up.

  “Yeah. It’s a dirty war, but we’re on the same side — trying to rid the world of a few more terrorist scum.”

  She was cautious, examining the words, looking for some indication of whether they were a trap.

  “What gave you the idea that I’m some sort of cop?”

  Lyons rolled his eyes. “Oh lady, are you ever some sort of cop. The looks you gave me had me uncertain right to the moment you lured me into your little jungle here and jumped me.”

  “Can I have my foot back?”

  Lyons let go of her foot, pushed his hands into the rich loam and brought both feet under himself. He was prepared to spring, if she took off or tried attacking him again.

  She did neither. She rolled onto her back, then sat up. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She sat there, staring at Lyons.

  “You say you weren’t sure. That means you were suspicious,” she said.

  “Yeah. You gave yourself away in a lot of little ways, but I didn’t see how you’d be trusted to keep an eye on me, if you were that obvious. So, I thought maybe you were testing me. How come they trust you so completely?”

  “They don’t trust me at all. That’s why we were followed. Put your rotten fruit in a separate basket so it won’t affect the rest,” she said. “How did I give myself away?”

  “You’re too calm, too sure of yourself. And the way you handled that gunman in the parking lot. That was a takedown usually taught in police academies and seldom elsewhere.”

  “You mean I should have been more nervous?”

  “No, Deborah… nice name that… but what do your friends call you?”

  She hesitated for a moment and then smiled, almost shyly. “My friends call me Dibs.”

  “Well, Dibs, I gave you some severe pokes about killing the defenseless. All it did was make you try to figure out what sort of a nut I am. A terrorist reacts with anger when you suggest that they pick only on easy targets.”

  “I thought you must be insane. I bought it, when you told me that you enjoyed hurting people.”

  “I don’t enjoy making anything suffer, but I will if I must. That doesn’t mean I’m sane, just effective.”

  “You make weird jokes,” she told him. “What kind of a cop are you?”

  “The deadly type.”

  She searched his face to see signs of laughter. She did not find any.

  “What kind of a cop are you?” he asked.

  “State. We’ve spent months and I’m the first one to get inside a Harassment Initiation Team, but I can’t say I’m a trusted team member.”

  “Even less so, after we return without our tails.”

  “What happened to them?” she asked.

  “I imagine they were taken care of before
they could take care of us.”

  She shuddered. “Why take care of us? We’re following orders.”

  “Some undercover cop. You do nothing but follow orders, huh?”

  “Well, as far as HIT is concerned.”

  “Don’t underestimate them. Those were professional terrorists following us around. Jishin wouldn’t waste their energy just to give us backup.”

  Deborah shuddered. “You make it sound like we should be under this earth and not on it.”

  “Let’s just say we’re into it, but still kicking.”

  She put her forearms on his shoulders. Her hands nervously twisted the hair on the back of his head. She locked eyes with Lyons.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I volunteered for this. I wouldn’t back out if I were offered the chance, but God! I wantto continue kicking!”

  “Of course.”

  He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into his lap. Her arms went around him.

  “Only those who believe that life is precious risk their own lives to defend it. So, of course you don’t want to die. People with death wishes find easier ways to fulfill them.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “We’d better get back to the war,” Lyons said after a long silence.

  She slid off his lap onto her back. Her arms stayed around him and pulled him down on top of her.

  “Let’s remind ourselves we’re alive,” she whispered.

  Lyons laughed. He knewhe was alive.

  When they finished making love, when their energy abated, they lay sweating, and panting, tangled in the midst of a huge circle of ruined shrubbery and flowers.

  Later they found an employee lavatory with running water. After ten minutes of washing and brushing, they were as presentable as they were going to get. Deborah used the opportunity to telephone in a report.

  As the two wandered out of the lobby, Lyons looked back at the desolated jungle.

  “People should really be more careful about locking doors,” he muttered.

  11

  July 12, 1905 hours, Smyrna, Georgia

  Hal Brognola leaned back in the comfortable leather chair behind the desk in the president’s office at Elwood Electronic Industries. He sipped black coffee from a mug and looked across the rim at Lao Ti. She was sitting in a chair in front of the desk, her legs tucked under her. There was a pot of tea on a side table close by and she held a handleless, Japanese teacup.