Domination Bid

by Don Pendleton

  “Did I? Well, I’m mentioning it again. We’ve been halfway across the country and we’re getting no place fast.”

  “It’s interesting those weapons used by Cyrus’s group were black market types,” Schwarz said.

  “That’s true,” Blancanales agreed. “And that’s not something you would expect from a legitimate PMC.”

  Lyons scratched the stubble at his jaw, irritated he hadn’t even had the chance to shave yet. “Part of me isn’t really surprised. Cyrus and his crew weren’t supposed to be there and they knew it. They came well armed, almost as if they were sensing they’d run into trouble.”

  “What I don’t get is why Steinham’s protecting them. Why wouldn’t he just give up Cyrus if he suspected it might lead back to him?”

  “Loyalty, maybe?” Schwarz said.

  “Doubt it,” Lyons replied. “We’ve all had our fair share of dealing with guys like Steinham. He’s a typical defense contractor. It’s all about the profit margin. He wouldn’t rat out Cyrus unless he stood to bank some serious coin in the process. News that he was running his mouth and sold a mercenary group he’d contracted would spread fast. He wouldn’t risk alienating his position that way.”

  “Still, it doesn’t seem logical he’d be in bed with someone like Madari,” Schwarz said.

  “So now the question is, where do we make our next move? Suggestions?”

  “We have the address of the place where the weapons at the scene were stolen from,” Blancanales said. “I’d venture that place is as good as any to start.”

  “Where is it again?” Lyons asked.

  “About a two-hour drive from here.”

  Lyons looked at his watch. “That would put us there well after 0100 if we leave now.”

  “Place won’t be open.”

  “Since when has that ever stopped us?” Lyons said.

  “Yup.”

  The overhead alarm signaling an incoming call buzzed for attention. Schwarz mumbled it was the Farm and then picked up and reverted immediately to speakerphone so all three could hear.

  It was Barbara Price. “Listen, we just got a bead on the possible whereabouts of Jack Cyrus.”

  “Finally,” Lyons replied. “Some good news for a change.”

  The mission controller continued. “Cyrus has a large amount of acreage purchased under his name, and not registered as belonging to Cyclops. That’s why we didn’t catch it at first.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s an unimproved deed outside Norfolk, Virginia.”

  “So about three hours,” Blancanales observed.

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay. Do we know what we’re looking for?” Lyons asked.

  “It’s hard to tell. We’re trying to get satellite position but right now it’s overcast in that area and we’ve had to commit a bit of processing time to staying on top of what Phoenix Force has going in Greece.”

  “I take it we’re not supposed to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “It wouldn’t be preferential,” Price said. “The better option here would be to just talk to Colonel Cyrus. We don’t really know for certain yet that he had any inkling that what happened in Iowa would turn into such a tragedy.”

  “Understood.” Lyons paused. “What about the ones who attacked us? Any idea where they came from?”

  “They’re not with Cyclops—we know that much for certain. In fact, we’re pretty sure they’re working for Madari. The one you captured is refusing to say a word. I understand they’ve even threatened to ship him straight to Gitmo and he still won’t budge.”

  “All right. We’ll beat feet to Norfolk and let you know what we find,” Lyons said.

  “Good hunting, boys. And be very cautious. We’re still dealing with a lot of unknowns.”

  “That’s where the fun is at,” Carl Lyons said.

  * * *

  COLONEL JACK CYRUS couldn’t quell the nervous murmur in his gut. The enemy was close—he could sense it. It was a sense he’d gained from years in some of the most unforgivable terrain on the planet.

  “Jeepers, Colonel. You’re more fidgety than a bomb tech on an IED. Why don’t you sit down and take a load off?”

  Cyrus stopped pacing and whirled on his communications specialist, Jess Shedline, but he clenched his teeth and bit back the scathing retort he’d conjured. There was no sense railing at the guy. Shedline hadn’t done anything wrong and he meant well.

  Cyrus had first met the communications expert during a mission in the Congo. Shedline had been a top-shelf contribution in support of their unit during a special op. The two had kept in contact and when Shedline finally ETS’d, Cyrus had offered him a job. Shedline had been young but with plenty of experience. He had a good head on his shoulders and knew how to be a team player. Those were qualities Cyrus found rare to that breed, and he’d been glad when Shedline had accepted the offer.

  “I can’t relax, Jess. You know that.”

  “I know,” Shedline said with a shrug. “But it was worth a try.”

  “Any news?”

  Shedline shook his head. “Nothing since you asked me ten minutes ago.”

  Cyrus clucked his tongue. “It’s this damn waiting that’s getting to me.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Colonel. We’ll get to the bottom of whoever compromised the mission in Iowa. And when we do, we’ll pin them down and bring things to a swift close. Just like we did in the Congo, see?”

  “Yeah,” Cyrus muttered. “Just like we did in the Congo.”

  “Wait a minute!”

  “What’s up?”

  “Call coming through.”

  “From?”

  “Braden.”

  “Major Braden, Shedline.” Cyrus didn’t wait for an apology but instead snatched the spare headset off the nearby desk and donned it. He nodded at Shedline, who then patched the call to that station.

  “This is Cyclops. Go, Raven.”

  “Cyclops, this is Raven. We’ve had to scrub our present mission.”

  “Reason?”

  “Chiefly, our friends that were dispatched here wouldn’t cooperate. They initially took us in but then were directed to cut us loose.”

  “What about Mishka?”

  “I no longer believe she’s in this AO. In fact, we have good evidence to think she may have cut loose her one tie here and fled the country.”

  “You have a possible destination?”

  “Negative. We would need you to tell us that.”

  “It’ll take me some time to acquire the information. Foxglove is not being very cooperative at present. But I think I can persuade him to assist if he knows the mission parameters have been compromised.”

  “Understood. We’ll wait for your transmission.”

  “Expect return contact in thirty mikes. Cyclops out.”

  Cyrus ripped the headset off and slammed it onto the desk with a curse and wheeze of disgust. “Get me Steinham on the phone. ASAP!”

  * * *

  HARDLY A CAR passed by Black Betty as Able Team sped toward their new destination.

  Lyons could feel the tension build in his neck and shoulders—a telltale sign of where he bottled his stress according to his massage therapist—while he considered what they might encounter. The events that had transpired to this point made no sense to him, and this information about Cyrus and his mercs holed up in some remote retreat made even less.

  Why would they retreat? A guy with Colonel Jack Cyrus’s reputation didn’t just tuck tail between his legs and run for no reason. Was he trying to protect Steinham or was it actually Steinham who’d left Cyrus with no other options? And why would Cyrus ally himself with the likes of a nutcase like Madari? It was pretty clear that Madari had been responsible for blowing the op i
n Iowa and killing several of Cyrus’s people.

  None of it jelled for the Able Team leader. Lyons had been convinced Cyrus was behind the attack on them in Washington, but Stony Man had provided all sorts of incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. So if Cyclops wasn’t working for the enemy and wasn’t behind the attack on Able Team, then exactly how did they play into it?

  Blancanales’s voice broke through Lyons’s ruminations. “Ironman? I think we’ve got more trouble.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Two pairs of headlights, one in each lane, coming up behind us. Fast.”

  “Gadgets?” Lyons called.

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Turn on some of those high-fangled instruments back there and sweep Betty’s interior.”

  “On it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Blancanales inquired.

  “Just hold position for a moment. We don’t know if they’re hostiles yet, although the chances are good given this road has been devoid of traffic for the most part.”

  Lyons watched in his side mirror, keeping vigil with Blancanales while Schwarz activated the internal countersurveillance suite built into the sensitive electronics package. The headlights gained and Blancanales wisely kept a steady speed. If they were hostiles, Able Team had plenty of countermeasures to prevent being overtaken, countermeasures that involved more than ass-kicking and firepower. Although Lyons always hoped that was part of the equation—from where he sat it looked as if the new arrivals were about to oblige.

  “Ironman?” Schwarz called.

  “Yeah.”

  “Um, was your ass burning?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your suggestion to sweep the interior of Betty was some sort of intuition.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re definitely giving off a homing signal. And it’s coming from your AO.”

  Lyons turned in his seat, feeling the rush of heat come to his face. “Are you trying to tell me that—?”

  “Yeah. Somebody’s got you bugged.”

  “Who would’ve been able to do that?” Blancanales cut in. “We’re the only ones you’ve been near. Other than Steinham.”

  “Yeah, and that was after the first attack.”

  Lyons ran through it in his mind. Where had he come into contact with anybody? It wouldn’t have been mere sleight of hand—all the Stony Man warriors were trained to counteract pickpocket attempts. Had he let his guard down? It took a little time but then he remembered something. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the small business card.

  “Winger!” Lyons exclaimed. “That bastard, Nick Winger. The guy we ran into back in Iowa.”

  “The assistant to Higgs?” Schwarz asked.

  “Yeah. He’s the only one that could have done this. And I think it was in the contact card he gave me.” Lyons handed it to Schwarz. “Here, check that out when you get a chance.”

  “Why would some guy you don’t even know want to keep tabs on us?” Blancanales asked.

  “So they can send a hit team to kill us, dumpfkopf,” Schwarz replied as he took the card carefully from Lyons. He grabbed a microscanner and swept the card, receiving an immediate confirmation. “Yeah. It’s definitely wired.”

  “Destroy that thing. Now.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  The vehicles were practically on top of them now. “Our friends are now in blackout mode.”

  “I’ll give ’em blackout mode,” Lyons growled as he yanked his pistol clear and double-checked the action. “Gadgets, we still got those side-mounted launchers with the tire snares?”

  “But of course.”

  “I think it’s time to send these punks a message.”

  “Roger that,” Schwarz said as he flipped a switch that would activate the tire snares.

  While it might have seemed to the observer that this was more like something out of a James Bond movie, the tire snare was actually a simple device. Constructed from tungsten steel and launched by a small propellant black-powder charge from the base of Betty’s frame, the tire snares were designed to entangle a moving tire and shred the rubber from the rim. They were highly effective but not terribly accurate, and rare were the times when Able Team actually opted to use them. This was one of these times.

  Schwarz waited until the first vehicle had come parallel with the van on the inside lane—letting the infrared cameras do the work of ensuring the arrivals were in position—before launching the first pair of tire snares. They hit on target and immediately went to work, cutting the super-heated rubber to tatters in a few seconds and causing the vehicle to veer off the road and ride down the embankment into the center ditch where it spun out.

  “That did it!” Lyons called out.

  The occupants of the second sedan, which had now gained a position on Betty’s tail, opened up with automatic weapons. The bullets whined as they struck the composite-armor shell of the van. Blancanales shouted for his friends to hold on and then tromped the brake pedal, edging the wheel right to left to keep the van from spinning out of control.

  The driver in the sedan wasn’t so adept and he braked hard to avoid slamming into the rear of Black Betty, causing his vehicle to fishtail before finally reaching the inevitable slide. The sedan veered off the road, tires unable to find purchase on the slick gravel of the shoulder, and then it whizzed down the embankment and finally flipped several times before coming to a stop, its roof crunched.

  “Scratch that crew,” Schwarz muttered.

  “Don’t assume,” Lyons said.

  Lyons went EVA as soon as Blancanales got Betty stopped alongside the road. He charged down the embankment toward the crashed vehicle of his enemy, the MP-5K machine pistol clutched in his hands and ready for action. Only one man emerged from the wreck, and in the unmistakable glow of a fire building from under the bent hood Lyons could see another body lying some distance away, obviously ejected during the rollover.

  The apparent lone survivor had gathered his marbles enough to see Lyons approach and reached around on the ground until he found what he sought. Lyons caught the profile of the weapon in the glow from the engine just a moment before he steadied the muzzle of the MP-5K and triggered a short burst that blew the gunner’s head off his shoulders. Lyons heard something pop and felt an increase in heat, his gut telling him it would be better to hit the ground at that point.

  The nagging urge saved his life as the leaking gas tank caught and the vehicle exploded, sending shards of glass and superheated metal whooshing mere inches over his head. A few flaming bits came down directly on him, but Lyons immediately rolled to his left to get them off before they could do any real damage or burn his skin severely.

  The concussion from the explosion had shaken Lyons a little, but not as much as the sound of rounds whizzing past, burning the air around him with angry resolve. Lyons looked up and from his position he barely saw the tops of the heads of four gunners that emerged from the other sedan and were approaching on an intercept course. Their intent was obvious—to fully engage and destroy their enemy if at all possible. They made no apologies for it and their resolve seemed obvious given the wink of the muzzle-flashes.

  What they hadn’t banked on was the resolve of the three Able Team warriors. For all intents, the crew from the second vehicle had the drop on Lyons and pinned him down. If he dared try to take any of them under the current circumstances, he knew he was sure to get killed, a prospect he felt strongly against.

  Blancanales and Schwarz had come to the rescue, however. Seeing their friend pinned down, they joined the fray by splitting up and triggering their own weapons on the move. Blancanales had chosen a SIG 551 for this engagement. He blasted one of the attackers with a double-burst salvo of 5.56 × 45 mm. The impact drove the man backward, his weapon clatterin
g from numb figures as the shots tore open his gut.

  Schwarz got the next two with his M-16 A3, sweeping the muzzle in a corkscrew pattern. At this point they were on a road without traffic and there were no residences in sight. This meant they had some leeway in discriminating a fire zone. The first man danced under the impact of so many high-velocity rounds striking his body simultaneously. They shredded flesh, cracked bone and punctured vital organs in a gory spray that was visible only in the illumination provided by the headlamps of the enemy vehicle. The other man took several rounds to the gut before a stray punched through his left eye. His head rocked and then lolled on his body a moment before it crumpled to the pavement.

  The survivor realized his predicament and managed to gain a pretty good position of cover from the natural defilade provided by the embankment. He dropped to his belly and set up position sniper-style. His fire was short, controlled and tended toward deadly accuracy—causing all three Able Team warriors to rethink their status.

  Schwarz and Blancanales took cover behind Black Betty but realized it wouldn’t do much good.

  Another vehicle appeared to be fast approaching, its outline taking shape as it passed under the occasional highway lights. It was a panel truck, much larger and probably carrying reinforcements—definitely not something for which Able Team had planned.

  Lyons waited for a break in the firing from the lone enemy near the sedan, and then flashed a signal for his comrades to provide cover fire while he made for the relative safety of Betty’s armored body.

  “Maybe if we can’t outgun them,” he said, breathing heavy as he arrived unscathed, “we can outrun them.”

  Blancanales shrugged. “Make our stand here, make it somewhere else.”

  “Okay,” Lyons said. “But how do we keep the bystanders out of it?”

  “Call for reinforcements?” Schwarz proposed.

  Lyons shook his head as he heard the roar of the panel truck engine for the first time. “Wouldn’t get here in time.”

  “Looks like we’re out of options,” Blancanales said.

  Lyons removed the magazine from his weapon and slammed home a fresh one, his last, as he replied, “It looks like.”