by Dick Stivers
“Their commander is someone named General Mendez,” Lyons answered the lieutenant first. Then he made a fist and moved his arm for Blancanales to see. “It still works.”
“Alfonso Deloria Mendez was very important in the previous administration,” the lieutenant told them. “I recognized him from parades. That means we must act tonight. Now, he probably calls the ex-president and his friends for help. Tomorrow we cannot touch him.”
As the lieutenant spoke, Miguel Coral joined the group. Lyons turned to him. “They ran to a building near here,” he said to Coral. “You know anything about it?”
“Nothing. What is the problem?”
“They look down on the avenida,” Lieutenant Soto said. “Their machine guns fired down on my men. We cannot assault from the street. And we cannot call for other units. No airborne troops, no armored forces. I only trust the men with me. And you North Americans.”
“No other way into the building?” Blancanales asked. “Is it possible we could fire down from another building?”
“The tower of Trans-Americas S.A. is the highest in the area.”
Coral glanced at his watch. “Soon, with luck, you will have your airborne forces. Perhaps ahorita.”
“What?” the lieutenant asked.
“The helicopter. When our surveillance men saw you soldiers, we warned the pilot, Senor Davis, and the Yaqui. They went to get the helicopter. We thought it would be the best way to escape the city.”
“And what about Vato and Ixto?” Lyons asked.
“I will radio.” Coral called to one of his men. The man took a walkie-talkie from the panel truck and ran to Coral. Flipping the switch, they heard only static. Coral went up the ramp to the open air. He spoke into the radio. After a few seconds, he returned.
“The helicopter comes. All the boys are with it.”
“We will take the helicopter,” the lieutenant told the North Americans. “With it, my platoons can land on the top of the building, where the criminals will not expect them.”
Gadgets glanced to the blood-splashed, corpse-littered floor of the garage. “The unexpected is hitting a lot of people today,” he said.
*
“Thought you didn’t want to fly this thing anymore.” Leaning forward to the pilot station, Lyons shouted over the rotor noise to Davis. The DEA pilot checked his instruments as soldiers boarded the helicopter.
“I don’t! This thing’s junk.” Davis turned to glance at the soldiers crowding through the door. He saw Lyons’s clothes. “Man, you look like you been rolling in blood.”
“I have.”
“I believe it. Your gear’s back there. All those Mexicans are in blacksuits. And from what I understand, they’re going to be shooting goons who are wearing clothes just like those. There could be a misunderstanding.”
“You talked me into it,” Lyons said, glancing back to check out the packs of gear secured to the seat frames and the gun mount.
The helicopter idled on the roof of a high rise. A block away, the Trans-Americas S.A. tower stood against the sky, its office lights creating random patterns of white and black. Several soldiers stood outside the radius of the rotor blades. They would take the next flight to the roof of the fascist headquarters.
Lyons tossed out his partners’ gear. “Wizard! Pol!”
“Thanks,” Gadgets shouted. “You go with the lieutenant. We’ll come over on the second trip.” Gadgets carried the packs back to Blancanales, waiting with the Yaquis.
Lyons’s pack had been lashed to the door gun’s mount by its hip belt. He pushed aside the barrel of the M-60 and stripped off his blood-crusted sports coat and shirt. He paused to find the wound. A bullet had grazed his left forearm. It would not even need stitches. Just another scar.
He did not take the time to change from his gray slacks. He pulled on his faded black fatigue shirt. It stank of sweat and dust from the Sonora desert. Over his fatigue shirt, he slipped on his Kevlar and steel battle armor and slapped the Velcro closures. The Kevlar would stop all low-velocity bullets and shrapnel. The steel trauma-plate insert over his heart and lungs would stop all rifle bullets. The armor had saved his life before, stopping a point-blank burst from a Kalashnikov in an Able Team battle in Cairo.
A second later, the helicopter lifted away. Lyons buckled bandoliers of ammunition and grenades over the black battle armor. He transferred his Colt from the shoulder holster to his web belt’s holster. He touched the Python in the hideaway holster at the small of his back. Two speedloaders went into his pants’ pocket. Then he fastened the safety strap around his waist and leaned out the side door.
The helicopter flew over canyons of light. Lines of headlights and taillights marked the avenida. Vertical walls of glass shimmered with reflections of the traffic lights and neon. Electric billboards flashed with colored lights.
Even at hundreds of meters above the streets, the night smelled of auto pollution.
Rising above the other corporate buildings, the tower of Trans-Americas S.A. had a penthouse topped with satellite dishes and radio antennae. The circle and crossed lines of a helipad marked an open area of asphalt. Lights illuminated the helipad. A wind sock hung on a pole, motionless in the gray night.
Lyons saw figures leaving the penthouse. Two gunmen carried a stretcher. Other gunmen saw the helicopter and waved.
The lieutenant pointed and shouted. “Perhaps that is General Mendez they carry. I think they wait for an army helicopter. Understand why I would not call for help?”
“Entiendo.” Lyons nodded. He spoke into the intercom. “Fly-boy, take us in straight. Time for another surprise.”
“You specialists are very surprising fellows.”
“Keeps us alive.”
“Until someone surprises you.”
“Never happen. We’re ready for anything. Boy Scout motto…”
On the helipad, a gunman pointed at the approaching troopship. Another gunman raised an Uzi. The crowd of fascists unslung weapons. Davis banked the helicopter away and shouted through the headphones. “You ready for a hot LZ?”
Slugs clanked into the fuselage. The helicopter veered away. Lyons looked down at the lights of the avenida, then the helicopter returned to level flight.
As the Mexicans raked the rooftop with their M-16 rifles, Lyons slung his Atchisson over his shoulder. Trusting his life to the safety webbing, he stood behind the pedestal-mounted M-60. He pulled the belt of 7.62 NATO cartridges from the can. Locking back the bolt, he set the safety and opened the feed-tray cover and positioned the first cartridge in the feed-tray groove. He closed the cover and eased forward the bolt to chamber the first round. He sighted on the stretcher.
If he killed General Mendez, he killed the commander of the International in Mexico.
Green tracers from the M-60 skipped off the asphalt helipad and pinwheeled into the night. A fascist gunman staggered back and fell over the stretcher. Other gunmen threw the dead man aside. They grabbed the handles of the stretcher and ran for shelter. Lyons held the sights on the white-wrapped man on the stretcher. One of the gunmen carrying the stretcher fell.
The helicopter gained altitude, throwing Lyons’s line of fire off. He saw the surviving gunman drag the stretcher into the penthouse. Lyons spoke into the intercom. “Davis, circle level and hold it.”
As the helicopter dropped, Lyons saw muzzle-flashes in the windows of the penthouse. He sighted on the dark windows and fired, holding the trigger back as the line of green tracers shattered the windows and punched through the walls. He saw green zigzags inside the penthouse as tracers ricocheted through the interior.
Grazing fire from a machine gun and the M-16 rifles of the Mexican soldiers drove the fascists off the rooftop. Lyons spoke into the intercom again. “Put us down.”
The helicopter rose higher. Lyons leaned out the door and fired straight down into the roof of the penthouse, punching 7.62mm holes through microwave antennae and electronic components. A relay box exploded in a spray of sparks. Lyons con
tinued firing — through the roof, through the walls, then directly through the door and windows — until the helicopter descended and the skids hit the helipad.
Soldiers rushed past Lyons. A submachine gun flashed from the penthouse. A soldier fell. As the wounded man crawled to cover, the other soldiers went flat, directing fire at the gunman while another soldier ran to the right. On the run, he pulled a grenade from his web belt and tossed it through the window.
Designed to stun terrorists and hostages with a blinding white flash and overwhelming shock without the wounds of shrapnel, the antiterrorist grenade exploded and blew glass and debris from the penthouse. The soldier threw a second grenade inside.
The platoon rushed the ruined penthouse. No more firing came from inside.
Sprawled on the asphalt, a wounded gunman raised himself from his blood and fired an Uzi. Shot in the legs, a soldier dropped. The gunman continued firing at the wounded soldier, a bullet knocking his M-16 from his hands. Lyons fired a single blast of 12-gauge, the double-ought load, taking away the fascist’s head.
As a medic tended the wounded soldiers, Lyons followed the Mexican commandos into the wreckage of the penthouse.
Flashlights revealed dead men, groaning wounded, smashed furniture. Overturned file cabinets spilled thousands of papers. Blood puddled on the Persian carpets.
Soldiers searched through the destroyed office, shining flashlights on the faces of the dead and wounded. They did not find General Mendez or Colonel Gunther.
A private elevator connected the penthouse to the lower floors. The lieutenant posted four men to watch the elevator and the wounded fascists. Then he led his men out to the roof again.
Far below, they heard shooting. The lieutenant’s walkie-talkie buzzed. He spoke into the radio for a moment. Then he directed his men to search the roof.
“They attempted to escape through the garage,” Lieutenant Soto told Lyons. “My sergeant’s platoon turned them back. They are trapped now.”
A soldier shouted. He pointed to a door.
“Those are the stairs down,” the lieutenant told Lyons. “Are you ready?”
“Consider this, Lieutenant,” Lyons replied. “These Nazis are murderers. They’re involved in the drug syndicates. Many of them are foreigners who are wanted for atrocities in their own countries. If they surrender, it’s execution or life in prison. Chances are, they’ll fight to the death.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Withdraw your soldiers. Send word that the ex-president has arranged an escape for the Nazis. Then send helicopters to take them away. And take them directly to prison. Otherwise, you’ll lose half your men in the building. Too many young men will die for other people’s politics.”
Lieutenant Soto clasped Lyons’s shoulder in his hand. “American, you’re a good man. But if I am to rid my country — if we are to rid our countries of these fascists, it must be tonight. Now. Tomorrow we may be in prison. You understand? I have no other way. We are alone in this.”
Lyons nodded. “Entiendo.”
The helicopter returned. As it touched down on the helipad, soldiers jumped from the doors. Gadgets and Blancanales jogged over to Lyons. They wore their battle armor and gear.
Lyons touch-checked his weapons. “Hold off on the assault until me and my partners are ready.”
“We must start now,” the lieutenant said.
“We only need a heavy rope. And then we will lead the assault.”
“No, you are foreigners,” argued the lieutenant. “This is my duty.”
“Let foreigners fight foreigners,” Lyons insisted.
17
Shock-flash grenades boomed. As the Mexican soldiers sprayed autofire down the stairwells, Lyons dropped off the edge of the roof.
Thirty floors above the Paseo de la Reforma, he hung on the end of a rope. The overhang of the roof placed him six feet from the windows. He watched the offices in front of him. Three windows down, men moved inside an executive suite. But the explosions and shooting in the stairwells kept the attention of the fascists away from the skyline of Mexico City.
Lyons looked down. The lights of police cars and ambulances surrounded the tower. Emergency barriers blocked the avenida. He saw the specks of police officers and soldiers, but no one immediately below him.
He waited until his side-to-side swinging stopped. Then he moved back and forth to swing toward the plate-glass windows. He built up his swing. His shoes touched the steel frame. He pushed off.
With his silenced Colt, he fired four slugs through the plate glass as he swung outward, one shot to each corner. The glass shattered in sheets. Most of the glass fell into the office, but some fell to the empty sidewalk.
As he swung in, he reached out an arm to put it through the empty window frame and grab a handhold on the inside.
Slowly he eased through the window. Nothing moved in the dark office. He untied the harness of rope around him. Then he went to the door and locked it. By the light from the gray sky, he searched the office. He found only desks and filing cabinets.
He paused to reload his Colt, slapping in another extended 10-round-capacity magazine.
Returning to the window, he knocked out the last pieces of plate glass in the frame. He gave the rope two jerks, then two more. After a few seconds, the rope went slack. He pulled the lower end of the rope into the office and tied it to a heavy desk.
He jerked the rope three times. Above him on the roof, his partners pulled in the slack. The rope now stretched taut from the top of the window to the desk. Lyons grabbed the rope, twisting it and jumping on it to try the knots.
A moment later, Gadgets slid through the window. Lyons cut the rope harness from his partner and freed him from the safety rope. If the taut line had failed as Gadgets slid down, the safety would have stopped his fall. They threw the safety rope back through the window. On the roof, Blancanales and the Mexican commandos pulled it up.
“Anything?” Gadgets whispered.
“Nothing yet. Heard voices. But I know they didn’t hear me.”
“Positive?”
“No one’s shooting at us.”
Blancanales slid down next. They cut away his harness, then sent the safety rope up again. They unslung their weapons and listened to the firing coming from the stairwells. The booms of shock-flash grenades punctuated the firefight of the sham attack. Able Team each carried four of the antiterrorist stun grenades. As they waited, they jammed valved hearing protectors in their ears.
A Mexican commando came down. Able Team left him to supervise the entry of the other soldiers. Lyons went first with his silenced Colt. Gadgets stood behind him with a shock-flash ready.
Easing the office door open, Lyons saw men in uniforms and street clothes rushing through the corridor. Some of the gunmen wore the gray uniform of the International, others the OD fatigues of the Mexican army. He saw traffic cops in their dark pants and sky-blue shirts. But most of the gunmen wore the uniform he had seen in actions in San Francisco, Los Angeles and Guatemala City: expensive European casual suits, tailored and pressed.
But the airborne assault had ruined the styling of the International soldiers. Blood from superficial wounds stained their Italian fashions. They had torn their slacks and sports coats, wrinkled their silk shirts, scuffed their shoes.
Lyons turned to Gadgets and whispered, “Fragmentation.”
Gadgets returned the shock-flash grenade to his combat harness. Lyons unhooked two Italian MU-50G controlled-effect grenades from his gear. He pointed to the right and held up the two small grenades. He pointed to the left and held up two fingers. Gadgets nodded and took two MU-50G grenades from his bandolier. They nodded to each other and pulled the safety pins.
“One… two…” Lyons counted, “three!”
They threw the grenades in opposite directions and slammed the door shut. Gadgets laughed. “Designer grenades for designer dudes!”
The chain-blast came an instant later. Lyons charged out first, Atchisson leve
led, Gadgets one step behind him. Blancanales and a Mexican commando cut to the right.
Only emergency lamps provided light. The storm of high-velocity steel beads had broken all the fluorescent tubes. Lyons and Gadgets rushed over the dead and wounded. Pointing his CAR with one hand, Gadgets fired 5.56mm execution shots into any gunman who still lived. Lyons did not waste his 12-gauge shells.
At the door to the executive suite, Lyons fired a single blast through the lock and the door flew open. Submachine guns fired, slugs splintering the door, punching through the thin office walls. Gadgets dropped flat on the carpet and tossed in a shock-flash.
The white blast silenced the weapons. Dashing into the twilight of the office, they saw men and women sprawled around computer terminals. Shattered video displays smoked with phosphor powder. Flashlight in his left hand, the Atchisson’s pistol-grip in his right, Lyons checked the stunned fascists while Gadgets watched the door.
He counted five men and three women. But no General Mendez. No Colonel Gunther.
“Call for some soldiers,” Lyons told his partner as they went to the office door. “We can’t stop to tie these Nazis up.”
“Gringo putos!”
A woman shot Lyons in the back.
Lyons spun and the woman fired her revolver again, a .38-caliber slug roaring past his ear. One blast from the Atchisson tore apart her heart and lungs, throwing her body over. Dying, she tried to scream, her eyes fluttering, her hands opening and closing reflexively as liters of her blood drained from the vast through-and-through wound.
Gadgets picked the deformed hollowpoint out of Lyons’s Kevlar and gave it to him. “Teach you to turn your back on a woman.”
Plaster flew from the walls. Gadgets staggered, and Lyons felt a slash across his gut and right forearm. An autoweapon in the corridor fired burst after burst at the doorway. As Lyons went down backward, his arm screaming with pain, he brought up the Atchisson.
An International gunman, ammunition bandoliers belted across his sports coat, ran through the door. He fired an M-16 wildly, spraying the office at waist height. Squinting against the muzzle-flash above him, Lyons snap-fired a single blast.
