by Dick Stivers
“Take it down again,” Blancanales told the pilot.
Below them, the white Dodge and the cargo truck raced to the airfield. Dropping to zero altitude, the pilot paralleled the truck. Autofire flashed from the sedan.
As Blancanales aimed his grenade launcher, a slug ricocheted through the cockpit. Plexiglas splintered. The helicopter veered away for an instant until Gadgets pushed the pilot’s head with the muzzle of the Beretta. The helicopter returned to its parallel course.
“Steady…” Blancanales said into the intercom. Slugs hammered the helicopter. He fired and shouted. “Take it away!”
Hundreds of steel fragments slashed the front tires of the truck. Skidding sideways across the gravel airfield, the driver lost control. The truck tipped sideways and slid to a stop.
The Dodge cranked a sweeping turn. At the other end of the field, a Lear jet left a hangar.
“Now the Dodge,” Blancanales told the pilot. Reloading, he looked over at Lyons.
As the helicopter banked through a steep turn, Lyons waited, his face expressionless, the Atchisson ready in his hands. He stared out at the dying, paling night as if he were a passenger on a bus. Blancanales shouted into the intercom, “Ironman, hit the Dodge with everything you can put out.”
Without acknowledging his partner, Lyons took a magazine of 12-gauge rounds out of his bandolier. He held the magazine in his teeth and waited, grimacing like a pirate.
“Take us in, pilot,” Blancanales said.
Swooping low, the helicopter closed on the Dodge. An Anglo in a suit leaned from the car’s rear driver-side window and fired an Uzi up at the troopship. The 9mm slugs plinked the aluminum hull.
The Dodge skidded to a stop at the overturned cargo truck.
“Up to a hundred feet and hover. Hover!” yelled Blancanales. “Wizard, grenades out the doors. Everything!”
The helicopter seemed to lurch to a stop. Dust clouded from the field as Blancanales stood in the side door and fired his M-203 straight down at the Dodge.
The Dodge’s driver stepped from the door of the car as the grenade hit the roof. Suddenly headless, he took one more step and fell.
While Lyons emptied his magazine of slugs through the roof of the Dodge, each impact like a supersonic sledgehammer strike, Gadgets pulled the cotter pins from hand grenades. He lobbed them out the doors underhand, then pulled two more out and threw those.
Blancanales sprayed the Chicanos and Anglos with thirty 5.56mm slugs. At the other side door, Lyons dropped out the spent magazine and loaded seven rounds of double-ought and number-two steel.
Lyons sighted on a man in a suit sprinting across the gravel. The blast sent steel through his brain and heart and lungs. He died before he fell. A Chicano scrambled from the back of the truck. Lyons put a single blast through his body. Another Chicano stepped over the corpse. Steel from the Atchisson and from one of Gadgets’s grenades ripped him.
“That plane!” Blancanales called out.
The Lear jet veered away from the carnage. An arm reached from the cabin and pulled the cabin door closed. Accelerating, the jet bounced across the field.
The helicopter pilot turned the Huey. At a hundred miles an hour, he attempted to intercept the jet before it lifted off. But the jet’s engines took it into the dawn sky and away.
“Sorry, I couldn’t stop it, it was too fast…” the copter pilot apologized.
“Back to the truck and the car. Put us down,” Blancanales said.
Nothing moved in the scene. Anglos and Chicanos sprawled around the overturned truck and the unmarked sedan. As the Huey touched down on the field, the rotorstorm made the suit coats of the dead Anglos flap.
“We need prisoners,” Blancanales told his partners.
Jumping from the helicopter, they fanned out to approach the bodies. They glanced into the Dodge. They saw only blood. In the truck, they found dead men and four hundred forty pounds of a white powder in thick vinyl sacks.
None of the dead carried identification.
After the search, Lyons finally spoke, his voice emotionless, beyond despair. “I’m going back to find Flor.”
“There’s not going to be anything to find, nothing that you’ll recognize,” Blancanales told him. “Let the fire department do it.”
Lyons shook his head. “She’s mine. I’ll get her ready, I’ll…” His voice faded away. Without speaking again, he left his partners. He walked the mile back to the crash site.
*
Two hours later, when a Drug Enforcement Agency car came for Blancanales and Gadgets, they joined Lyons at the wreckage.
Lyons stood in the desert, his back to the morgue workers who combed the scorched metal. They found only bones and ashes. With plastic gloves on their hands, the morgue workers put the pieces of a proud, brave woman in plastic bags for later positive identification.
Lyons walked east into the desert.
FB2 document info
Document ID: a035c5b4-ed5f-4175-a976-36f22ccc2f9c
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 2005-07-27
Created using: FB Tools software
OCR Source: OCR Highroller
Document authors :
Денис
Document history:
v 1.0 — создание fb2 OCR Денис
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