Royal Flush at-10

by Dick Stivers

  Royal Flush

  ( Able Team - 10 )

  Dick Stivers

  Able Team's mission: a cocaine bust in Manhattan. But a crooked trail soon takes the three aces of death to Windsor Castle in England. Able Team discovers that the fanatical Irish National Army of Liberation will attack the Royal Family in two days...

  U.S. agent Leo Turrin, already in London to find an infiltrator in the British counterterror network, gets some wild help as the American hotshots make meat stew out of ruthless attackers.

  No quarter is spared. Justice by fire, worldwide!

  Dick Stivers

  Royal Flush

  "If gallantry gives way to anonymous refuge behind supersonic weapons, the days of personalized war are gone forever."

  Ontario Lieutenant Governor John Black Aird

  CLASSIFIED: TOPSECRET

  OPERATIONAL: IMMEDIATE

  FROM: US EMBASSY/LONDON

  TO: BROGNOLA/STONYMAN OPS STICKER SENDS

  RELIABLE SOURCE INDICATES TWO HUNDRED

  KILOS HIGH GRADE COCAINE NOW IN TRANSIT X

  DESTINATION=NYC

  ARRIVAL = IMMINENT

  SHIPMENT ABOARD PANAMA FREIGHTER

  CANAL QUEEN X SHIPMENT BEING BROUGHT

  IN BY JOHN MCELROY X MCELROY SHOULD

  GIVE SOLID LEAD TO SHILLELAGH

  END

  Prologue

  Two hundred kilos — roughly ten million dollars at wholesale levels. By the time it got to the streets it would be worth at least three times as much. The Drug Enforcement Agency would love to get that kind of a bust, and Stony Man's Hal Brognola was going to give it to them — with a string attached.

  John McElroy was a leader in the Irish National Army of Liberation — NAL — an offshoot of the IRA. The organization specialized in terrorist attacks in England, always in large crowds. Their civilian body count was in the hundreds. In one attack, when the former Secretary for State for Northern Ireland was assassinated in a massive bomb blast in a crowded soccer stadium, a stampede of panicked spectators tried to flee the scene, doubling the number of dead.

  In all, the NAL was responsible for killing and crippling more than three hundred people.

  McElroy's primary function within the NAL was that of fund raiser. Increasingly, the terror-mongers in Ireland had had to resort to smuggling drugs and guns to fill their war chests.

  He was an engaging man, according to intelligence files, and a talented organizer. These talents allowed McElroy to build one of the major drug-distribution rings in Britain, the profits from which went to finance NAL activities. The anticipated foray into the American market represented a major expansion of McElroy's activities.

  "Sticker" was a gutsy guy named Leopold Turrin. Leo was Mack Bolan's closest friend and, along with Hal and April and Jack Grimaldi, his most valuable Stony Man ally independent of Able Team and Phoenix Force. At one time, during the initial struggle at Pittsfield, Bolan had sworn he would execute Leo Turrin, Mafia underboss with the "girls franchise" in western Massachusetts, blood nephew to Sergio Frenchi, the boss of the Berkshires. But Bolan had learned just in time that Leo "The Pussy" — Sticker — was an undercover federal agent, a soldier of the same side. Leo became a total convert to Bolan's cause, an invaluable insider. So began a lifetime commitment to advise and assist Mack Bolan and his men along their every brawling mile, a commitment that would be forged the stronger by the kind of betrayal and bereavement that could hit the Stony Man program at any time and expose them all to the highest winds of horror.

  Officially, Leo was in London to advise the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard on a growing organized crime problem experienced in the United Kingdom. The request had come through channels for the best available help on the problem. Sticker was the best available.

  To protect the undercover Fed, arrangements had been made to fly him to Britain on a military jet, pass him through customs and immigration with his face wrapped in bandages, and install him in a "gilded cage" — a secure area of the U.S. Embassy.

  The unofficial reason for Leo being in London was Shillelagh. For some months now, indications of disturbing problems in the British counterterrorist efforts had filtered through to American intelligence. The agency responsible for the British efforts was COATUK — the Committee on Anti-Terrorism in the United Kingdom. The committee had representatives from CID, the Secretariat of State for Northern Ireland, MI5, and the SAS.

  It appeared that the Irish terrorists also had a representative on COATUK — an infiltrator. The indications of the "Irish representative" were scattered. Considered as a whole, they pointed to a major systematic sabotage of counterterrorist efforts.

  Because nothing was certain — including who could be trusted within COATUK — the Americans could say nothing to their British counterparts. With the request from CID for Sticker, a man who had served with the Special Forces in Vietnam and who knew what could happen when men faced rampant corruption, an opportunity was handed to Stony Man to check out Shillelagh.

  Able Team had just returned, bloodied and exhausted, from Honduras in their continued pursuit of Central American fascists. They needed a change of scene, particularly Carl Lyons who made a statement on the guerilla wars: "I'm sick of killing teenagers." Senior specialist Rosario "Pol" Blancanales, electronics wizard Hermann "Gadgets" Schwarz and ex-LAPD hotshot Carl "Ironman" Lyons represented the final option wherever civilization was threatened, and it was impossibly tough work. A working visit to one of the sources of modern civilization might help to heal some wounds, even as it threatened to create new ones.

  The image of modern Britain was cavalry guardsmen lying dismembered in the street, gore smearing their chromed breastplates in the shock-numbed aftermath of a terrorist bomb that settled like a pall on scenery once associated with pomp and circumstance. Innocent people by the score had been murdered in these episodes.

  The men of Able Team were ready to do war. Events dictated that they fly into action far from the urban hunting grounds of Los Angeles and the hellgrounds of Central America. The siren had sounded and the specialists had heard that special call — they would be abroad tonight for sure…

  But first New York, and the string attached to Hal's gift of two hundred kilos of coke.

  1

  The sentry at the side door of the warehouse emitted a gasp as the apparition of black materialized from the fog.

  "That's the last sound you make," the attacker advised. The edge of death was in his voice.

  Al Capri looked wistfully at the shotgun he'd leaned against the wall only a moment ago. He raised his empty hands slowly in the air, examined the deadly apparition more closely.

  The man was just a touch over six feet tall and well-muscled. From the top of the wool cap to the crepe-soled shoes, he was in black and dressed to kill. Two military bandoliers crisscrossed his chest, holding the munitions for war; around his neck, a compact submachine gun hung by a strap. At the moment, Al's biggest worry was the autopistol aimed at his chest.

  "On the ground, spread-eagled," growled the voice.

  The mafioso complied and he was soon secured by plastic riot cuffs extracted from a pocket in the skintight blacksuit. A piece of adhesive tape across Capri's mouth ensured his silence.

  Elsewhere in the gloom, two more sentries greeted the other two members of Able Team.

  Able Team. All three men were rigged for silent combat. The autopistols were Colt Government Models. Armorers had increased the twist of the Colt's rifling to reduce the slug's speed to subsonic levels and greatly increase the weapon's accuracy. The ten-round magazine could be emptied one shot at a time or in precise three-round bursts with a flick of the selector lever.

  The Ingram Model 10 SMG was the "fire
fight" weapon this mission. Equipped with a MAC suppressor, the weapon itself was silent. The target heard the crack of the bullet, but by that time it was too late. The firing rate had been reduced from 1200 rounds per minute to a more manageable 700, but even with that modification, the formidable weapon could deliver its thirty rounds of .45-caliber ammunition in less than three seconds on full autofire. The men's radios were Gadgets Specials. From the control box containing the circuits and transmission button, two wires were fed underneath the skinsuit, one terminating in a small throat mike, the other in a compact earplug. The range was limited, but entirely suitable for close-quarter operations.

  The DEA had had the Canal Queenunder surveillance from the moment she docked the previous afternoon. Now Able Team waited patiently as the cargo was cleared through customs and brought to the warehouse.

  The small building was owned by Johnson & Associates — Importers. The company was a front operation for one Paul Scaramelli. A wholesale distributor of narcotics, Scaramelli had ambitions to be the major importer of narcotics into the New York area. This deal was a major stepping-stone in achieving those ambitions.

  The fog had rolled into the Hudson River dockyards earlier in the evening, isolating the warehouse from its neighbors. Half an hour later, two limousines rolled up to the building, disgorging a hard patrol of hired protection. Most of the newcomers went inside, leaving sentries to guard the three entrances to the building.

  The DEA agents had radioed this information to the agent in charge and pulled back on his instructions to let Able Team in.

  Carl Lyons took a last look at Al Capri, then moved to the door to the building and entered. He hit his transmit button once.

  His entrance did not go unnoticed, but as one of McElroy's hardmen reacted to the intruder, Lyons's silenced auto-pistol coughed once. The slug caught the man just below his nose. The faceless nonbeing let go of its AK-47. The weapon clattered to the floor. Lyons scooped it up.

  Scaramelli and McElroy stood examining the goods stashed in two crates at the far end of the warehouse. Moments earlier, the Irishman had placed a call that confirmed the deposit of eight million American dollars in a Swiss numbered account. Paul felt good about the deal, very good, and prepared to set up a subsequent deal with the Irishman. The clatter of the assault rifle startled the two men.

  Mafiosi and terrorists opened fire on the source of the sound. Lyons had found shelter among stacked crates, part of the cargo from the Canal Queen, as bullets tore into the position he had abandoned a heartbeat earlier.

  Gadgets used the diversion to enter the warehouse through the rear side door. The inside sentry had no idea of the extent of the invader's shooting skill. His head exploded. Gadgets moved quickly to a gap between two stacks of crates and climbed till he could see his partners' positions.

  The warehouse was about one hundred fifty feet long and thirty feet high. The owners and protectors of the white powder hid among the crates. Now the rolling booms of heavy shotguns punctuated the staccato of automatic-weapon fire and the sharper reports of small handguns. The fire was directed toward Lyons's position.

  Gadgets unslung the Ingram from around his neck and brushed the trigger, sending a short burst into two men whose cover behind stacked crates he had exposed. Small puffs of white powder kicked up as the .45 whizzers perforated a load of crated plastic bags. The fire cut down one of the two men in a lethal stream of .45 tumblers as the second man spun away from the white puffs and scrambled for the left side of the warehouse — only to feel the 230-grain kickers find him and turn his scramble into a sprawl.

  Gadgets had no trouble picking up McElroy. His shock of unruly blond hair was moving toward the main entrance of the warehouse, progressing crate by crate. Gadgets radioed the information to Blancanales.

  Scaramelli, too, had spotted the target's retreat. Paul Scaramelli had worked his way up from a runner in the late Freddie Gambella's family. A lot of changes happened when Freddie fell to Mack Bolan. Paul had managed over the years to come up on the right side of the interfamily wars that had erupted, and he'd slowly built a solid power base in New York. One of the things he had learned was to protect his assets, which he was doing right now. No little shit of a foreigner was going to leave Paul holding the bag.

  "You Irish son of a bitch. You take one more step and you're dead!" the Mafia slime-bucket hollered at the retreating terrorist. The reply to the challenge was a burst from McElroy's AK-47.

  Scaramelli died protecting his assets. Gadgets watched from above, saw vital juices pump out onto the floor.

  McElroy's victory was short-lived. A blast of shot from one of Scaramelli's tagmen found the Irishman's back near point-blank range. The dead terrorist folded quietly like a sail falling when the wind stops.

  "The pigeon is dead," Gadgets told his partners. The signal removed any cautionary restraints on Able Team.

  Lyons had been moving slowly away from his original cover, dashing across the small aisles between the stacks of crates, seeking a better firing line. Now he opened up with the appropriated AK-47, sending 7.62mm tumblers through a gap between crates. The gap was narrow, but the bullets negotiated it and shredded flesh as they plowed into the gunner beyond.

  From his position among crates at the front of the building, Blancanales saw two men working their way beneath Gadgets's perch.

  With his Colt in a two-handed grip, Blancanales terminated one-half of the threat, but bullets meant for the second man were still being absorbed by the first when the fleeing guy gained cover.

  "Watch it, Gadgets, I only hit one of them," Blancanales relayed through his throat mike.

  A head popped up over the crates in front of Gadgets. The Wizard sheared it off with a stream of bullets aimed at eye level. The anatomy that remained landed on the floor with the heavy crumple of wet laundry.

  Retreating gunmen came to a stop as a barrage of bonecrushers hit them from three directions. They retreated into death.

  Silence descended on the scene, and the smoke and smell of cordite slowly dissipated. Able Team worked its way out from cover, then searched the interior of the warehouse for survivors.

  Finding none, the three assembled at the corpse of the man they had come to get. Blancanales searched McElroy's pockets, found a hotel key and a few scraps of paper.

  The three men took a last look around at the carnage.

  As they emerged, they were observed by Al Capri, a sentry Lyons had spared in determined defiance of his reputation as crowd killer. The cuffed and gagged Capri had heard the sounds of the raging battle. One glance at the grim faces of the three men down there told him that life was a sweet and precious thing. He thanked a few saints for the compassion of the tall one with blond hair.

  2

  Ripper Dan Aliotto pulled away from the curb at Terminal Three, Heathrow Airport, London. Resting beside him in the front seat of the ambassador's limousine were the three black leather cases that the new arrivals had brought with them from the States.

  He checked his rearview mirror and made a mental note to keep an eye on the dark blue Jaguar sedan that pulled away at the same time. That car had not taken on any passengers, and Ripper was suspicious by nature.

  Sir Jack Richardson, the government official seated next to Able Team in the rear, spoke in polished British tones. "Ripper, I want you to say hello to three gentlemen from America who are here to help us. Mr. Lyons, Mr. Blancanales and Mr. Schwarz have had the good fortune to procure through the auspices of a hotel key some information regarding the security of His Royal Highness, whose birthday is the day after tomorrow."

  Richardson gave the men beside him a twinkling nod of appreciation. Able Team remained silent, looking ahead or at the scenes that passed the limousine's windows.

  "It appears our friends here have gained access to the personal effects of the late John McElroy," the official continued. "Letters to Miss Kathleen McGowan, that blue-eyed bitch in NAL, indicate all is not well in our security. We have a continuing
problem with Shillelagh. It's the sort of information, Ripper, that gets these American persons a special dispensation to bring ordnance into this country. Aren't you impressed?"

  "Yeah, guv'nor," Ripper nodded. "It's a damn good thing they did." Looking into his mirror, he watched the blue Jag sink back into the medium to heavy traffic that trailed behind them on the three-lane highway connecting the airport with the capital.

  Lyons noted Ripper's distraction and leaned forward.

  "Get off at the next exit and find a nice quiet street," he said. He retrieved the three cases from the front seat.

  Gadgets brought a pair of wire cutters to bear on the three seals and broke them. The warriors stripped off their suitcoats. Shoulder holsters for the Colt autopistols were strapped into place and the coats replaced. Ingram M-10s rested on their legs. Spare magazines for the weapons filled all jacket pockets.

  Ripper pulled out his own piece, passed it back to Lyons and asked him to chamber a round. Sir Jack Richardson gazed at it. The weapon was a Beretta 93-R. The compact self-loading pistol was familiar to Able Team. Its fifteen 9mm missiles could be dispatched one at a time or in groups of three. But Able Team had abandoned the silenced version of this weapon. Carl was the first to make the switch to the modified Colt. His argument was that the silencer on the Beretta reduced the speed of the 115-grain bullets to subsonic. At that slow speed, a kill required a perfect headshot. Anything less would not necessarily stop the enemy, not the kind of enemy Able Team faced. The .45-caliber slugs of the Colt did considerably more damage at the slow speed required for a silenced weapon.

  "This standard issue now?" Lyons asked Ripper.

  "Not likely," the owner chuckled. Ripper was a convert to Mack Bolan's cause from years back, had been brought in on the Shillelagh case in recognition of his links with both the mob's lizardmen and Mack Bolan's global war, and now he looked with eager curiosity at the men who sat behind him.