by Dick Stivers
8
“Yes?” Gadgets inquired.
“Jesus, you’re a hard man to track down,” Petra Dix said, her voice ringing as strong and clear as a cowbell.
“How did you manage it?” Gadgets asked, not budging from the doorway.
“Hey, come on. What’s with the cold treatment? This is Petra Dix. We were rolling around on the ground together three hours ago. Don’t pretend like you don’t remember.”
Lyons and Blancanales looked at each other and grinned. Babette glided over to the door to take a look at the brash-voiced creature who had the back of Gadgets’s neck turning red.
“How could I ever forget,” he said.
Dix wasn’t quite sure how to take the comment. After a pause she said, “I want to thank you for saving my life.”
“Anytime.”
“I also wanted to tell you that you’re harder to fall on than pavement. Come on out here for a moment so I can thank you properly.”
“I see you’ve got a cameraman waiting out there,” Gadgets said. “I can’t go out there, I’m shy as hell.”
Dix laughed. “A man who makes a flying tackle at a lady in a public place can hardly go around calling himself shy. Come on.”
Gadgets stayed indoors in the shadow of the doorway, carefully watching the cameraman. The video eye had not yet been trained on him.
Dix let out a huge sigh. Gadgets smiled. From his vantage point, he could understand and clearly see why the local joke about Petra Dix was: “The biggest thing she contributes to the news is cleavage.” She made a sign of resignation then turned and spoke to her cameraman.
“Tony, put that damn thing down for a moment. Take a break.”
Gadgets was about to step forward into the sunlight when a strong hand pulled him back. Before he could recover his balance, Babette had slipped out past him and was standing at the bottom of the trailer’s metal steps. She surveyed the situation carefully. Petra Dix surveyed her.
Gadgets stood in the shadow watching the two women. Both were well built, but there the similarity ended. Babette’s hair was cut short and had been brushed so that every hair was in place. Dix’s hair was long and had a deliberately unkempt look. Her makeup, overdone for the television lights and cameras, looked wild. To Gadgets, she did not compare with Babette, who wore no makeup at all, preferring the natural look.
Petra wore an expensive, stylish suit. Babette wore jeans, sandals and a T-shirt. One woman was the product of careful packaging; the other was simply herself.
“What about the other cameramen you have in the van?” Babette asked Dix.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dix replied, her voice controlled, and odd.
“Let’s take a look then,” Babette suggested.
She started across the small parking lot toward an unmarked blue van. The cameraman Dix had called Tony swung his scanner to his shoulder and started to follow her. Gadgets joined the procession, keeping Tony between himself and the van.
Just before Babette reached the van, the cameraman sprinted to one side to catch her profile. He crowded in closely as the gymnastics coach tugged at the handle on the van’s rear doors. They were locked. She turned, the cameraman took a step closer and his camera flew from his hands. They all heard the boom of the heavy rifle that had fired the bullet.
Reactions were swift. Gadgets shoved the cameraman and Dix between the parked cars. “Get down and stay down,” he yelled.
Babette scooped up the fallen piece of equipment and rammed it through one of the van’s mirrored back windows. The broken window revealed a cameraman whose scanner had been thrust back into his eye.
“What the hell,” the hidden cameraman exclaimed, trying to see who was responsible for the deep and dark shiner he was going to have.
Babette was already out of sight. She dodged around the side of the van, away from the sniper. A high-powered bullet, which had burst through one side of the van and out the other, whipped past her. She vaulted over two more cars, then ducked down.
Lyons and Politician had gone to the door to watch the confrontation between the two women. Neither had stepped outside. The crack of a high-powered rifle triggered them into action. There was a scramble for weapons.
Lyons thrust the M-203 at Pol, then pointed to two bandoliers containing clips for the M-16 part of the weapon and grenades to feed the M-79 part. Blancanales slung on two bandoliers and was gone.
Throwing open one of the wooden cases, Lyons grabbed a Champlin, already sighted in with a Kahles ZF69 scope.
Taking a box of the .458 Magnum shells in the other hand, he ran to the end of the trailer and used the rifle butt to take out a small windowpane. He quickly jacked a shell into the breech and knelt, using the scope to search the new building at the south end of the parking lot.
Gadgets was mad as hell — at himself. He was stuck in the open, armed with nothing but a Beretta and subsonic bullets. Compared to the big piece booming from one of the terraces on the new building, the Beretta was only able to dish out love taps.
“When all else fails,” he muttered to himself, “attack.” He took off in a weaving, choppy pattern, to cover the four hundred feet to the building where the sniper was at work. He knew the first leg of the run would be the most dangerous. As he drew closer to the edge of the building, the sniper would have a tougher shot. Gadgets ran like hell, breaking left or right with each few paces. A bullet dug asphalt two feet from his foot. He subconsciously braced himself for the next bullet.
Blancanales charged out with the M-203 in time to see his partner, hands empty, dashing for the sniper’s base. He swerved to follow, searching his bandolier as he went. He found a smoke grenade and shoved it into firing position without slowing his run. Raising the M-203, he fired the grenade about fifty feet ahead of Gadgets. Again swerving hard and fast to make himself an elusive target, he reached for another smoker.
Petra Dix looked in disgust at the cameraman huddled on the floor of the van. The gaping holes in the side panels told her how close the bullet had come to hitting the man, but that did not matter to her. There was news to tape that took priority over everything. She reached inside the van and grabbed a portapak. She plucked the camera that was not damaged from the cameraman’s hand and plugged it into the portable recording unit.
Keeping a hand over his sore eye, he looked up at her. “You can’t use that,” he said.
“Watch me,” she replied.
She took off to catch the action.
Lyons found the sniper in his scope. By the direction the rifle was pointed, he guessed the gunner had Blancanales dead in his sights. He didn’t wait for an exact shot. With the cross hairs on the assassin’s forehead, he squeezed a quick shot. The 300-grain Magnum Super Speed plucked at the gunner’s hair. The sniper’s shot went wild.
Lyons quickly worked the bolt and with a fresh cartridge waiting to take up the argument, he continued to scan for the sniper. But the assassin had dropped out of sight. Lyons swept the terrace with the scope, determined to hold the sniper back from the edge.
When Gadgets saw the first ball of smoke, he veered so that the thick fog would be between himself and the sniper. Another “whump” sounded and smoke geysered up from the second grenade that Pol had launched. Gadgets swerved as if he planned on running behind this screen also. At the last second, he veered again, plunging into the smoke. The logical thing to do was make another sudden turn and emerge in an unexpected direction. But when you’re being chased by bullets, you get into the mind of the enemy and outsmart them. He plunged straight ahead, taking the shortest possible route to the sniper’s position.
Again the rifles ripped. The bullets were missing the mark and Gadgets was getting closer to his goal. On the dead run he realized there was more than one gunner. He was in a cross fire. Already he was at an awkward angle for the sniper and his backup posted on the new building. However, the gunner on the men’s gymnasium had a clear field and was snapping a line of hot lead at Gadgets.
Lyons had one eye to the scope and the other open, giving himself a wider field of vision. He saw the muzzle-flash when the automatic rifle opened up. He swung the scope across. He was set to squeeze off his shot when his prey ducked to change clips. He swore and waited impatiently for the head to reappear. While he waited, Babette dashed into the trailer. As quickly as she came, she left.
When Babette had seen Petra Dix take off to get her news shots, she had decided it was as good a time as any to arm herself. She had made a mad sprint for the trailer, diving inside. No fire had been directed at her — Blancanales and Schwarz were taking the heat. Babette grabbed an Ingram, checking to make sure she had a full clip of regular ammunition. She also picked up two squealers fitted with strong magnets. Then she took off after Petra Dix.
She quickly caught up with the news reporter, who was in poor shape and was not used to running with twenty-five pounds of equipment. She halted the puffing reporter by reaching out, placing one hand on each side of the portapak’s take-up chamber, and stopping.
“What the hell,” Dix exclaimed.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Babette said.
“That’s none of your goddamn business. I’ve got a story to cover.”
Babette shrugged and let her go. She then started a weaving run, following Gadgets into the sniper’s nest.
Pol saw the gunner on the roof of the men’s gymnasium. He sent a burst of tumblers in that direction. The .223-caliber bullets came close enough to upend the rifleman. Pol veered, keeping the combo gun pointed toward the roof as he closed in.
The stairs were a killer, but Gadgets was not about to risk the elevator. It was too easy for the bastards to have someone waiting to hose the cage as soon as the doors started to open. He knew he was up against top-notch pros.
The Able Team fighter’s breath was coming hard, choppy. His calves, knees, thighs, were protesting the upstairs sprint. But he burst onto the large roof area without waiting to catch his breath. Every second was crucial. Every second could tell the difference between living and dying.
There was no one in sight. An old Stoner M63A1 lay near the edge of the roof. Beside it lay a couple of banana clips. Gadgets looked around, wary of a trap. There was nowhere for an ambusher to hide except inside one of the sealed windows.
Gadgets slowly walked backward, trying to watch all of the windows. The glass reflected sky. He could not see in. None of the windows had been broken. He reached the M63A1 and picked it up, keeping his eyes peeled on the building. The weapon was still warm.
Slipping the Beretta back into leather, he ejected the clip from the Stoner. It was empty. One of the other clips was also empty. The other was full.
It had been a skillful retreat. If Gadgets had found nothing on the roof, he would have rushed to overtake the gunman. With the weapon planted there, he had wasted valuable time sniffing for a trap. He slapped home the full clip and went to find the sniper’s former position. He already had a damn good idea what he’d find there. He stared at the abandoned military model of the Remington 700, equipped with telescopic sight. He swore. The gunners had escaped. Alive.
Gadgets, sparked by a sound, turned quickly, and saw Babette covering him with an Ingram.
“Got away,” he said in disgust. “The bastards got away. Thanks for the backup.”
She nodded, but said nothing. Together they caught the elevator.
Gadgets and Babette walked out of the building. They were immediately confronted by the whirring camera toted by Petra Dix. Gadgets made a move to swing one of the weapons into the camera, but was stopped by Babette. He glared at her. She winked back.
Blancanales emerged from the men’s gymnasium and Lyons from the trailer. The group converged in the parking-lot strip, not far from the van where the television cameraman was timidly peeking out.
“No one on the roof when I got there,” Politician said, “but I found this.” He held up a Stoner.
“Welcome to the club,” Gadgets said. “I got the same.”
“Hold the gun higher,” Dix demanded.
The entire group turned toward the pushy reporter. Anger was apparent on their faces.
Lyons reacted with the anger he felt. He brought the Champlin up sharply. The rifle barrel knocked the lens from the camera. Dix dropped the camera.
“You son of a bitch,” she screamed at Lyons.
Lyons ignored her screechy protests. His blue eyes fastened on her brown eyes. No tenderness passed between them.
“You were at the airport,” Lyons fired, “and someone tried to shoot us. Now you show up here and we’re shot at again. I want to know why.”
Dix appeared more indignant than frightened. Gadgets saw her sneak a look at the portapak on her shoulder. Although the camera was smashed, everything she had recorded would still be on the tape in the heavy pack. Gadgets then noticed why Babette had stopped him from smashing the unit before, and he grinned.
“I have no idea who’s trying to kill you,” Dix retorted.
“No one said you did,” Lyons said. “I’m just trying to put it in your pretty head that you’re bad news. Bad luck. So why don’t you pedal your ass out of here and stay away from now on.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Dix asked.
“I’m temporarily in charge of Olympic security,” Lyons replied.
“And as his assistant,” Pol said, “I’d like to know how you found us here in the first place.”
Facing the head of Olympic security and his assistant — perhaps assistants — Petra Dix was losing a little bit of her practiced cool. She was beginning to think that pedaling herself out of there might be the best idea the security head had had. She surrendered a few trade secrets.
“We intercepted police broadcasts. We were too late to see any of the shooting, but when I saw the body count, I just figured you guys were around. We drove around campus until we finally found you. I, ah, I set up a little trap to get you on tape, but she spoiled it.” Dix pointed an accusing finger at Babette.
Babette laughed. “You must have forgotten that you used that same trick on me last year. Your act’s wearing thin.”
Having heard her story, Lyons once again excused her from further action. “You really should go now,” he said. “Beat it.”
Dix stole another look at the portapak hanging against her hip. Disdaining to pick up the broken camera, she climbed in beside the cameraman whom Gadgets had dumped between the two parked cars. The other cameraman was still crouched in the back of the van.
Babette walked over to the passenger side of the van and caught the door before Dix could slam it shut. She reached in and removed two objects from the side of the portapak.
“What are you doing?” Dix snarled.
“I stored these there during the fight,” Babette explained. “We may need them again.”
“What are they?”
“Limpet mines. But it turns out we won’t have to blow you up after all.” Babette giggled at her own joke.
“Get me out of here,” Dix demanded. “They’re all crazy.”
The driver needed no further encouragement. The cameraman in the back was warning Dix. “Jesus, Petra, you’re going to get us killed one of these days.”
“Shut up, wimp,” Dix snarled. The door closed. They left rubber on the parking strip.
Lyons raised an eyebrow as Pavlovski returned, juggling two squealers.
“Those two transmitters are designed to be attached magnetically to a car,” Gadgets explained. “Babette put the two strong magnets right by the tape storage on the recorder. I’m afraid the tape Petra Dix was so anxious to get out of here won’t have a thing on it.”
“Too damn bad,” Blancanales said, unable to keep a straight face. “That’s a heartbreaker.”
When the laughter had subsided, Lyons told his partners that he was going to go to Edwards Base to arrange transportation and backup. “We’ve got to move on our plan,” he said.
Lyons handed
his rifle to Politician and headed for the car the FBI had left for him.
“I must get back to my team,” Babette said.
Schwarz volunteered to go with her. He jogged over to the trailer to rid himself of excess weapons and to pick up a radio. He found the borrowed gym bag and loaded it before he set off.
Pol was left to guard the fort.
9
Klaus Boering knew he had the upper hand, but he was not enjoying it. The man in front of him was bumbling, verbally stumbling. He’d break any moment now. All of Boering’s carefully laid groundwork was beginning to bear fruit. But something was making him feel uneasy. Very uneasy.
“You are finished in America,” Boering told Zak Wilson, a lanky black eight-hundred-meter man. “When your stupid amateur committee finds what you’ve done with the money, you’ll be banished from competition. Your name will be shit. You can take money, Zak, for wearing a particular running shoe — giving it your endorsement — but you have to put that money into a fund, put it away until your amateur days are over. You’ve spent it. And they’re going to find out. That nosy reporter will find out, I know it.”
Zak Wilson looked at Boering with contempt. Sure, he had accepted some cash. Most athletes do. Most put it in some hokey trust fund — a little cash pool that they can dive into when their athletic days have ended. But Zak had spent loads of his bread. He had wined, dined, bought antique cars, and spent and spent. Now this blackmailing bastard was threatening him, saying he’d take away Wilson’s amateur status. If he lost that, he’d have nothing. He needed his amateur status to compete in the Olympics, which he planned to use as an international forum for his talent. Once his talent was exposed, he could cash in on it and retire.
Boering continued. “So why suffer? You’ll be welcome in Russia or any Warsaw Pact nation you choose. We’re not so silly there. We don’t worry so much about amateur status. A little spending. We hide such petty crimes. In Russia you’ll be treated with respect. With respect comes reward. Money.”
Wilson shifted uneasily in his chair. He was thinking, churning the situation over and over in his head. Boering hadn’t been a coach for twenty years without learning how to manipulate, push people.
