by Gar Wilson
"Man, you think of everything, Cal," Rambo said with admiration.
"Not quite," the black cop grinned. "I forgot to take a leak before we boarded the chopper."
Using the cutter, Rambo drew a large circle in the glass. As he rapped it with his knuckles, James pulled the handle gently until the round section of the pane popped loose. Separating it from the disc, James flung the glass to the deserted street below.
Reaching through the hole in the window, Rambo turned the latch crank, and the windows revolved to their open position. Gripping the rope, he walked along the wall, then slipped feetfirst into the opening.
James prepared to follow his partner inside when he saw another figure suddenly appear in the hallway within. A man dressed in an Army-surplus field jacket decorated with a Puerto Rican flag and clenched-fist emblems for shoulder patches quickly seized Rambo from behind and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. Then the terrorist slashed a Bowie knife across Rambo's exposed throat. The lips of the wound curled back and blood geysered across the officer's dark-blue uniform and onto the floor. Then Rambo collapsed, the fire gone out of his eyes.
"Son of a bitch," James hissed as he grabbed the rope in both fists. Snapping both legs out to full extension, he swung away from the building, then swung back through the window and launched himself at the terrorist. The killer turned to see the soles of a pair of boots rocketing toward him. Before he could react, James slammed the heels of both feet into the Puerto Rican's face.
The kick sent him hurtling into a wall. The knife fell from his fingers as he slid, falling to one knee. Blood oozed from his crushed nose and pulverized mouth, yet his eyes were blazing with rage.
His face a stern ebony mask of determination, Calvin James unhesitatingly approached his opponent, who suddenly stood upright and reached for a snub-nose revolver in his belt. James hissed a kiai and swung a chok-do kick to the man's forearm. The edge of his boot struck the ulnar nerve and rendered the limb numb with pain. The terrorist's fingers refused to close around the grips of his gun.
James's arm flashed in a cross-body stroke. The side of his hand crashed into the man's throat, delivering a karate chop that caved in his thyroid cartilage and closed off the trachea. The terrorist stumbled and fell, both hands clamped to his ruined throat. He twisted and gurgled for several seconds, then slumped to the floor, dead.
"Hijo de la chingada!" an angry voice snarled.
James looked up to see the shape of another terrorist bolt from the corner of the corridor. He began to unsling the M-16, but the other man closed in too fast. The blur of a rifle stock whirled at James's face. The SWAT pro tried to duck. Walnut smacked into his cheekbone hard. Pain shot through his skull and the hallway turned into a spinning maze of color.
Calvin James found himself on the tile floor. A boot sent his M-16 sliding beyond arm's reach. A sinister figure hovered over him. A bearded face, capped by a brown beret with a yellow star insignia, glared down at him.
"Negro cochino," the terrorist rasped as he pointed a lever action .30-.30 Winchester at his chest.
5
The gunman's head abruptly snapped forward. Calvin James heard the harsh metallic cough of a silenced pistol and watched the terrorist's face explode. Blood and brains spat from a cavity where the Puerto Rican's nose had been a moment before. The deer rifle fell from his grasp. A second later, his corpse collapsed on top of it.
Two men stood at the end of the corridor. They were dressed like a pair of sports writers. The taller of the two wore a wrinkled brown jacket and a black turtleneck shirt with a cloth cap pulled over his forehead. His shorter, muscular companion was clad in a green jacket, checkered shirt and a black wool cap.
Both men also wore skintight rubber gloves, dark mustaches and eyeglasses with tinted lenses. Their wardrobe served as an effective disguise. James realized if he was asked to identify either man, he would only be able to make a general description of height and build.
The most impressive feature about them was their arsenal. The tall guy in the brown jacket held a 9mm Browning Hi-Power in a two-handed Weaver combat grip. A ribbon of smoke curled from the muzzle of a ten-inch suppressor attached to the muzzle of the pistol. There was little doubt who had shot the terrorist in the back of the skull.
In addition to the Browning, the guy in brown also had an Ingram M-10 machine pistol hanging by a long sling next to his right hip. The Ingram was also equipped with a black Sionics suppressor.
The dude in green, resembling a lumberjack, looked equally formidable. He held a Heckler & Koch MP5 SD3 machine carbine in his big hands. The sliding stock was fully extended and the foot-long sound suppressor fixed to its muzzle. The guy also carried a backpack strapped to his brawny shoulders.
"Bloody hell," the man in brown growled, revealing a British accent. "The bastards killed his partner."
"We got here as soon as we could," the other sighed. "Are you all right, Sergeant James?"
"Yeah," the cop replied, rubbing his bruised cheek. "Thanks to you two."
"Tough bloke," the tall Englishman in brown commented. "A butt-stroke like that would have knocked most men out cold."
"Hey," James began, scrambling to his feet. "Who the hell are you dudes?"
"For now you can just call us Mr. Green and Mr. Brown," the Briton replied.
"Uh-huh," James said dryly. "I guess I tell you apart by the color of your jackets. Right?"
"You guessed it," the man in green nodded.
"Cute," the SWAT sergeant remarked. "Well, if you won't tell me who you are, maybe you'll explain how you know who I am and what you're doing in here."
"We'll discuss that later," the Briton told him. "Right now we'd better take care of the rest of these terrorists."
"HI radio my unit commander..." James began.
"The hell you will," Mr. Brown snapped. "We don't need them mucking about when we've got a job to do."
"The San Francisco SWAT team is damn good," Mr. Green added, trying to soften his partner's sharp remarks. "But they're still policemen and that means they're restricted in certain ways that we're not."
"Goddammit," James said angrily. "Who the hell are you guys?"
"A couple of chaps who managed to enter this building despite the police blockade, terrorist sentries and explosives rigged to the doors," Mr. Brown said. "Now, if you don't think we know what we're doing, please say so."
"Okay," said James reluctantly. "Let's hear your plan."
"Just get your rifle and follow us," Mr. Green replied. "You'll know what to do."
Before James could argue, Brown and Green turned and headed down the corridor. The black cop cursed under his breath and followed them to a door at the end of the hall. Then James noticed the corpse of another ALPR goon slumped in a corner. A deep gash had been delivered to his neck. The terrorist had a terminal case of ring around the collar... in blood.
"What did you do?" James whispered. "Cut his throat with a straight razor?"
"Wire garrote," Mr. Green answered simply.
"Jesus," James rasped. "How many of these guys have you killed?"
"Don't worry," Mr. Brown replied as he unslung the Ingram from his shoulder. "There's still a whole roomful of terrorists left."
"And you want to take them on without any backup?" James clucked his tongue with disgust. "What is this grand-slam-for-glory shit?"
"Look," Brown hissed. "We don't have time to argue. A lot of lives are in danger."
"Including our own," James muttered.
Mr. Green ignored the debate. The muscular man with the poker face slipped off his backpack, opened it and extracted an odd weapon that resembled a bulky pellet pistol. Green handed the gun to Brown.
"What's that?" James asked.
"A Bio-Inoculator," Green replied, taking an identical pistol from the pack. "It's usually used to tranquilize large game animals."
Mr. Brown eased the door open: it led to a flight of fire stairs. The Briton held the Ingram in his left fist and the B
-I pistol in his right as he moved to the steps. Green followed. James brought up the rear, his M-16 ready.
Halfway down the stairs, Brown spotted an ALPR sentry armed with a Winchester riot gun in a corridor below. The guard gasped in surprise and worked the pump to chamber a shotshell. The Englishman snap-aimed and triggered his B-I pistol.
The tranquilizer dart hissed as it shot from the muzzle of the Bio-Inoculator. The sentry staggered from the impact of a steel hypodart in the upper torso. Green immediately fired another dart into his chest. The sentry dropped his shotgun and collapsed with a choking groan.
"What drug did you use?" James whispered.
"Thorazine," Green replied. "One hundred fifty milligrams in each dart."
"That's three hundred total," James whistled. "Dude's gonna be feeling pretty sick when he comes around. Probably suffer from jaundice. Maybe dyspnea and dyskinesia as well."
"Glad to see you've kept up with your biochemistry," Green remarked.
James started. How the hell did these guys know he had studied biochemistry? But he didn't ask, knowing they probably wouldn't tell him anyhow.
Brown descended the stairs and hastily scanned the corridor. He waved to the others to join him. "No more sentries," he whispered. He dragged the unconscious terrorist to a corner and pulled two plastic riot cuffs from a pocket. "We've been lucky. Haven't had to make much noise so far."
"That'll end pretty soon," Green declared. "The main objective is just around the corner."
"You mean that's where they're holding the hostages?" asked James as Brown bound the sentry's wrists and ankles. "How do you know that? Or is that another secret?"
"We peeked through a window with an infrared imaging telescope," Green said. 'The terrorists have herded the prisoners to the west wing and they're holding them in an office section. Two sentries are guarding the captives with Thompson submachine guns. There are more terrorists in the section, but we'll have to take care of those two first."
"I just hope none of your SWAT sharpshooters blast us when we enter the room," Brown commented. "I'm sure your people have riflemen trained on the terrorists at the windows."
"That's right," James admitted. "Figured we'd probably have to take them out fast when we launched a siege on the place."
"Not a bad idea," Green agreed. "Except the other terrorists in the section would still slaughter the hostages."
"We're here now," James remarked. "I guess we're going to handle the siege ourselves. Maybe I should tell my commander and have him order the SWAT snipers to hold their fire."
"What do you think, Mr. Brown?" Green asked.
"Calvin James here seems to trust us," the Briton replied. "Let's see if we can trust him as well."
"Okay," Green said, nodding to James. "Go ahead."
The SWAT sergeant removed his walkie-talkie and pressed the transmit button. "Captain?" he spoke into the radio. "This is Cal."
"Read you, Cal," came the SWAT commander's voice. "We were getting worried about you guys."
"Rambo bought the farm. He's dead. But so are some of the ALPR terrorists.''
"Jesus," Reed's voice rasped. "What the hell is going on in there?"
"I've got some help. We're about to hit the main office section to rescue the hostages."
"What? Who's in there with you?"
"Never mind," James insisted. "Just tell the marksmen to hold their fire."
"Cal, have you flipped your Afro?"
"Gotta go. Captain," James said quickly. Then he switched off the talkie. "Let's do it."
* * *
Mr. Green opened his backpack and retrieved three black metal tubes, each less than a foot long, each with a dial attached to one end. To James the objects resembled sophisticated pipe bombs with egg timers welded to the metal.
"These are stun grenades," Green explained, as he and Brown returned their B-I pistols to the pack. "I designed these for situations like this, where high explosives might injure innocent bystanders. They're better than the Schermullys."
"When we blow the doors," Brown instructed, unscrewing the sound suppressor from his Ingram, "I'll take care of the watchdogs guarding the hostages, you chaps concentrate on the rest of the bastards and cover my arse. Agreed?"
"I'm going to have a hell of a time trying to explain this mess," James muttered as he unslung his M-16 and flicked the selector switch to semiauto.
Green moved to the corner and peered around the edge, exposing only one eye. There were a pair of glass doors at the end of the next corridor. Beyond that the demolitions expert could see only some desks topped by IBM typewriters and computer consoles, and a row of filing cabinets along the wall. Against the end cabinet leaned an ALPR terrorist, a pump shotgun held loosely in his fist.
The man in the green jacket slipped two stun grenades into pockets inside his coat and unslung his H&K machine carbine. He calmly set the timer to the third stun grenade and watched the dial tick toward zero. Then he nodded and tossed the tube at the doors.
There was a huge flash followed by a clap of thunder that reverberated within the corridor. James expected the walls to tumble from the explosion, but they did not. Green and Brown immediately dashed for the door; James followed.
In fact, the explosion had merely shattered the glass doors and rattled the occupants within the office. Before they could respond to the surprise attack, Brown leaped through the ragged entrance and snap-aimed his Ingram at the two ALPR flunkies guarding the hostages.
Swift and ruthless, the Briton opened fire, blasting 3-round bursts at the heads of two terrorist sentries. Their skulls popped like blood-filled balloons. Both were dead before either had time to squeeze a trigger.
"Down, goddammit!" the Briton shouted at several hostages who had been too startled to duck. Most of the captives were already hugging the floor.
Green entered immediately behind Brown, his H&K aimed at the gunmen at the opposite end of the office section. Their attention was still locked on the bold Briton who had plunged into the room like a machine-gun-toting Errol Flynn. The H&K chattered a furious volley of jacketed 9mm slugs that smashed into the chests of three ALPR thugs. Kicked backward by the force of the high-velocity missiles, they fell against office furniture and tumbled gracelessly to the floor.
At the doorway, Calvin James watched the Puerto Rican killers crumble under the relentless gunfire. Whoever Brown and Green might be, they were superb combat professionals. The pair operated with cool efficiency, daring nerve and flawless teamwork.
There was no time to further admire the skills of his mysterious partners: a head with a brown beret popped up behind a desk, then shoulders appeared as a terrorist raised a Mini-14 rifle.
James used the doorway for a barricade support and braced the barrel of his M-16 against the jamb. Just like basic combat training in marksmanship, he thought as he squeezed the trigger. A 5.56mm bullet pierced the terrorist's forehead. The ALPR goon slumped behind the desk and his Mini-14 clattered to the floor.
Green and Brown continued to display their survival expertise. The pair had scrambled to cover behind a couple of large metal desks: the terrorists did likewise, and recklessly fired in the general direction of the two warriors. Bullets punched through steel, seeking living beings. Brown and Green conserved ammunition, waiting for a clear target to appear.
James flicked the M-16 selector to full auto and loosed a burst of 5.56mm rounds at the fanatics. The terrorists cried out in fear and ducked as bullets ricocheted against metal, kicking jagged splinters in all directions. Two ALPR members screamed when projectiles found flesh. James dashed to the closest desk and crouched behind it.
"Bloody good, Calvin," the Briton declared with a wolfish grin. "Now be ready. The bastards are going to jump us any second."
James was puzzled by Brown's remark until he glanced over at Green. The demolitions expert had drawn another modified stun grenade from his jacket. He set the timer and hurled the tube at the terrorists' position.
Two seconds
later came another stunning but harmless blast. The mangled corpse of an ALPR terrorist was thrown over a desk. Other gunmen panicked and bolted from cover. Brown and James were ready for them. The Ingram and M-16 chattered twin streams of full-auto destruction. Bodies tumbled into desks and dropped in the aisles.
Three ALPR members darted for a door leading to another room. One of them pointed a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun at the raiders. A salvo from Brown's Ingram threw the gunman backward into his two comrades, riddling his chest with bullet holes.
"Cristo!" a Puerto Rican exclaimed. "Don't shoot no more, man!"
The remaining two terrorists threw down their weapons and raised empty hands in surrender.
"Face the wall," James ordered. "Spread-eagle. You guys know the routine."
"Watch it," Green warned. "These aren't just a couple punks who tried to stick up a liquor store."
"I'm not going to shoot down unarmed men," James declared as he approached the surrendered terrorists.
"Bloody policeman mentality,'' the Briton growled to his partner. "Better cover him, Gary."
Calvin James held his M-16 ready as he drew closer to the terrorists. They stood with their hands against the wall, their legs spread wide. James suddenly noticed a movement from the corner of his eye. He turned sharply to see an ALPR killer emerge from the shelter of a desk with an Army Colt .45 Auto in his fists.
The gunman had the drop on James. He had him cold as a corpse in a glacier. James knew he could not move his M-16 fast enough to aim and fire before the terrorist pulled the trigger of his Colt. Yet, the SWAT officer had no other choice: better to die like a ram than like a sheep. He whirled desperately to face his assailant, hoping to take the killer with him to the grave.
The terrorist's face suddenly became a mass of crimson pulp as a trio of 9mm slugs slammed into the side of his head. His skull burst, splattering brains over the keyboard of a word processor.
"Bastardo!" a Puerto Rican snarled.
James turned to see one of the terrorists no longer against the wall. The ALPR fanatic glared at the police sergeant as he dragged a .380 caliber Beretta backup automatic from his belt.