Made, damn it, Lyons realized, hurtling to one side as the subgun crackled.
A line of slugs slammed into the dirt where Lyons had been standing. He hit the ground in a powered shoulder roll, the shotgun flying from his hands. He clawed for the holstered Python as he came out of the dive, bracing himself on one knee and leveling the big handgun. His finger pulled back on the trigger and sent a .357 Magnum slug at the SUV. He saw it punch a hole in the rear side panel as the SUV’s engine roared, the heavy vehicle sliding briefly out of control as the driver pushed hard on the pedal, feeding more power to the big engine. The driver hauled on the wheel, bringing the SUV around in a sliding turn, the wide tires kicking up dirt.
The shooter leaned out farther and tracked Lyons with the subgun as the SUV began to pull away.
Ignoring the threat of the weapon, Lyons two-fisted the Colt and triggered a pair of fast shots. The handgun muzzle jerked as it expended the twin slugs. The shooter turned half-around as Lyons’s shots slammed into his left shoulder. Blood squirted from the exit holes and the guy’s arm lost its strength. He let go of the subgun as he slumped partway back inside the vehicle.
Back on his feet, Lyons ran forward and snatched up the dropped weapon as the SUV powered forward, heading back the way it had come. It burned rubber, bouncing over the stone edging of the frontage as the driver briefly lost control. Tires squealed as the Escalade barreled down toward the road.
Lyons ran for the parked SUV and dragged open the driver’s door. He saw the key in the ignition. Tossing the subgun onto the passenger seat, he dropped onto the driver’s seat, hit the start button and felt the effortless power of the engine rise. He freed the brake, yanked the lever into Drive and stepped on the gas pedal. The surge of acceleration shoved Lyons back in his seat as he took off after the Chinese crew, leaving behind tire scores in the dirt.
The blue SUV was hurtling ahead at full speed, despite the narrow single-strip rural road. Lyons managed to haul the seat belt around him and snap it into place as he pushed his own vehicle to even higher speed.
Lyons could imagine what his partners would have been saying to him, making sarcastic comments about his reckless and life-threatening driving.
“You think?” Lyons said out loud. “Well, if I put my foot down, that sucker isn’t going to lose me. What are you? Old ladies?” The sarcasm in his voice would have passed over Schwarz’s and Blancanales’s heads.
Ahead of him the Escalade swayed dangerously as the driver took it around a bend without reducing speed. It leaned over and for a moment it seemed on the verge of toppling. It didn’t, finally regaining its forward motion on all four wheels.
Lyons didn’t relent and pushed down harder on his own pedal and the SUV gained, coming to within ten feet of the first Escalade. He felt the wind gust inside as he powered down his window, leaning out with the subgun aimed at the rear of the other vehicle.
The rural road could have been in better condition. Lyons was attempting to keep the SUV on track despite the ruts and potholes. The SUV might have had large, wide-gauge tires, but even they reacted when they hit a damaged section of road.
The other driver must have become aware of Lyons’s weapon. He began to swing the Escalade from side to side to make it hard for Lyons to take his shot.
Lyons’s patience began to ebb. He leaned way out of the window, steering one-handed as he attempted to track the other SUV. He wanted to hit one of the rear tires.
When he fired, the short burst hit the side panel above the wheel arch, puncturing the metal but not the tire. Seeing the problem, Lyons swung the SUV to the extreme edge of the road, feeling the wheels hit the spongy grass verge. Moving out from a direct line to the rear allowed him a better view of the rear wheel. Lyons fired a second and then a third burst. He made his hit, the twin blasts tearing into the rubber, and the tire disintegrated with a hard sound.
The effect on the speeding SUV was instantaneous. It began to veer from side to side, fishtailing as the exposed rim of the wheel came into contact with the road, scraping at the ground. Lyons heard the crack of loose clay chunks hitting the front of the SUV. He eased off the gas pedal and allowed the SUV to fall back as the Escalade, still moving at high speed, swerved back and forth across the road, tearing up grass and soil from the edges of the strip.
“Crazy guy is still trying to stay ahead,” Lyons said. “If he doesn’t slow down he’s going to—”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the Escalade lurched sideways. The driver swung the wheel in an effort to compensate but he was too late. The tilt took the SUV beyond its center of gravity and the vehicle flipped over. For a few seconds all four wheels were in the air. Then the SUV went over on its passenger side. It came back down with a heavy thump, metal screeching and glass shattering as it slid along the road. Loose debris flew free. When it came to a stop, steam was blowing from a fractured cooling system. The engine raced for a few long seconds and then cut out. The tailgate door, sprained from the impact, sprang open and deposited its cargo. Weapons and ammunition cases were dumped onto the road.
Lyons hit the SUV’s brake and brought his vehicle to a crawl yards behind the crippled Escalade.
The Able Team leader was out of the vehicle while it was still moving, bringing the subgun with him. He had eyeballed the driver and saw him manhandling his door upward, pushing his way from the frame. The Chinese had a subgun in his hands. Blood streamed down his face from a deep gash to his forehead, but he still made an attempt to confront Lyons. The weapon crackled as the guy targeted the American. His aim was off as he blinked at the blood streaming into his eyes.
Lyons didn’t give him a second chance. He tracked in with the subgun and triggered a burst that ripped into the man, punching bloody holes in his body from chest to throat. Lyons triggered a second, shorter burst and saw a big wedge of skull and hair fly free. The guy flopped back against the door frame, arms waving loosely as he slid back inside the vehicle.
Lyons dropped the subgun and fisted his Python, dropping to a crouch as he skirted around the Escalade. Peering through the windshield, he saw that the passenger had not survived the crash. But there was still the guy in the rear. Lyons continued to the tailgate, and through the partly open door, he could see the hunched figure of the man as he worked himself into a better position. Light slid along the metal of the handgun the guy was wielding, turning his body right and left as he searched for his opponent. Lyons caught some muttered exclamations in a language that was definitely not English.
A shot came from inside the Escalade. The slug came close to Lyons and he pulled to the right so his body was concealed by the overturned vehicle.
The Chinese guy yelled out loud, more out of frustration than bravado. He fired off a couple more shots.
Lyons leaned forward and triggered his remaining shots in through the rear of the SUV. Then he backed away again to pull a speed loader from his pouch. He ejected the empty shell casings and quickly reloaded. With six more .357 Magnum bullets in the cylinder, Lyons felt a sight more reassured.
From inside the overturned SUV, Lyons picked up subdued sounds as the surviving Chinese worked his way through from the rear seat and out to the gaping tailgate door. He pushed aside spilled goods, and Lyons saw his head and shoulders move into sight. Lyons angled his Python and covered the guy as more of his body emerged. The Chinese was still clutching his handgun. Lyons recognized it as a Beretta 92FS.
He stepped forward and slammed his foot down on the guy’s gun hand, ignoring the pained protest as it was pinned to the road. Lyons jammed his Python’s muzzle against the guy’s skull.
“I hope you understand English, because I don’t have time to conjure up Mandarin or Cantonese. Just let go of the gun and come out where I can see your hands.”
The man obeyed, dropped the autopistol and crawled out of the SUV. He climbed to his feet and locked his
hands behind his head. He was small and whip-lean, his black hair matted with blood from a scalp wound.
“Go to my vehicle and spread your hands on the hood. Legs apart,” Lyons ordered.
He picked up the gun the guy had dropped and tucked it behind him in his own belt. Lyons kept his Python pressed against the guy as he gave him a hand search. He did it quickly and efficiently. It was a leftover from his days as a cop, something trained into him that never left. Satisfied the guy was clean, Lyons ordered him to lie facedown on the ground with his hand on the back of his head. Lyons placed a booted foot against the guy’s spine to let him know he was still around.
Lyons took out his phone and called the Farm. Contacting Price, he laid out what had just happened and requested backup.
“I’d hazard a guess you might have tied up this end of the deal,” the mission controller said. “I’ll get help out to you.”
“I’ll be waiting with my surviving prisoner,” Lyons said. “There’s a cargo of weapons in this SUV I want to check out.” There was an empty moment before Lyons said, “Too early for word from the hospital?”
“All we know is Jack got Gadgets straight to the emergency department. Nothing else yet. I will call you the minute I have anything.”
“Yeah.”
Lyons put the phone away. He urged the captive Chinese hardman to his feet. “So, just the two of us,” he said.
He used a foot to push aside the ordnance that had spilled from the Escalade. Handguns, subguns. Filled magazines. There were also a half dozen tubular objects Lyons recognized as LAW rocket launchers. The most interesting find was a bundle of US Air Force uniforms. Pants, jackets and shirts. Even caps. Lyons stared at the stuff.
Uniforms?
That intrigued him and the only way he saw it was as cover to get people up to, or inside...then it came to him. They wanted to get to Zero Command, engineer a strike that would put the control center out of action while Chan and his crew worked on Saul Kaplan for data that would enable them to compromise the orbiting platform. The cache of weapons and clothing was being delivered to the farmhouse for distribution to the waiting team.
“Son of a bitch,” Lyons swore. “You had this all worked out. Sorry, fella. Good try, but no cigar.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Joshua Riba went EVA a mile from Saul Kaplan’s lodge, hiding his SUV in the deep undergrowth and making his way through the forested terrain on foot, without a sound to betray his presence. This was the second time he had visited the remote habitation, and, like the first excursion, it had to do with Kaplan and Zero. Claire Valens’s call had alerted Riba to Kaplan’s disappearance. He had a deal of respect for Kaplan. The man had devoted himself to creating the orbiting platform and to ensuring Doug Buchanan’s survival.
After talking to Valens, Riba had made his decision to check out Kaplan’s lodge on a hunch. There were no guarantees he would learn anything, but to ignore the possibility would not have settled well with Riba. He made his living as a PI. One of the embedded rules in his profession was to follow any instincts, and Riba was, if nothing else, a stickler for following his hunches. When Riba took on a client and the subsequent investigation, it was his tenacious attitude that allowed him to succeed. Riba didn’t like to lose. His native skills, honed by years of practice and backed by his persistent character, were the reasons he had made his chosen business a success.
His six-foot-four form, clad in black from head to foot, moved effortlessly through the timbered landscape. He pulled out the handgun he carried and checked the loads. The Colt Peacemaker, a single-action .45-caliber revolver, was his weapon of choice; in Riba’s hand it was a formidable weapon. In addition to the gun, he had a double-edged bone-handled knife in a sheath sewn inside one of his Western boots. It was more of a backup than an upfront weapon.
Riba was no throwback to the earlier era. He favored the electronic accessories available; his home office was equipped with a cutting-edge computer setup and he carried an Apple phone that had all the downloads available. That said, Riba could not be beaten when it came to tracking and picking up signs. That was part of his Apache heritage, trained into him by his grandfather back when he was a boy and living on the New Mexico reservation. He was at home in the forest. He merged with it, his very presence as one with his natural environment. Sight and sound and smell. They all allowed Riba to pass through unnoticed.
When he was near enough to observe, Riba became still. Scanning the way ahead as he concealed himself in the shadows, Riba studied the lodge. There was a high-end SUV parked close to the lodge and a single man loitering beside the vehicle. The guy was carrying a 9 mm Uzi subgun, capable of 600 rpm and with a range of approximately 200 meters. Whoever he was, the guy didn’t look like a park ranger or a casual visitor.
Leaning in, Riba made out figures inside the lodge, behind the large main window.
Time to move, he decided.
He curved around the trees and emerged on one side of the parked SUV. Riba crouch-walked the length of the vehicle, coming up behind the sentry. The first thing the guy knew of a presence was when the cold muzzle of the Colt pressed into the back of his neck.
“Two ways this can go,” Riba stated. “One way, I get my answers. Second way, I put a big, fat .45 lead slug in the back of your skull. I’ll let you decide how you want this to play out.”
Riba reached around and took the Uzi from the man’s unresisting hand.
“Shouldn’t wave something like this around. Could have a nasty accident with it. Now, made your choice?” The guy gave a short nod. “So tell me. What are you people doing here at my friend’s home?”
“We were contracted to check the lodge. Looking for specific information that might be stored in the place.”
“What information?”
“Look, Mace and Remy are the lead guys. I’m just the wheelman. I drive, they search.”
“Lean against the vehicle,” Riba directed. “Hands behind you.”
The man did as ordered and Riba secured his wrists with one of the plastic ties he carried. He repeated the move with the ankles and made the guy lie down. Riba pulled a folded neckerchief from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and used it to gag the man.
“Damn shame to have to waste a good neckerchief.”
Riba holstered the Colt, checked the Uzi, then eased to the front of the SUV where he could scan the lodge. From his previous visit he remembered a rear door that led into the kitchen. If he entered by that, it would give him a slight advantage. He ducked low and ran for the side of the lodge, staying below the windowsills and moving quickly along the timbered wall to the lodge’s rear.
The kitchen door was partway open.
And it was blocked by a sprawled body, the upper torso hanging over the steps.
It was an elderly man in work clothes. Blood had drained from the wide gash in his throat, dripping down the steps to make a congealed pool on the crushed gravel below. Riba saw one limp hand, the flesh grainy and liver-spotted. He checked for a pulse and was not surprised to find nothing.
Someone who had just got in the way. Most likely a local handyman Kaplan employed to look after the place when he wasn’t around.
Riba pushed away the anger threatening to rise. He needed to be in control as he moved into the lodge.
He stepped up to the door, flat against the wall. Peering through the angled glass panel, he saw through the kitchen and into the main room, where two figures were quietly ransacking the place, pulling books off shelves and checking behind hung pictures. The floor was already littered with abandoned items.
Riba pushed the door wide, carefully stepping over the body, and moved inside, padding across the smooth timber floor until he was close to the open arch leading into the main room. As he moved on by the kitchen table, he made the decision to discard the Uzi and use his hand
gun. He didn’t need a weapon that sprayed bullets in all directions. A close-up revolver was the tool for this work. He gently laid the subgun aside but kept it close in case he needed it. Riba drew his Colt, dogging back the hammer.
“I’d guess if you haven’t found anything by now there isn’t anything to find,” Riba said as he stood framed in the archway.
The pair froze for an instant then turned in unison, snatching for the weapons they carried.
It was a foolish move, driven by a mix of anger and desperation. For Riba it was expected; he had met this kind of reaction before. Some men were too stubborn to quit even when the odds were against them, especially professional criminals who always worked on the assumption they had the edge. It bordered on arrogance, but there was also a touch of vanity there.
Riba saw mat-black autopistols being snatched from belt holsters under their jackets, muzzles tracking in fast. He had to give them that—they had reacted without hesitation.
In the moment he assessed the opposition, Riba locked onto the one guy a fraction faster than his partner. The Colt was already on line, the big muzzle steady as he squeezed the fine trigger. The solid .45-caliber slug emerged in a spout of flame and smoke. It struck the guy in his chest, coring through to inflict heavy damage as the soft lead slug spread on impact. The guy stumbled back with a pained grunt, all thoughts of resistance dissolving as the shock numbed him.
In his peripheral vision Riba saw the second guy gripping his pistol in both hands and knew he had brief moments to avoid the shot. He was already easing back the hammer as he stepped to the side and dropped to one knee. He heard the 9 mm snap off a shot. It went over his head as Riba brought his revolver around, located his target and fired. The slug took a chunk of flesh and muscle from the guy’s right shoulder. The surge of pain took over and the guy felt the power in his gun hand slip away, even as he tried to pull it back on target. Riba had dogged back the hammer again and put a second slug into the guy, the lead slug catching him in the side of his head as he turned away. It opened a ragged and bloody wound as it tore through, emerging on the other side. Blood and bone and brain matter blew out as the guy tumbled to the floor.
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