Revolution Device

by Don Pendleton

  Once things started, Schwarz guessed the hit would move quickly. That was fine with him. Like Lyons, he wanted to locate Blancanales before it was too late.

  Castillo was their best chance for getting the information they needed, which meant they’d burn down every one of Castillo’s thugs to talk with him.

  Lyons’s voice buzzed in Schwarz’s earpiece. “You in position?”

  “Roger that,” Schwarz said. “Just waiting for the official okey-dokey.”

  “Do it.”

  Schwarz eased his body out from behind the cactus, brought the M-4 to his shoulder and pulled the launcher’s trigger. The round arced up and over the fence before it fell back to earth, thudding against the ground next to a dark green SUV. An explosion rent the air. Orange-yellow flames lashed out at the vehicle’s underside, igniting a second explosion. Fire tore through the SUV’s interior even as the vehicle was thrust into the air, where it seemed to hover for a heartbeat before it crashed down again, its grille shattering, its steel hood crumpling against the concrete. The nearest guard sprinted away from the blast, putting a couple of yards between him and the mayhem before the concussive force from the explosion hit him in the back and shoved him to the ground.

  At the same time Schwarz was tracking the guard on the ATV. The guard threw the vehicle into a sharp turn until he was facing the burning wreckage. His mouth gaping open, he slid his fingers into his jacket, probably looking for some hardware or a two-way radio. Having already lined up a shot, Schwarz squeezed the M-4’s trigger, unleashing a punishing burst from the compact rifle. A ragged line of bullets tore across the guy’s chest. He jerked in place under the withering fire for a stretched second before falling from the ATV’s seat.

  Schwarz heard the growl of an engine to his left. He turned his head toward the sound and spotted Lyons’s ATV rumbling toward the gate.

  A hardman burst from the guard shack. The SMG he clutched was rattling out a sustained burst. Bullets slammed into the gravel driveway leading up to the gate, kicking up a half dozen geysers of dirt and stone fragments.

  Navigating his vehicle with one hand, Lyons fired his M-4 with the other. The weapon was spewing a storm of 5.56 mm slugs that tore into the torso of Lyons’s opponent. The guard’s SMG suddenly fell silent and he stumbled backward until he bumped against the shack.

  As he climbed to his feet, Schwarz watched as Lyons continued to guide the ATV toward the gate. Schwarz moved from his cover and, running in a crouch, moved toward the gate. He could see Lyons climbing off the ATV. Schwarz guessed his comrade was going to search the dead thug for a key card or some other way to unlock the gate. If nothing else, they could climb into the parked SUV and slam it into the gate, Schwarz thought.

  By the time he reached the gate, Schwarz saw Lyons swipe a card through a reader. With a jerk, the barrier began to roll open. Lyons went through it while Schwarz covered him.

  From their current position, they were diagonal to the house, maybe one hundred yards or so away. Four more hardmen had exited the house. Two of the men were walking several yards apart from one another, each cradling a submachine gun. Jagged flames spit from the muzzles of the weapons as the gunners tried to take Lyons down with an unrelenting onslaught of autofire

  The other two hardmen were hanging back. One of the thugs had crouched alongside an exterior wall of the house and was snapping off a couple of quick bursts from an M-16-style assault rifle. From what Schwarz could guess, he was trying to provide cover fire for the other two guards who were making their way toward Lyons. The fourth gunner, an MP-5 held against his hip, was sweeping the weapon’s muzzle in the direction of where Schwarz had been crouched moments ago.

  Schwarz had loaded a fragmentation round into the launcher. He aimed the weapon at the guy wielding the H&K and fired. The round pounded into the ground a couple of yards from the advancing gunner and exploded with a sharp crack. The sudden swarm of wire shrapnel chewed into the thug, ripping through clothes and flesh, sending him crashing to the ground in a blood-soaked heap. Schwarz broke open the M-203, thumbed another HE shell into it and snapped it closed.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Lyons hosing down the two gunners who’d been marching toward him. As they folded to the ground, Lyons started moving again. Another shooter emerged from behind the house carrying a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Raising the launcher, he set it on his shoulder and was preparing to fire it. Lyons’s M-4 rattled out a sustained burst that cut the man down just before he could fire the RPG’s deadly payload.

  As they closed in on the front of the house, they heard glass shatter. A hand clutching a pistol poked through one of the first-floor windows and the owner began firing it. Schwarz doused the window with a concentrated volley of 5.56 mm rippers. The bullets shattered what was left of the windowpanes and frame, shredded curtains and chewed into the house’s exterior. The arm hung limp from the window, fingers curled; the pistol lay on the front porch.

  Lyons moved up to the door. He aimed the KAC-870 Masterkey at the door lock and squeezed the trigger. The cut-down version of the Remington 870 roared and a breaching round punched through the lock. The door swung inward and Lyons went through it.

  Lyons tried to size the place up as he moved inside. A large area furnished with a big dining table and hutches with glass doors was located to his left. A wide staircase rose up in front of him. To his right, he caught movement and turned in that direction. He spotted a guy pointing a MAC-10 with a sound suppressor at Lyons. The MAC coughed and a swarm of bullets sliced past his right ear. The former cop’s M-4 churned out a short burst that caught the guy in the face and neck, causing most of his skull and neck to disappear in a red mist.

  Ejecting the magazine, Lyons grabbed another from his web gear and started to slide it loose from the pouch. A pistol cracked behind him and he felt a bullet tug at his sleeve, tearing through the fabric. With fluid movements, he rammed a fresh magazine into the M-4 and wheeled around to see a muscular guy, head covered with a do-rag, moving down the stairs, a smoking gun clutched in his hand.

  Lyons swung his rifle’s muzzle toward his enemy and squeezed the trigger, stitching the man across the chest. Bullets punched through flesh and bone, causing half a dozen red geysers to spring up from his battered body. He wobbled on his feet for a moment before gravity took hold and dragged the big man over the stairway railing. He crashed headfirst into the hardwood floor.

  The Able Team commander moved through the rest of the first floor, but found no other people. He activated his throat mike.

  “Sitrep,” he said.

  “Took down two more chuckleheads outside,” Schwarz said. “I’m coming through the front door.”

  “Sure, now that the hard work’s over.”

  Schwarz came through the door and gave Lyons a thumbs-up signal.

  “There’s no basement,” Lyons said. He nodded at the stairs. “There’s only one way left to go.”

  “Right.”

  Lyons moved up the stairs first, with Schwarz right behind him. When they reached the top of the stairs, a corridor stretched out ahead of them, with doors on either side. Lyons used hand signals to tell Schwarz he was going to clear the rooms on the right, while Schwarz should check the rooms on the left.

  Lyons checked two rooms without finding anything. When he reached the third door, he stood off to one side and listened for a few heartbeats. He heard a floorboard creak on the other side of the door.

  * * *

  WHAT THE HELL had happened? Castillo wondered. Holed up in his upstairs office, he heard the crackle of gunfire outside the house and could tell it was coming closer. Crossing the room, he stood to one side of the window and chanced a look outside. Two of his guards lay sprawled in the dirt, arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles, the dirt beneath them stained with their blood.

  He moved away from the window and with
his thumb speed-dialed Lopez. It rang four times and with each successive ring he felt his throat constrict a little more with fear. If he was gone, Castillo wasn’t sure who he’d called. He didn’t even know the names of his guards, let alone cell numbers or other information, including the one guard stationed in his office with him. They were interchangeable parts as far as he was concerned.

  On the fifth ring, someone answered.

  “Yeah?” Lopez said.

  “What the hell is happening out there?” Castillo asked. The panic in his voice surprised him.

  “They sent commandos after us,” Lopez replied. “They’re chewing through us like a buzz saw. It’s insane.”

  “Kill them,” Castillo yelled. “Quit whining and kill them!”

  “But—”

  Castillo ended the call and stuffed the phone in his pocket. Stripping away his jacket, he tossed it onto the floor and took out his Glock. A shotgun blast from below startled him and prompted him to wheel in the direction of the door. More gunfire rattled inside the house on the first floor.

  “They’ve breached the house, Mr. Castillo,” the guard said.

  “No shit, idiot.”

  The guard jerked his head at the window. “We have a rope ladder,” he said. “We could lower you to the ground, make a run for the limo.”

  “Run for the limo? That’s your advice? Why don’t you just kill me here, moron? It’s at least two hundred yards to the garage. They’d shoot us in the back before we covered half of that.”

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t think...”

  “Focus on the door. If the doorknob moves, shoot the door. If someone opens the door, shoot him. If it’s one of our guys, too bad.”

  “Sure, Mr. Castillo.”

  The shooting downstairs stopped. Castillo gestured for the guard to move closer to the door even as Castillo himself backed away from it. A few seconds later a small red light on the wall blinked. Castillo’s already rapid heartbeat kicked into overdrive. Someone had activated a pressure plate on the stairs.

  His guard shot him a questioning look, making sure he’d seen the light. He acknowledged the guy with a nod.

  Castillo circled behind his desk. Crouching, he used the top to steady his hand as he aimed the Glock at the door.

  A loud boom sounded from the other side of the door and sent it swinging inward. Grey-white gun smoke hung in the air and a bulky shape surged through the doorway.

  * * *

  LYONS SLIPPED ANOTHER breaching round into the 870 and aimed the weapon at the doorknob. He probably could kick the door in. But he knew the thunder and smoke that accompanied the breaching round would have a psychological effect on whoever was inside the room, maybe buy him a second before they could regain their wits and start shooting.

  With the M-4 in one hand, he drew the Colt Python from his thigh holster and went through the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lyons bulled his way into Castillo’s office, a vision of hell, bristling with weapons, face covered with a film of trail dust streaked by sweat. The Python was poised in front of him as his eyes swept the room for a target. Instinct told him to clear the doorway. He threw himself forward, the sound of a gunshot echoing in his ears as he struck the floor.

  He rolled onto his side and brought up the Python. A thug, pistol extended in a two-handed grip, was lining up another shot at Lyons. The American’s Colt barked twice and bullets drilled into the hardman’s chest. The impact from the .357 slugs shoved the gunman backward into a wall before his limp body collapsed to the floor.

  The Able Team leader brought himself to sitting before hauling himself to his feet. He found Castillo had stepped out of hiding, a Glock clutched in his fist, arm extended at shoulder level. He swung the pistol in Lyons’s direction.

  “I’ll shoot,” Castillo said.

  Lyons squeezed the Python’s trigger. A slug from the big revolver drilled into Castillo’s shoulder and jerked him around 180 degrees. An anguished cry erupted from his lips and he let the Glock slip from his fingers.

  “Me, too,” Lyons said.

  The Colt aimed at Castillo, Lyons crossed the floor and kicked the Glock across the room.

  The Mexican was on his knees, jaws clenched, eyes squeezed tight with pain. He’d slapped a hand over the shoulder wound. Blood slipped through his fingers and wound down the contours of the back of his hand.

  “Bastard!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  Looping the M-4’s strap over his shoulders, Lyons reached down. His now-empty hand lashed out and he grabbed a handful of Castillo’s shirt. Yanking him to his feet, he spun him ninety degrees and with a hard shove sent him sprawling into a nearby couch.

  “Get comfortable,” Lyons said. “It’s time for us to talk.”

  * * *

  AL-JABALLAH HAMMERED the heel of his fist against the top of the table. The impact caused his teacup to rattle in the saucer and the round plastic ashtray to jump. The Browning Hi-Power that lay on the table stayed still.

  He leaned forward, positioning his face less than a foot from the screen of his laptop. Escobar’s face stared back at him through an encrypted transmission. His black eyes looked dull, unconcerned.

  “You lost how many people?” al-Jaballah asked, the disbelief evident in his voice.

  “More than a dozen,” Escobar replied.

  “How many more than a dozen?”

  “Don’t know. We’re still counting.”

  “Still counting? This is unacceptable!”

  He saw Escobar’s lip curl up in a sneer, and the impulse to throw a punch at the computer screen welled up inside him.

  “I’ve lost maybe a couple dozen men in the past twenty-four hours,” the Mexican said. “Quit your crying, you old woman. I’m the one taking the beating here.”

  “Bastard! Pull it together or...”

  “Or what? You’ll work me over? Maybe make me the target of an elite commando team? Apparently, I’m already there, amigo. It’s going to take me months, if not years, to rebuild.”

  “If this falls apart,” al-Jaballah said, “you won’t get your money. Tell me... How will you rebuild with no money?”

  Escobar’s lips pressed into a bloodless line. Al-Jaballah thought he saw uncertainty flicker in the other man’s eyes, just for a moment, before his gaze hardened again and another sneer formed on his lips.

  “Don’t even think about screwing me over,” Escobar warned. “It will not turn out well for you.”

  Al-Jaballah laughed and leaned back in his chair. Taking a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he shook one into his palm and stuck it between his lips. He patted his pants’ pockets for his lighter.

  “What will you do, my friend?” al-Jaballah said. “You said it yourself. Your organization is broken. I have many resources to draw from. I’d prefer to pour them into the job at hand. But, if you want to threaten and undermine me...” He shrugged and focused on lighting his cigarette.

  “Fine,” Escobar said, his voice cold. “What’s our next move?”

  “My next move,” al-Jaballah replied, “is to decide whether I can trust you. To do anything.”

  Leaning forward, he slammed the laptop’s lid shut and smiled. Chew on that, he thought.

  He rose from his chair and moved away from the table. The small sense of victory was almost immediately extinguished by worry. The events in Mexico were more than an inconvenience; they put everything—the years of careful planning, the huge investment of money, the hundreds of hours of training—at risk. Failure could very well put al-Jaballah’s whole operation at risk. While he had supporters, not everyone in the Iranian government supported al-Jaballah or the Circle. For some in the Revolutionary Guard and Hezbollah, his operation was a competitor for money, resources and attention.
r />   The handful of moderates who knew about the group considered it the equivalent of a live grenade, pin pulled and ready to explode. They feared the Circle. They feared him, in particular, almost as much as they feared the mullahs running the country. His organization undertook high-risk missions, the kind that—if discovered—could ignite wars. Inside the country, he kept files on anyone who showed the slightest qualms about the government. In some cases, such as with Revolutionary Guard and Hezbollah commanders, he’d fabricated entire dossiers, pictures, films, anything to put their balls in a vise. He’d destroyed dozens of men, many by his own hand, others from a distance.

  If he failed in this latest venture, there’d be no shortage of his countrymen waiting to tear him apart, put him in the grave.

  So he couldn’t fail. Escobar remained useful for the moment. But if he became a liability? He’d end up dead. The same went for the American commandos. His phone buzzed, letting him know he’d received a text message.

  Crushing his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, he wheeled around, headed back to his desk and picked up his phone. He read the message once and then reread it. He shook his head in disbelief.

  He read it once more.

  Ran the picture. She’s Mossad.

  He called and had another conversation with Escobar, this one even more unpleasant than the last.

  * * *

  SCHWARZ WAS APPLYING a field dressing to the shoulder wound of Castillo, who was still seated on the couch. He’d cut away most of Castillo’s shirt, which had been soaked with blood, and taped a dressing over the wound to staunch the blood. With his index finger, he pushed down the last strip of tape against Castillo’s skin before standing and taking a step back.

  He stared down at Escobar’s lieutenant and scowled.

  “Seems a waste,” Schwarz said, “to patch this son of a bitch up when we’re just going to put more holes in him.”