The tactic didn’t work because Lyons was just too close. Seconds before impact, the blond warrior bailed from the vessel and entered the water. The raft smacked into the motor launch, its bow catching on a sharp edge and deflating almost instantly. The outboard motor continued forward and the rubber raft acted as a slingshot, propelling the heavy engine out of the water. The majority of the weight was built into the top of the engine, which caused it to flip as it rocketed through the air, making the sharp exposed blades the head of the grisly missile.
The terrorist turned to attempt escape but he was too late. Lyons recovered from his jump into the water in time to see the propellers catch the terrorist in the back of the neck and nearly rip his head from his body. The corpse landed prone, half dangling from the motor launch as the engine continued forward, bounced once on the dock and continued over the other side and into the water, and sank to its final resting place.
Lyons swam to the motor launch, pulled himself on board and checked the interior for clues before quickly exiting to the dock area. He looked around and tried to pinpoint his quarry. The subject could have gone in one of three directions. Eliminating one of those as the boardwalk that led to the other boats in the marina left two choices. It wasn’t much of a choice as he knew that the remaining routes both led into the heart of the port of Cancun.
Lyons was attempting to decide what his next move should be when a voice sounded behind him. “May I help you, sir?”
Lyons whirled and reached instinctively for his pistol, but he came up short when he saw the inquirer was only about five foot two with long dark hair and brilliant eyes. The cocoa-colored skin of the petite woman shone starkly against the noonday sun. The Able Team warrior wouldn’t have guessed her to be a day over nineteen, if she was that. Lyons felt a little self-conscious about his appearance but quickly dismissed it as egocentric.
“Yes, I seem to be lost,” he said, changing to a more congenial tone. “I was following my friends in that boat.” He pointed to the wrecked launch and hoped she didn’t take notice of its condition.
“I see your friends,” she said. “I get them a taxi. Can I get you a taxi, too?”
Lyons scratched his head and tried to put on a show of looking like a hapless tourist.
“Well, I suppose, but I’m not sure how to get back to their hotel.” He let out a laugh and said, “I think they were playing a trick on me.”
The woman just stood and stared at him for the longest time, and Lyons wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince herself he was telling the truth or explain what she had done in a former life that would have caused her to have to be exposed to so many stupid people now.
“I do not know, but you wait for Raul to come back and he tell you. You seem to be all wet.” She laughed, and Lyons was a little taken aback by how she had just changed the subject so quickly.
“Yeah, I uh…um, I had a little accident. Fell out of the boat.”
“Well, I have fresh clothes,” she said. “Very cheap. Just down here. You follow me?”
Lyons gave it some thought, then shrugged and gestured for her to lead the way. He watched her backside appreciatively as she led him down to a building constructed with the traditional veranda-style architecture popular at one time in Mexico’s history. Lyons followed her through the courtyard and into a small shop. He was surprised to discover the young and attractive woman was a dressmaker.
“You shocked by what you see,” she observed.
“A little,” Lyons said. “A seamstress. It seems like a funny thing to do out here.”
Something bordering between hurt and anger flared in her eyes. “You think I’m funny?”
“No, I don’t think you’re funny. I said, I think it’s funny that someone would need a seamstress in a marina.”
“Everyone comes to Consuela,” she said with a giggle. “Everyone needs clothes.”
Lyons had to assume she was talking about herself, using her name in the third person like that.
“Listen,” Lyons said, “I’d love to stick around and chat with you some more, but if you have those clothes ready, I really need to get them and get going. When will this friend of yours that drives the cab be back?”
“You are a policeman, no?” she asked in that deliberate yet innocent way.
“No,” he said. “What makes you think that?”
“I saw what you do to that man on the boat,” she said. “I saw him shoot gun at you.”
“Well, actually he was shooting bullets,” Lyons cracked with a grin, but he quickly changed the subject when he saw her blank expression and knew the humor had been lost on her. He cleared his throat to let the moment pass. “Listen, I just need to find my friends.”
“Friends not shoot at each other,” she said.
“Oh, yeah, well, my friends do,” Lyons said. In this case, it was the literal truth.
“Those are bad men that leave here with my Raul.”
“Who is this Raul? Is he your husband?”
She giggled at that, and Lyons thought he could see a slight flush come to her face. “No, Raul is my brother. He is younger. I am oldest in my family.” She said it as if there were some pride in that fact.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” Lyons asked.
“No other, just Raul,” she answered. As she handed him a pair of white shorts and a silk shirt, she asked, “Are those bad men? Will they hurt my Raul?”
“Yes, they’re bad men,” he said, taking the clothes and nodding gratefully at her. “But I don’t think they’ll hurt him as long as he doesn’t ask them any questions.”
“Oh, Raul ask many questions,” she said, her eyes widening with fear. “He is very friendly. All tourists like him.”
“Well, let’s hope he’s not feeling so chatty today, for his sake.”
“Who is this, Consuela?”
Lyons whirled, going for his pistol the second time in as many minutes. He saw a young man, definitely younger than Consuela, standing there with his hands in his pockets. His hair was combed back, and he had a wide, flat nose and bushy eyebrows. The eyes were dark, a sensual dark like Consuela’s, but assuming this was Raul, that’s where the family resemblance ended. Lyons relaxed a little and wished to hell people would stop sneaking up on him.
“Who are you?” he asked. “And what you doing with my sister?”
Lyons scowled. “I’m not doing anything with your sister. I’m just buying some clothes from her.” He looked in her direction and asked, “How much do I owe you?”
“You keep those,” she said. “Come back and buy more later when you clean.” She held her nose and waved a hand in his direction.
Lyons didn’t take offense. He probably did smell rank as hell. He focused his attention on Raul. “You took some men somewhere just now in your taxi?”
Raul nodded.
“How many,” he said.
“There were two,” Raul replied.
“Where did you take them?” Lyons asked.
At first Raul didn’t answer, and Lyons was about to reach out and throttle him when he realized what the boy was really waiting for. Raul was obviously an opportunist of the highest order, and he saw he had something of value to Lyons. Any way to make a buck off some information was the name of the game around here, and Lyons could understand it. The economy in this area was solely supported by tourism, which the government took a good part of in taxes, to say nothing of additional undeclared sums for bribing public officials and police officers whenever it proved most convenient and expedient.
Lyons reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of soaked cash. Raul stared at his open palm as if Lyons were handing him Monopoly money, then snatched the cash and counted it before giving the answer.
“They go to downtown,” he said. “They were talking in strange language most of time.”
Lyons nodded. Arabic.
“Take me to where you dropped them off.” When Raul looked expectantly at him, Lyons added, “Listen, k
id, you just took at least sixty bucks in American bills off me so I think you’ve been compensated.”
“Okay, I take you,” he said. “You want change clothes?”
“I’ll change in the cab,” Lyons said.
“Oh, no, he not change in cab!” Consuela jumped in. Lyons looked askance at her. She folded her arms and said much more demurely, “Car half mine.”
Lyons sighed deeply and then said, “Dressing room?” Consuela and Raul pointed simultaneously toward a room in the back.
AS CARL LYONS EXITED THE cab on one of the main thoroughfares through downtown Cancun, he checked either side of the street. He didn’t seem to be under observation and nobody appeared to be watching the door. In one respect, Consuela had done him a favor by offering a change of clothes. He would have stood out like a sore thumb dressed in the skintight blacksuit. Consuela had promised to burn the waterlogged uniform and, given her sensibilities, Lyons had no reason to disbelieve her. He tossed another twenty at Raul, shook the kid’s hand and watched him drive away.
Raul had dropped the two terrorists at the Luna Verde Hacienda, a twenty-story hotel in the downtown area. Without the kind of luck and cooperation he’d had up to this point, Lyons began to wonder if he would have ever caught up to them. Well, sometimes he just had to act on faith and go with his gut. This time it had paid off.
Lyons entered the hotel and gave the lobby a quick inspection. The Luna Verde was a busy place this time of year, especially considering it was the tourist season. Then again, Lyons couldn’t think of when it wasn’t tourist season in that part of Mexico. The party never really stopped, and people from all over the world visited year-round.
The Able Team leader located one of the public phones and quickly dialed a number he had memorized. There was dead silence on the air for maybe thirty seconds as the call was routed through a series of cutouts, then Aaron Kurtzman’s voice sounded over the satellite-encoded connection.
“It’s Ironman,” Lyons said. He had never trusted the security of the line.
“Well, I am sure as hell glad to hear from you. The whole place is up in arms. We got it, pal. They got the missile!”
Lyons let off a sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear it. Tell Hal I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? You guys did a great job!”
“Yeah, well, I appreciate the vote of enthusiasm, Bear, but before we break out the party hats there’s still a little unfinished business here.”
“Hey, are you okay?” Kurtzman asked. “We got a message from Pol and Gadgets that—”
“Look, I’m sure you did, but never mind that right now,” Lyons replied. “I’ve tracked two of our pals on the freighter to the Luna Verde Hacienda in Cancun. Gadgets said something to me earlier today that made me think that perhaps you can get into their system and check registrations.”
“Okay, no sweat, but what are you looking for exactly?” Lyons could hear the clacking of keys already starting on Kurtzman’s end. “Do you have a name?”
“No, I need all the names of anyone who checked in from fifteen to thirty minutes ago, but not sooner or later than that window.” Lyons had it figured that that would keep the list to a minimum.
“Well, let’s see…eh, okay, I’m into their system. Hell, it didn’t even put up a fight. All right, uh, looks like mostly Mr. and Mrs. This, Mr. and Mrs. That. Wait! Found something, I think. Party of two checked in, both males, and the name of the guy who signed in was Zemet Dumham.”
“Zemet Dumham,” Lyons murmured, “is Mahmud Temez spelled backward. What room is he in?”
Kurtzman gave it to him, and said, “Oh, I’ve just been informed that I’m supposed to give you a message from Barb.”
“What’s that?”
“When you get done on this little personal vendetta, she wants you to get to the airport and meet up with Gadgets and Pol. Charlie’s ready to fly you guys back here on the double. I think deep down she misses you.”
“Yeah, well you can tell her I said this is no vendetta,” Lyons replied. “Just some unfinished business with the Qibla.”
Lyons dropped the phone into the receiver and then took the elevator to the top floor. He stepped onto the twentieth floor and quickly located the room number Kurtzman had given him. He thought at first about knocking, pretending to be room service or a hotel attendant, but he reconsidered the risks involved. These weren’t hoodlums of subaverage intelligence; they were hardened terrorists who had done more than their fair share of deceiving an enemy.
No, the best approach here was the direct approach.
Lyons drew the Colt Python from where he’d concealed it beneath his shirt, stepped back and drove the heel of one of his newly acquired tennis shoes against a point six inches below the lock. The flimsy door gave under the powerful kick and Lyons came through the doorway in a shoulder roll. The hotel suite was anything but, the only separate room being the bathroom. The main area had two double beds, positioned on opposite walls.
Lyons turned to see one of the terrorists sitting on the bed, a cigarette having just dropped from his open mouth. The television was blaring and the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with hashish filled the room. A glance told Lyons it wasn’t Temez on the bed, which was too bad because his enemy actually went for a gun beneath his pillow.
Lyons never game him the chance. He aimed point-blank and squeezed the trigger once. The roar from the Colt Python was deafening in the small room. Blood sprayed onto the walls as the bullet went through the man’s skull and blew his brains out. Lyons turned from the grisly scene and looked at the television, then toward the closed bathroom door. He stepped over to the body and lifted the remote control off the bedside table. He pressed the Mute button and listened carefully.
It was the sound of running water, a shower going, behind the bathroom door. Lyons marched to the door and stood to one side while turning the handle. It gave easily and the door opened.
The Able Team leader walked over to the shower, which was covered with a curtain, and ripped it aside. Temez was cowering against the wall, and his eyes widened with terror. Lyons grabbed a handful of the man’s soaked hair and dragged him out of the shower. He shoved the muzzle of the Colt Python between Temez’s shoulder blades, then led him out of the room and down the hallway to the sign that indicated the exit led to a fire escape. He pushed through the inner hallway door and through an outer door that emerged onto the fire-escape landing.
An alarm began to sound, and Lyons knew he had less than a minute before his presence would attract attention. Fortunately, what he had in mind wouldn’t take that long.
“Did you do it?” Lyons demanded.
“What—who are you?”
“I’m asking the questions here, pal,” Lyons growled. “Answer me. Did you do it?”
“Did I do what?”
“Did you launch the missile against my country?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is for all of the missiles that you have launched against my country. It is for the egregious sins and atrocities you have committed against the Iraqi people. It is for the murder of my fellow soldiers.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Lyons said, “there’s only one murderer in this crowd.”
“Yes, and it is you. You have killed my people with your poisonous, Western ways. You have killed the traditions of the Islamic faith. You have killed the very children that would one day carry on the honor and loyalty of the Iraqi people. It is you who are the murderer, and for your sins Allah will punish you. He will send you into the eternal damnation!”
“Then I guess I’ll see you there,” Lyons gritted before shoving the terrorist over the fire-escape railing.
Lyons had already turned away when Temez’s body hit the pavement of the alley twenty stories below.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-7308-8
SENSOR SWEEP
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.
Copyright © 2006 by Worldwide Library.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
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