Texas Showdown at-3

by Don Pendleton

  Search parties. First they would search the mansion and grounds, then the hill, finally this area. Lyons had to get back to his barrack before they searched the perimeter of the base.

  How?

  Staying beyond the light, he circled the base. He saw no openings in the fence. There was nowhere he could slide under it. Finally completing the circle, he returned to the road.

  The one gate to the base stood open, the guards waving the trucks of soldiers through. Could he simply jump in one of the trucks? Join the search? No. The soldiers in the truck would question him.

  Lyons lay in the rocks at the side of the road, the dust-caked blanket over him. Only a hundred yards away, the sentries talked. Occasionally he could hear a word or two.

  For the next few minutes he considered the situation. Lyons knew he had been lucky. He had gone into the estate, overheard the conference, managed to get out. Also, Furst had made a mistake: he had not ordered a roll call before sending out the four platoons to search for the spy. It had not occurred to the mere commander that the spy might come from the ranks of his soldiers. Perhaps the detection of the two federal agents had lulled him to overconfidence. But Lyons could hardly count on the commander's confidence continuing through the night.

  He decided he had two options. Wait until the search shifted to the area near the base, then join it and return with the soldiers to the base. Or hope for an empty truck returning to the base. But how would he know it was empty? He would have to chance that.

  Flat in the roadside dust, Lyons looked at his watch. Five hours till dawn.

  * * *

  The jeep took Gadgets and Blancanales to the mansion's front door. They saw soldiers everywhere, some searching the grounds with flashlights and rifles, others searching with leashed dogs. Gadgets grabbed his box of tools and makeshift equipment, then went to the door with Blancanales one step behind. A soldier wielding an M-16 barred the entry-way.

  "At ease," Furst called, emerging from within the house. "This man has an assignment. Why are you here, Marchardo?"

  "I need a helper," Gadgets replied.

  "Then come in, gentlemen. What's in the box?"

  "You had no detectors down in the storeroom, so I put one together." Gadgets held up a mass of wires and circuitry wrapped in black electrical tape. A nine-volt battery hung from the unit. "Doesn't look too good, but it'll find anything electronic."

  "Where do we start?" Blancanales butted in.

  "Okay, Marchardo, you go around the side," Furst ordered. "The men there will show you where the intruder stood under the window. Schwarz will be on the other side."

  Blancanales gave the commander a quick salute and went out the front door.

  Furst and Gadgets were alone in the entry hall. Furst lowered his voice to a near whisper: "I don't want Marchardo or anyone else to know why you're going to El Paso tomorrow."

  "Sure, no problem."

  "And after you put together what I need, you'll be coming up here to install the equipment. No one will need to know about that, either. Do we understand each other?"

  "You're the head man, you give the orders."

  "Good. Come on, the study's down here."

  Following Furst, Gadgets scanned the rooms and doorways that they passed, trying to memorize the floor plan. Furst glanced back and saw him studying the house.

  "Like what you see?"

  "Where do I get mine?"

  "Should see his house in Dallas. He only had this place built so he could stay near the action. Here's the study."

  A hand-radio clipped to Furst's belt buzzed. He acknowledged the call, listened for a moment. "Be there in a minute, over. Schwarz, I want you to start near the windows. The creep could have planted something there. Then cover the entire room. When you come up to install the new equipment, I'll have you look over the rest of the house for bugs also."

  "You think someone could have slipped mikes inside the house?"

  "Why not? Report to my office tomorrow when you're ready to go. If you find anything, I'll be down at the base. Later."

  As soon as the door closed behind Furst, Gadgets planted his first miniature microphone-transmitter. In another minute, he would have the room wired for stereo transmission.

  * * *

  The Mercedes drifted through the mountain road's curves. Pardee stared out the passenger window as if still searching for the intruder who had violated the security of the Monroe estate. Ahead of them, the taillights of the truck that carried the two burned men flashed from time to time. The hand-radio buzzed, snapping Pardee out of his thoughts.

  "Captain Pardee here."

  "One of the men died. The one that was burned real bad."

  "Get the survivor to the clinic. Pick up the other set of dogs, take them to the men at the bottom of the hill. Mucho pronto." He put down the radio and turned to Furst. "You heard?"

  "Two dead. And a spy on the loose."

  "When I get that Fed, I'll burn him alive, I'll..."

  Furst cut him off. "Right. That's your specialty. But we still have a security problem out there somewhere."

  "We'll find him. Come daylight, he's dead."

  "But he's the third agent. Maybe this one hiked in overland. Senor Rojo should get his act together quick, because I don't think the Feds are thinking of waiting."

  "Getting shaky, Commander Furst? Don't you worry, we have a constitutional right to free assembly and the right to bear arms. Until we make the hit, the worst they can indict us for is the automatic weapons — Class Three violation. Monroe would have us out before the fingerprint ink was dry."

  "What about murder?"

  "What murder?" Pardee responded, grinning.

  The Mercedes pulled up behind the truck at the gate to the base. In the glare of the headlights, they saw a soldier standing on the tailgate of the truck. Pardee slipped his Colt automatic from its holster, told Furst: "Hit the high beams. That man wasn't there when the truck left the house."

  Pardee leaned out the passenger window and called out to the man: "Who are you? You! ON THE TRUCK!"

  The man turned to face them. Pardee eased down the hammer of his automatic, called out again.

  "What're you doing out here, Morgan? Can't stay away from the action, can you?"

  "I got bored!" Morgan called back.

  Pardee reholstered his pistol, rolled up the window. "That's Carl Morgan, a good soldier. You met him..."

  He saw Furst staring at Morgan. The handsome man's face was white. On the steering wheel, his hands were knots of tendons and white knuckles. Pardee whipped out the Colt again, jumped from the Mercedes. He pointed the .45 at Carl Lyons' face.

  "Drop the rifle! And get off the truck, Morgan. Or whatever your name is, Mr. Federal Agent."

  14

  Squinting into the headlights, Lyons saw the Colt .45 ACP pointed at his chest. The M-16 he held had a round in the chamber. Could he flick up the safety and raise the rifle before Pardee put a .45 slug through his chest? No.

  But neither would he surrender to be tortured to death. Furst had identified Lyons, his luck had run out, time to die.

  "Drop the rifle, Morgan!" Pardee shouted again, the pistol steady on Lyons' chest. "Sentries! Disarm this man on the truck."

  Lyons pushed up the safety. He flexed his knees, tensing his muscles to throw himself backward as the sentries reached for his rifle. He would try to spray Pardee and Furst before the sentries killed him.

  A sentry started toward him, his hand reaching out to take the rifle...

  "At ease, Pardee!" Furst shouted, leaving the Mercedes. "At ease! Why the hell you pointing that pistol at that man?"

  "I thought..." Pardee looked from Lyons to Furst. The pistol pointed at Lyons did not waver. "When you saw him, you looked like you recognized him!"

  "At ease! Lower that pistol, Pardee," Furst ordered. "You can't shoot a man simply on suspicion. Get back in the car." Easing down the hammer, Pardee jammed the Auto-Colt into its holster. Not taking his eyes from Lyons, Pa
rdee got inside the Mercedes and slammed the door.

  "Thanks, commander," shouted Lyons. "I thought I was going to get shot."

  "Don't go joyriding around during a security alert! Captain Pardee has every reason to be jumpy."

  * * *

  In the Mercedes, Pardee watched the truck lurch over the speed bumps, Lyons clinging to the back. Pardee turned to Furst.

  "Your face went white when you saw him. Why?"

  "When I saw that man Morgan? I wasn't worried about Morgan. I've got my mind on something else entirely. And I can't shake it."

  "What?" Pardee demanded.

  The Mercedes went over the speed bumps, Furst snapping a salute to the sentries. Inside the camp, he followed the truck and saw Morgan jump from its bumper and start up the barrack steps.

  "What was it, commander? What did you suddenly think of like that?"

  "Did Monroe's doctor talk to you? That Dr. Nathan character asked me if Mrs. Monroe had been seen outside the house tonight. Or near the garage."

  "Her? Why would he... Oh, yeah. I joked about someone playing with gasoline."

  "It could have been her. It could have been her."

  "Mrs. Monroe? Why would she pull a trick like..."

  "Because that woman is sick. She's twisted in the head. Tonight she was so doped she couldn't stand straight. It could have been an accident, she could have done it for a thrill..."

  "That doesn't explain the dead man. And when the men reported to me, they didn't mention anything about the woman being anywhere near there."

  Furst stopped the car in front of the barracks where Pardee and the other officers had private rooms. Furst, as Force Commander, rated a prefab cottage with an office as well.

  "Did they say how the man died? A knife? Wire or what?"

  "Before I got out there, the garage exploded. They didn't..."

  "Tomorrow, we question the man that lived. We might not have a spy. It might be that crazy Availa Monroe."

  * * *

  Still wearing his uniform and boots, Lyons sprawled on his bunk, his Colt Python near his hand. The M-16 lay on the floor, cocked and locked. He stared into the dark, every minute an eternity, waiting for Pardee to return with a group of soldiers.

  He had gambled and lost. Pardee spotted him on the truck. And in the bright-as-day glare of the headlights, Furst surely recognized him as the LAPD detective who had sent the failed bank robber to prison.

  But then why was he still free? Why hadn't they taken him on the spot? Did they know he would have gone down shooting rather than face torture and certain death later?

  Were they watching the barrack now, waiting to grab him at an off-guard moment?

  Lyons relived the scene outside the gate over and over again. A hundred yards from the gate, he had jumped on the troop truck. He was sure neither the driver nor the sentries had seen him. And the Mercedes had been on the far side of a hill. Furst and Pardee could not have seen him dash from the roadside to the bumper.

  Thirty seconds after the truck stopped at the camp gate, the headlights of the Mercedes had appeared behind him. Pardee's first reaction was suspicion. Leaning out the car window, pistol in hand, he'd demanded that Lyons identify himself. But when Pardee saw it was "Morgan," Pardee joked with him, then slid back into the Mercedes and started to roll up the window.

  A moment later, Pardee had jumped from the car, aiming his Colt at Lyons' chest, calling him a federal agent.

  What had Furst said? One moment, Pardee joked with Lyons. The next, Pardee threatened to kill him.

  The questions became a puzzle without a solution. For another hour, he replayed the scene in his mind over and over again, considering Pardee's actions and Furst's words, then straining to remember every detail of his experiences with Furst years before, in Los. Angeles. He knew Furst's biography: military schools as a child and teenager; honors from an exclusive Eastern university; officer training in the army, followed by commendations and decorations in Vietnam. But then Furst had fallen apart: a bad marriage to a debutante, a boring corporate career; squandering family money to invest in a movie starring himself; then the fast lane life with the beautiful people of Beverly Hills, including the mandatory Porsche and cocaine habit, all financed with credit and family money; finally organizing a team of drug-ruined veterans to operate internationally, but ending with a bungled bank robbery in Culver City.

  Lyons laughed out loud. How could he make sense of the man's actions? Nothing Furst did made sense. Born to a good family, Furst threw it away to be a jet-set phony. Leaving prison as an ex-con with only his good looks and Vietnam record to recommend him, he became the commander of a crazy billionaire's private army.

  A jeep! Voices! Lyons rolled from the bunk, grabbing the M-16. Holding the gun tight against his leg, he crept toward the rear of the barrack.

  He heard the jeep accelerate away, then Blancanales' voice call out: "Thanks for the ride." Lyons reversed direction and rushed — silently — for the front entry. He stopped Blancanales and Gadgets on the front steps, without himself stepping past the doorway.

  "Don't come in," he hissed.

  "What?"

  "Check the street for surveillance. Look around, I have to know if..."

  "We already looked," Blancanales whispered. "We thought we might have people waiting for us."

  "What for?"

  Gadgets laughed quietly. "You don't know what we've been doing."

  Lyons sighed at that. "Wait till I brief you on my adventures."

  "We know all about it," Blancanales told him.

  "Not the half of it you don't."

  They dodged between the barracks to get to the back of a warehouse. The three of them squatted in a shadow while they exchanged stories. Lyons told them of the conference he had overheard, then the confrontation at the camp's gate. Blancanales and Gadgets told of bugging the mansion. Gadgets told them of the new assignment Furst gave him.

  "Busy night," Lyons commented.

  "Things are starting to pop," Gadgets added.

  "Your trip to El Paso," Blancanales said, "will give us a chance to call in reinforcements."

  "No chance," Lyons told him. "Mack — sorry, John Phoenix — is in the Middle East."

  "Those guys in Phoenix Force mightbe available," Gadgets added. "But I don't think we need them. It's the three of us against only a hundred and fifty mercenaries... We got them outnumbered!"

  "I was thinking of Grimaldi," Blancanales told them. "All these helicopters around..."

  "Yeah!" Gadgets slapped his hands together. "But we gotta come up with a plan that uses him. Maybe..."

  "How can we come up with a plan," Blancanales said, "when we don't even know what's happening here? We need more information first."

  "Don't you two understand what I told you?" Lyons demanded of his friends, incredulous at their scheming. "Furst spotted me. No doubt about it. He's running some kind of scam on me. Maybe he's letting me stay free so he can watch you two. See if you're Feds."

  "Makes sense," Blancanales agreed.

  "Then why is he sending me to El Paso?" Gadgets insisted.

  "That was before he spotted me. Maybe he'll cancel your trip. Maybe send someone else with a shopping list."

  "Yeah, could be," Gadgets agreed. "So what do you want to do?"

  Lyons grinned. "In the morning — which is two and a half hours from now — I'm waking up with a bad hangover. Too much booze. And the both of you and me are going to have a bad falling out..."

  * * *

  The next morning, Commander Furst made a call. He had the only direct telephone link from the base to the outside. Because there were no lines to this mountain base, a microwave system bridged the fifty mile gap to the nearest overland telephone lines. After he dialed the Los Angeles number, Furst gave his name to a 24-hour answering service, then spoke directly to his informant, the owner-president of a computer service company. The businessman said:

  "My man Furst. Long time no talk. Is this a business or plea
sure call?"

  "Information."

  "Business in other words. What is it you need to know?"

  "Remember Detective Carl Lyons?"

  The man laughed. "Bet youhaven't forgotten."

  "Find out if he's still in L.A., with the LAPD or what. If he isn't, find out where he is."

  "Pay back time. Pay first, a thousand dollars."

  Shots popped somewhere in the camp. Then came a burst of auto-weapon fire. Furst jumped from his seat, still holding the receiver. The telephone fell from his desk.

  "...what's the noise? Someone shooting?" asked the distant voice.

  "I'll wire you the money today. Call you later."

  Slamming down the phone, Furst grabbed his rifle from the corner and rushed out. A soldier sprinted across the asphalt to fly up the steps in one stride.

  "Who's shooting?" Furst demanded.

  "Morgan! He's gone berserk!"

  15

  Wrestling the M-16 from Lyons' hands, Blancanales swung the plastic-and-steel rifle like a baseball bat. Lyons stepped back, letting the rifle stock slice past him, then jumped forward with a kick-and-punch combination. The kick went into Blancanales' ribs as he back-swung the rifle, which smashed Lyons in the arm and shoulder, and knocked him sideways onto a bunk.

  Doubled over with pain from the kick, Blancanales could not press his attack. Lyons bounced back and drove another kick at Blancanales. He blocked it with the rifle, the kick bending the stock where it met the receiver. Gasping from the pain in his ankle, Lyons stumbled. He caught Blancanales' uniform, slamming at his friend's face with one fist and clutching him for support with the other hand.

  Blancanales spun, throwing Lyons off him. Lyons sprawled on the floor, scrambled to get to his feet as Blancanales swung the bent rifle overhead and brought it down at Lyons' head. Lyons blocked the rifle with a double-arm X block. The plastic stock flew free, leaving Blancanales with the barrel and receiver assembly only. He swung the shortened rifle over his head again, and brought it savagely down.

  Lyons rolled to the side so that the rifle hammered down onto the floor. It bent once more. Lurching forward, his gut hurting from the kick, Blancanales slammed the rifle down a third time. Lyons rolled safe again, but then caught the battered weapon before Blancanales could upswing. Still on the floor, Lyons hooked a foot behind Blancanales' knees and dropped him. The bent and broken rifle now in his hands, Lyons started to rise.