by Dick Stivers
Pol’s Beretta whispered at one of the graysuits. He connected with the head. The guncock folded and dropped to the pavement. Politician was wheeling to fire another shot when he was nailed by the 9mm slug of a Makarov. He just grunted. The spacesuit had worked.
The roar of the bus engine grabbed Pol’s attention. The vehicle had backed up to get around Archer’s station wagon. The Able Team sharpshooter tried to target on the bus tires. He was sent flying by a frightened cameraman fleeing the scene.
Carl Lyons’s gun whispered sweet death and another graysuit fell to the ground, his head torn to pieces.
Gadgets did not even take the time to get off the ground before doing his job. He sighted between a pair of thrashing legs and squeezed a shot at a pair of gray legs. The last goon went down with a scream. But the bus had escaped.
Archer and the blond leader were grappling. The blonde landed a few blows to the Fed’s face but the latter doggedly hung on. Another blow to the temple knocked Archer to the pavement.
The blonde reached for his gun. Picking it up, he jumped beside a wounded comrade. He pulled a grenade from a pocket. Three Able Team guns coughed. The tall man collapsed in a blood-smeared mess. The wounded man’s status dropped to dead. The grenade fell to the roadway, its pin still in place.
Lyons bent and made a fast search of the blond man’s pockets. He found a plain business envelope, sealed and addressed to the United States Olympic Committee. He put the envelope in his pants pocket, then retrieved the grenade the gunner had dropped.
“Russian,” he said.
He straightened and found himself looking up the business end of a police revolver.
A sheriffs department car was parked on the elevated roadway. Two deputies, guns drawn, came out of the terminal.
“Where were you when the action was going down?” Lyons asked.
“Just put the gun down easy,” the deputy replied.
Lyons locked eyes with the policeman, then slowly slid the Beretta back into its holster.
“I said put the gun down,” the deputy snapped.
“Put out an all-points on that bus that just pulled out of here,” Lyons ordered.
“Why the hell would I do that?” the officer spat.
Lyons glanced at the reporters who, regaining their courage, were starting to get up from the turf where they had thrown themselves when the shooting started. He did not want to answer any questions within their hearing.
Archer bent to retrieve his ID.
“Freeze,” one of the deputies on the sidewalk said.
“That’s my FBI ID,” Archer objected.
“How do I know that?” the cop replied. “Try to pick it up and you lose a hand.”
“Pick it up, Archer,” Lyons said. “I’ll show this goof my letter.”
Lyons reached for his wallet. The sheriff’s man fired. The bullet grazed the left arm of the Able Team member.
Lyons was silent, his eyes narrowed in raging contempt. He continued to pull out the wallet, holding the law officer’s eyes with his own, daring the man to plug him with a bullet.
Archer swallowed saliva that wasn’t there. He continued to reach for his ID.
Lyons ignored the fire in his arm. By the time the deputy had braced himself to shoot again, the wallet was in sight. Crazy Carl remained cool in his spacesuit; the deputy was sweating buckets. He lowered his gun. His arm was trembling.
Petra Dix, recovering from shock, led the wave of reporters who had stood with wide-eyed amazement at the confrontation between the gutsy Lyons and the cop.
“For crissakes, get footage,” she ordered her cameraman.
The man made a move but was stopped by Politician, who shook his head.
Lyons opened his wallet and offered it to the lawman.
“Put it on the ground and back away from it,” the officer demanded. “And put your gun down on top of it.”
Lyons had taken enough.
In two quick steps he was grabbing the hand holding the revolver. His fist connected solidly with the side of the officer’s jaw, dumping him flat on his ass. A quick kick removed the revolver from the man’s fist.
“I’ll have you for assaulting an officer,” the man gasped.
“I’ll have you for lunch,” Lyons snarled as he booted the man in the ribs and thrust the letter into his face.
“Read it,” he said.
Archer, sensing Lyons was now in the driver’s seat, took charge. “Try to clear the crowd,” he instructed the lawman.
Reporters were firing questions.
“Did someone try to shoot the Zambian athletes?”
“Yeah, but we got here first,” Lyons said.
“What happened to the athletes?” another person asked.
“They got on a bus,” Lyons snapped.
“Are they okay?”
Lyons held little love for the media. In his mind those involved in journalism were interlopers who always seemed to have their noses in the wrong places. “Ask them tomorrow,” Lyons snapped.
By this time another car from the sheriffs department had managed to make it through the crowd and the traffic. The deputies slowly cleared the area of protesting reporters and curious onlookers.
From his seat on the road, the cop finished reading the letter of authority signed by the President.
“Now,” Lyons said, speaking softly so that he could not be overheard, “maybe you’ll get that all-points out. Athletes have been kidnapped and you’re sitting on your ass.”
The man ran for his car. He had an urgent message to deliver.
The members of Able Team climbed back into the station wagon and waited for Archer to drive them away. Gadgets dug into the wooden case for spare shells. Blancanales dressed the slight bullet crease on Carl’s arm. Lyons opened the letter addressed to the Olympic Committee that he had found on the dead man. He read it and whistled.
“What now?” Archer asked as he started to pull away from the scene.
“Drop us off at UCLA,” Lyons said. He passed the note to Pol. It read:
We are holding the black Zambian athletes until your committee officially recognizes South Africa. We are sick of your discrimination against the White Race. If our demand is not met, the athletes will die.
By order of The Grand Dragon of the Invisible Empire
“Damn,” Pol said. “Not only the KGB, but now the Ku Klux Klan has entered the picture.” He handed the note to Gadgets.
“Some picture,” Lyons commented.
4
“It’s about time you got here, Fed,” the detective said to Sheldon Archer when the car arrived at the UCLA women’s gymnasium. He spat the word “Fed” like he was choking on shit.
Archer looked at the square-jawed man. He was tall, lean and wore a white shirt, no tie and a brown suit off the racks of high society. He stood beside a body covered by a sheet.
As Able Team approached, the abrasive man continued, “It’s damn hot and I can’t do a thing — not even move this stinkin’ corpse — until I get permission from some hotshot you’re supposed to have with you.”
Archer grinned and turned to Carl. “Hotshot, meet Bill Tilden from L.A. homicide.”
Tilden looked at Lyons, obvious disdain in his eyes.
Neither man offered to shake the other’s hand.
“We’ve met,” Lyons told the FBI man.
“This is one of the gun punks,” Tilden said. “Had his head kicked in by some little kid gymnast. The other one, the dead girl, has been removed.”
He reached down and peeled back the sheet far enough to show the unnatural angle in which the man’s head was twisted. He jerked the sheet back up, then straightened and delivered a report in rapid-fire monotone. He sounded like a teletype run amok.
“He’s Samuel Spanier, known as Sleepy to other bikers. He rode with the Riding Devils. We’ve suspected for some time that the Devils have stopped pushing drugs and are into the muscle-and-contract game.”
Tilden produced a gym bag. H
e opened it and showed Able Team the weapon.
“It’s been dusted?” Schwarz asked.
Tilden nodded.
Schwarz reached for the gun. He did a quick field strip and continued to examine the piece.
Pol picked up the questioning. “How do you put this case together?”
“Pretty straightforward,” Tilden said, shrugging. “Three bikers dressed like students came here. One stayed in the hall to cover their retreat, the other two went into the gym and fired at the coach. A kid got in the way, took a bullet.
“The coach, a woman, had enough brains to go out the other door and let the touch-men follow her. We’ve got no idea if they got her or not. We’ve got a pickup out on the entire gang.”
He paused and nudged the corpse with his toe. “This one had his neck broken by a little kid. She came charging out of the gym and damn near kicked his head off.”
“A girl did that?” Gadgets exclaimed.
Tilden nodded.
“Good for her,” Lyons said.
Lyons began to walk away from Tilden, the other members of Able Team following him.
“What about the body, hotshot?” Tilden said, more than a little annoyed at having to follow orders from Lyons, a man he had run into and been shown up by a number of times.
“Move it. Worship it. Stick it for all I care.”
As Archer made a move to follow Able Team into the gym, Tilden grabbed his arm.
“What’s that son of a bitch got to do with this case?”
“He’s direct from the President. He’s the boss.”
Tilden groaned.
The group entered a room adjoining the gym. Pol turned to Lyons and said, “We’ve got to decide what to tell the press. Any major leak of this and we could blow everything. Any suggestions?”
“This part is easy,” Gadgets said. “It’s the kidnapping that’s going to be hard.”
“For this action here,” Pol said, “we just won’t mention the type of gun and we won’t speculate on the motives. We’ll just say members of a motorcycle gang came in here and shot the place up. One of the gymnasts caught a bullet.”
“That should do it,” Lyons intoned. “The press will eat it up, though. Kid gymnast murdered. In cold blood. Film at eleven.”
“We’ll get everyone to go along with that,” Pol said. “But we have to get the police on the abducted Zambians. If the kidnapping hits the papers, the shit hits the fan.”
“And we get most of it blown in our faces,” Lyons said.
“I can take care of that for now,” Archer volunteered. “We have ways of keeping kidnappings quiet for a while.”
With strategy mapped out, Able Team was ready to roll; Lyons was itching for action.
“What the hell are we waiting for then?” he said. “Let’s get moving. Let’s nail this place down tight.”
The men moved back into the gymnasium. Tilden had had the body bagged and removed while the foursome discussed the press situation. The FBI had posted new guards to protect the gymnasts, who insisted on practicing despite the fireworks that had erupted earlier.
The four men did a slow survey of the gymnasium and surrounding area, hoping to put an impenetrable lock of security on the campus.
It was Politician who made the recommendations to the Fed in charge of security.
“First, get Ingrams or Uzis in here for everyone on duty. Get extra clips. This short-barreled-revolver crap has gotta go. Second, spread your men around the room some more. If anyone crashes through the doors, these kids are sitting ducks.”
Able Team left them to their business. As the men were leaving, a young gymnast, her golden hair fitted into pigtails, came up to Rosario Blancanales, the most fatherly-looking man on the team, and pulled at his shirt.
“You know she’ll be back,” the petite gymnast said.
“What?” Pol questioned, turning to face the girl. “Who’ll be back?”
“Babette. She’ll get away from those men and she’ll come back here. I know it. She loves us and she worries about us. She’s like an old mother hen. She’ll be back.”
Politician gazed down at the young informant. “You know her that well? You think she’ll come back here even though she knows people will be watching for her?”
“She’ll be back,” the girl said with unbreaking authority.
“Thanks for the tip,” Pol said, grinning down at her.
Halfway between the athletes and the door, the four men braked again.
“This isn’t adding up,” Pol stated. “The snatch at the airport was KGB — professional all the way, but the Klan is claiming responsibility. It wasn’t a motorcycle gang — gangs don’t work that professionally.”
“Yeah,” Gadgets agreed. “They were using Makarovs at the gym, though.”
Lyons was not paying a whole lot of attention to the conversation. He was still scanning the gym. “If she comes back, it’s going to be hard to keep her alive. Hit men are going to be watching for her.”
“We’ll have to hit the hit men before she shows up,” Pol said. “Why don’t we get the Feds to supply a sacrificial goat?”
“Hard on the goat,” Archer said.
“Fed goats are tough,” Lyons said.
5
“I don’t think it was such a good idea,” commented Gadgets Schwarz.
“What?” questioned Politician.
“To send Lyons on a mission that requires diplomacy. Couth. Tact.”
“We didn’t send him anywhere. He sent himself. He says Brognola put him in charge and he’s bent on proving he can handle it — diplomacy and all.”
“You should be handling the politics,” Gadgets said.
Blancanales agreed.
The two Able Team warriors had emerged from the women’s gym. In the distance to the west was a warm-up track, used by athletes and fitness enthusiasts alike.
The pair turned south, walking around the building’s front entrance. The sun was blazing hot. Young people were clustered under the few available palm trees. The men of Able Team remained cool in their space-age flak jackets.
Both men carried borrowed gym bags, each of which held an Ingram, spare clips and a few grenades.
“I wonder why so many people are around?” Gadgets said.
“I don’t know what’s going on. Something doesn’t sit right in my gut, and we’ve got a crowded battlefield if a war breaks out. See anybody, anything suspicious?” Pol asked.
Gadgets shook his head.
“Which way will she come from?” he asked.
They had reached the southeast corner of the building. Pol pointed northeast, over a parking lot, past a parking garage and into a part of campus densely packed with buildings.
The men continued north along the east side of the building. Suddenly, Pol plucked at Gadgets’s shirt and pointed, nodding in the same direction.
“That looks like our decoy now.”
A woman riding a bicycle emerged from behind the multilevel parking garage and headed toward the gym. The cyclist was only 250 feet from Schwarz and Blancanales. They could make her out clearly.
She wore jeans and a sweat shirt despite the heat of the day. On her head sat the phoniest looking raven-haired wig either man had ever seen. Her feet were covered by gymnast’s slippers.
“Quite the standin,” Pol commented. “Those Feds…”
“Standin, hell,” Gadgets grunted. “That’s the real thing.”
The cyclist picked up speed as she pedaled down the hill leading to the gymnasium. One member of a group of “picnickers” pointed her out and shouted.
Hunting rifles, shotguns, handguns from World War II, even a couple of AR-10s, sprouted up all over campus.
Able Team’s men exploded into action.
Pol and Gadgets took off toward Babette Pavlovski. Blancanales, pushing his legs to keep up with his young teammate, realized he had no chance of getting to Babette before Gadgets. He pulled up and snatched the Ingram from the gym bag.
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p; Pol picked up at a trot, firing on the move. The modified Ingram spat two-thirds of its thirty-round clip in the second that Pol held down the trigger. The quick slash took out three of the bikers.
Gadgets’s sprint had taken every last ounce of push and pull that he could demand from his muscles. He sent his body airborne, in a quarterback-sack, diving position. The timing was perfect. He hit Pavlovski with a flying tackle, knocking her off her bike, taking her to the ground. It was the second time in one long day that the Able Team wizard had been forced to send a woman flying. But he wasn’t apologizing, he was saving lives.
Gadgets and Pavlovski rolled. Three .45 chunks of lead nailed him; one slashed into his side, knocking the wind out of him. And under him, Babette struggled, thinking that the man who had jolted her off the bicycle was an enemy.
As bullets rang off Gadgets’s gear, he tried to comfort her with the whispered words, “Easy… easy.” Finally the gymnastics coach realized the man on top of her was an ally. They kept rolling, then they crawled for cover, stopping behind a metal bike rack.
Politician covered their moves. He emptied the rest of the Ingram’s clip, spraying as wide an area as possible. His shots were rewarded with a few screams of searing pain. The would-be assassins scrambled for cover. By the time Pol reached Gadgets and Babette, both were on their feet in a combat crouch.
Babette turned to Schwarz.
“Tracy. Tracy Shaw. Is she okay? Is she?..”
The gymnastics coach began to shake.
Gadgets grabbed her shoulders. “She’s dead. I’m sorry. Real sorry.”
Babette Pavlovski felt sick. She listened to the man trying to comfort her.
“Listen. We can’t stop here. We’ve gotta move or we’ll get killed. Babette, fight. Fight for Tracy.”
Gadgets started to yank the Ingram from the gym bag, but Babette grabbed it from his grip. He let her have it. She had decided to fight for her fallen pupil. He pulled the Beretta from its shoulder rig and quickly detached the silencer.
The trio knew their stay behind the bike stand had to be short-lived. Cover was minimal. Manpower was lacking. The assassins began firing again.
Pol fired short bursts that tore at flesh, discouraging the enemy from moving closer. Gadgets did a quick recon.