Five Rings of Fire at-11

by Dick Stivers

  “Through the parking lot,” he said. “We’ll make a stand in the garage.”

  Babette started firing short bursts. Each found a target. The three whirled and were off, zigzagging toward the parking lot. Gadgets used the Beretta, snapping single shots as he ran, keeping enemy heads low.

  They paused behind two cars in the parking lot, careful to keep their legs and feet behind tires. The enemy dispatched pincer forces around the buildings.

  Gadgets handed Babette more clips. “Let’s get out of here before they flank us,” he instructed.

  As they weaved between the cars, making for the garage, Gadgets pulled a small radio from his belt.

  “Wizard to Ironman. Wizard to Ironman.”

  Ironman Lyons did not answer.

  *

  After leaving Pol and Gadgets, Archer drove Lyons to the FBI office on Wilshire Boulevard. Lyons had little use for the organization, but he knew that in this mission it was necessary. While Able Team might be able to accomplish its task without outside help, they would definitely need outside cooperation.

  With Archer acting as a mediator, Lyons got his point across in no time at all. He had the FBI’s backing. Archer stayed at the FBI headquarters to arrange for a Babette double and to coordinate the press release on the gymnast’s murder and the blackout on the kidnapping. Lyons went on to the LAPD where, in what seemed to be a lifetime ago, a previous lifetime, it seemed — he had been a sergeant.

  As he walked into the familiar building he felt the emotion that always rose in his gut when he thought of cops — sympathy. He could sympathize with the job those poor bastards were asked to perform day in, day out. What he couldn’t stand about the LAPD was the bullshit and the red tape that choked the entire operation.

  Lyons stopped at the front desk and questioned the desk sergeant.

  “Captain Braddock around?”

  “It’s Chief Braddock now, Carl,” the desk sergeant answered. “A lot of changes have been made since your days.”

  Lyons did a double take when the man behind the desk spoke. “Len Terney,” Lyons exclaimed, recognizing the face. “Gone from beat cop to desk jockey.”

  Terney smiled. “A man gets too old to tear shoe leather. It’ll happen to you some day.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “I hear you’ve been in here a bit,” Terney said. “Guess I just keep missing you. It’s been a long time since we teamed up.”

  “Long time,” Lyons agreed. “Braddock here?”

  “I don’t think you want to see him. He’s in a terrible mood.”

  “I’m not revolving my life around old Braddock’s moods.”

  “Same old Lyons,” Terney said.

  “I’ve gotta see him, Len. It’s a business call.”

  The sergeant shrugged and picked up one of the telephones on his desk. He dialed a three-digit number.

  “Carl Lyons to see you, Chief. He says it’s business.” The sergeant shouldered a long pause before speaking. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.”

  Around LAPD, Lyons had a reputation as a damn fine warrior, but certain upper-echelon heads hated his brashness, his arrogance and his incurable inability to conform. Braddock was one of those heads.

  “Ah, Carl. The chief says to say hello, but he’s busy. He told me to take care of what you want…”

  “Shit,” Lyons spat as he turned and headed toward Braddock’s office.

  “Don’t do it, Carl. I’d have to stop you.”

  Lyons wheeled, reached in his wallet and handed Terney the letter from the President.

  “It’s a little worn,” he said. “Overuse.”

  Terney whistled. “God. Is this for real?”

  Lyons nodded. He took the letter back and put it in his wallet.

  “I’ll call him again,” Terney said.

  “Don’t bother,” Lyons said as he headed toward Braddock’s office.

  A young policewoman sat at the desk in front of the chief’s office. She was tall and well built with shiny blond hair and a healthy glow. Her eyes had strength. Strength to hold a man. The name on the desk plaque read Nel Bly.

  As Lyons approached, Officer Bly spoke. “The chief doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Well,” Lyons snapped as he strode past her, “I don’t want to disturb the chief. I want to talk to him.”

  “You can’t go in there,” she said to his back. “The door has an electronic lock. He has to buzz you in.”

  Lyons felt his temperature rising. Heat took hold of his face. He drove his foot into the office door, connecting just under the handle. The lock mechanism held, but the door jamb shattered. He walked in. Braddock, obviously startled by the uncustomary entrance, was on the phone.

  “I think so, your honor,” Braddock said. “Listen, I’ve got to race. Okay. Later.” He hung up the receiver. “Lyons, you fuckup,” he growled. “You’d better have a damn good reason for busting into my office. ‘Cause if you…”

  “Don’t get into the threats, Braddock. You’ll never back them up. I need your cooperation. I’ve got a letter…” Lyons wheeled around and saw what he expected to see: Bly, the well-cut policewoman, with a .38 Charter Arms Police Bulldog in her hand pointed at Lyons. She was smart enough to have waited for backup before challenging the Able Team man. The second cop was a black giant in combat fatigues. The monolith held an Uzi in one enormous, beefy hand.

  Lyons’s radio beeped.

  Emergency.

  He reached for his belt to answer Gadgets’s summons.

  “Don’t,” the female cop cautioned. “Keep your hands clear or lose a hand.”

  Where have I heard that before? Lyons thought. The four-inch barrel of the .38 was staring at him.

  “Braddock,” he snapped, “call off the hounds. This beeper, it’s an emergency.”

  Braddock moved out from behind his desk to confront Lyons. “You think you’re something,” he said. “Busting in here. Demanding things. You’ll sit here, Lyons, until I get some answers.”

  Lyons’s radio beeped again. He turned back to the doorway. Len Terney had joined the party.

  “Len. You’ve got a brain. I’ve got the governor’s backing. The President’sbacking. I’ve got a letter from the Man. You’ve seen it. Tell him to check it out.”

  The desk sergeant’s voice was weak. “I’ve got three weeks until retirement. I’m sorry, Carl. I do what the chief says.”

  The giant in battle fatigues had taken a step back from the others. He still had his right hand wrapped around the Uzi. He had a portable radio in the other hand. He was engaged in a conversation; his voice was low. Lyons figured the guy was calling in reinforcements. Some cops liked to stack the odds.

  The Able Team warrior knew the police would be reluctant to shoot if he gave them no reason to — if he didn’t threaten anyone. He raised his shirt slowly so that everyone could plainly see he was not reaching for a weapon. He deliberately reached for the radio on his belt.

  “Don’t,” Officer Bly commanded.

  Lyons slowly unclipped the radio.

  Braddock ordered Terney to take his gun and “other toys.”

  Lyons moved like lightning, pressing the button.

  “Ironman here. Wizard, what’s up?”

  He was answered by dead silence.

  Able Team was in trouble. With Terney nearly on top of him, so was Lyons.

  6

  Terney reached for the radio. Lyons threw it at the elderly officer’s stomach. As the cop moved to deal with the flying object, Lyons popped him with a solid hook in the ribs, knocking him toward the policewoman’s .38. The young woman sidestepped to avoid her co-worker. She got set to fire.

  Lyons had not pulled his Beretta; a shoot-out would have been suicidal. He had to get someone on his side, if even by force. He made a low dive and hit the woman below the knees, dropping her hard to the floor. Then he felt a monster hand clutch his shoulder.

  “Guns away,” a voice bellowed.

  Lyons looked up.
The giant in combat garb was standing over him. “Sorry, Lyons,” he said, a sheepish grin crossing his face. “I checked with Archer. You’re okay.”

  “Took you long enough to figure that out,” Lyons snarled. “I could be dead meat.”

  “This isn’t exactly my territory,” the man explained. “I’m Tim Sanders, Commander, DeltaBlue Light Team. That’s the code name for an instant-response team the FBI’s put together. I’m here with Braddock to coordinate Olympic security.”

  “Instant response could be a little faster,” Lyons said.

  Sanders laughed. “I deserve that,” he admitted. “Took me a second to contact Archer.”

  “Who’s Archer?” Braddock demanded, fury forming lines across his forehead.

  “Archer’s a Fed,” Lyons said. “Sanders, is your team here?”

  “All here for a briefing. Chopper, too.”

  “My team’s in trouble. Can you help?”

  “Glad to.”

  “Let’s move,” Lyons said.

  Lyons was so angry he felt like slamming the door. He couldn’t. He had already kicked it in.

  Two minutes later, Lyons, Sanders and the men of Delta Blue Light Team were airborne. Lyons gave Sanders a quick briefing.

  “I left two men to check on the security of the gymnasts at UCLA. Also, a Babette Pavlovski clone was going to show up and draw the termites out of the woodwork. My men buzzed me. By the time I got to reply, there was no answer.”

  The specialist nodded.

  Lyons brooded.

  *

  Babette, Gadgets and Pol were weaving toward the brick face of the multilevel parking structure. They snapped shots at the enemy. The Riding Devils advanced, chewing them up the ass with wild gunfire. Gadgets tried again to reach Lyons. A bullet tore the small communicator from his hand.

  They ran along the side of the building and turned in the exit ramp.

  “Watch the metal spikes,” Babette cautioned. “They cut the tires of cars trying to sneak in the exits.” Her voice was spliced between deep gasps of breath.

  The team stepped over the metal plates and pounded onto the concrete ramp. Pol shot out instructions. “Right to the top. We don’t want them to flank us.”

  The ominous throaty roar of large powerful motorcycles came from the parking lot the trio had just abandoned.

  “They won’t drive over the spikes,” Gadgets said. “They’ll come in the entry at the north end of the building. We’ve got to get to the middle ramp to go to the top.”

  “You two stop at the first ramp,” Politician said, “and cover me. They’ll need some slowing down.”

  The three took off in another sprint, hoping to reach the ramps before the bikers entered the first level. At the first ramp, Babette scrambled partway up, turned and covered Gadgets and Blancanales. Gadgets stopped, crouching behind the wheel of a van. Pol went fifty feet farther before moving behind a parked car, just as the first motorcyclist appeared at the end of the aisle.

  Pol watched as eight bikers wheeled into the garage. Each man had a handgun out, ready for action. The bikers rode in single file, moving slowly. Blancanales knew more bikers were in the area but could not pinpoint where — the noise of the bikes in the garage was deafening. The Able Team ace had a hunch that the building was surrounded, that the eight inside were just the stopper in the bottle.

  Instinct grabbed at his guts. He turned in time to see a Riding Devil lining him up with an automatic. Pol dropped flat as an entire clip of .45s snapped angrily over his head. He fired a burst under the car at the tire of the lead bike. The tire blew and the rider went down in front of the other bikers. They spread and stopped. Their handguns were up.

  The bastard who had fired on him was now edging toward the grounded Able Team member. Rolling and lining up at the same swift instant, Politician laced a burst that tore up the killer’s chest. The biker grabbed the area of his heart as hot blood spat wildly from the pulverized organ. Pol rolled back to his original position. Again spotting from underneath the cars, he saw the fallen biker lift his machine off himself as he struggled to rise. He didn’t have a chance. Pol triggered his Ingram, and a burst blasted the bastard under the chin. Jawbone collided with brain matter in a gory smear of death.

  Reacting with the speed of a man half his age, Politician surged to his feet and sprinted between parked cars and the outside retaining wall. Bullets whistled by him. He stopped behind a car, fired, then moved on. After half a dozen cars, Pol came to a pickup with a high cab. It was backed against the retaining wall, blocking his path. Keeping low, Blancanales moved back toward the center roadway, his legs churning to carry him with speed.

  The bikers had all moved past their fallen buddies. Pol took out their new lead rider with a burst to the side. Bullets tore, chewed. The man screamed but his cry was lost in the din. The bikers, caught behind the corpse, stopped. There they waited for the man they felt they had trapped. Pol wastrapped, but he held the key to freedom.

  He reached into the gym bag he had strapped around himself and pulled out two grenades. He let both spoons go and threw one, then the other. The first exploded from its landing pad on the floor, the second burst while it was still in the air.

  As the double blast rocked the area, Politician beat a hasty retreat. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that not all the Riding Devils had been leveled by the grenades.

  The Able Team warrior brought up the Ingram. It spat one bullet then locked open. Empty clip. There was no time to change clips. No time to draw the Beretta. He turned his will to live into speed. He ran.

  Gadgets Schwarz peered around the side of a car he had just taken shelter behind. Two bursts from an Ingram whizzed by him. Looking to one side, he saw Babette sitting on the ramp. She had just fired the machine pistol. A biker was lying under his fallen bike, his weapon still aimed in Gadgets’s direction, his face bloodied, eaten by bullets. Gadgets nodded thanks to the female sharpshooter. He then leaned forward and saw Politician running for his life.

  The lead biker was set to fire when Gadgets, in a careful two-handed firing stance, let go a single shot. The bullet sailed perfectly, nailing the biker in the hollow of the throat. He went down in a heap, the bike crashing on top of him, crushing the bones of a man already dead.

  Blancanales headed for the safety of a parked car. Gadgets held his ground, prepared to meet the two remaining Devils. The bikers had guns raised and were coasting toward him. Thumbing the selector to triple shot, he quickly took care of the biker on the left, dropping him with a solid punch to the chest. Gadgets feinted a move toward the parked cars on the right, then dived to the left. Bullets flew past, inches from his arm. As his body bounced off the garage floor, he fired the Beretta. The bullets connected with deadly results. The man clutched at the remnants of his face. In seconds he was dead.

  Gadgets rolled back behind the car. Pol, also behind the shield provided by a car, changed clips. The enemy gave them no time to breathe.

  A barrage of bullets announced the arrival of the ground troops who had been scattered around the lawns of the campus.

  Blancanales punched a bullet into the eye of one of the bikers attacking on foot. He continued to fire at maximum distance for the Ingram. Two more fell. The rest scattered behind cars. By the time the Devils had defensive positions, Pol and Gadgets were on the offensive.

  They borrowed bikes from two of the fallen bikers with the promise of repayment sometime after never.

  Gadgets throttled up to where Babette was waiting.

  He stopped, giving Pol time to catch up. Gadgets motioned for Babette to swing on the pillion. The feisty woman stayed put, waiting. Gadgets then heard what she was waiting for: more mounted bikers were moving inside.

  “To the top,” Gadgets screamed.

  Pol nodded and took off.

  About a minute later the first level was filled with the deafening drone of motorcycles. The bikers raced around the corner of the ramp. Babette sprayed them with the rest of the Ingram
’s clip then ran and leaped onto the seat behind Gadgets. There were screams of agony as the dead and wounded fell and bikes collided with flesh and bone. Gadgets let the bike loose, leaving carnage and a patch of rubber behind. They drove to the open top-story of the building. Pol was waiting for them at the head of the ramp.

  “Babette bought us some time,” Gadget explained.

  Babette, her arms wrapped snugly around Gadgets, took a long look at both men.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ve let you tackle me off a bicycle, almost get me killed, take me on this terror mission. Do I get your names?”

  “How impolite,” Pol said, laughing. “I should have introduced myself between streams of gunfire. Rosario Blancanales. Politician to friends.”

  “Hermann Schwarz at your service. But since you’ve got your arms around me, call me Gadgets.”

  The two men took a calm second out of a stormy battle to drink in the beauty of Babette Pavlovski. The phony wig had fallen off her head during the battle, leaving her short, blond hair looking wild. Her face was shiny with perspiration, but there was a classic beauty that no amount of dishevelment could conceal. And to boot she could fight. Like a soldier.

  Pol broke the momentary silence.

  “Did you get through to Ironman?”

  “No. I lost the radio. Shot out of my hand.”

  “Then we hold out here until help arrives,” Blancanales concluded. “And with this much noise shaking the garage, someone’s bound to arrive soon.”

  “If they come up here,” Gadgets said, “they’ve got to come up these ramps. We should be able to hold them. How much ammo’s left?”

  A combined count logged four clips for the Ingrams, including the fresh clips in the guns, and seven 15-bullet clips for the Berettas. They also had two grenades.

  “We’re fine,” Pol joked. “We’ve got six more bullets than there are yahoos out there.”

  They could hear the thunder made by the Riding Devils biking across the level below them.

  “These two bikes are the only cover we’ve got,” Gadgets said. The two men dropped the machines on their sides. The trio flattened out behind them, using the sparse cover to best advantage.