“Anyone get the feeling we are being warned off?” Schwarz said.
Blancanales made a low sound in his throat at that, and Kalikani glanced at him. The look on the guy’s face told the Hawaiian that being warned off didn’t go down well with the trio.
“I guess you guys don’t back down from threats,” he said.
“Oh, no,” Schwarz said. “Backing down isn’t allowed in our contracts.”
Kalikani’s cell rang. He answered and listened, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“That was the department. The boat that went down, called King Kamehameha, belongs to a local company. Fancy name for a down-market coastal tramper. Ownership is being checked out now.”
He listened as the caller gave more information. He shut down the cell.
“Got the address. Take us twenty minutes to get there,” he said.
“We need something to start us off,” Blancanales agreed.
* * *
THEY RETURNED TO their vehicles, deciding to travel separately. Blancanales fell in behind Kalikani’s official car, and they picked up the route. The cop drove fast, weaving in and out of traffic with ease.
“Doesn’t waste time,” Schwarz said, swaying as Blancanales pushed his foot down to keep up.
They stayed in sight of the water, passing through a warehouse district. Cranes and dockside equipment were skylined. Kalikani braked and swung in through the sagging, rusted-open gates in a corrugated sheet fence. Dust blew up from beneath his tires as he dodged stacked equipment and maritime spares, rolling to a stop outside an office block that had a distinctly scruffy look to it. Blancanales parked close behind.
Kalikani waited as Able Team joined him. His hand rested on the butt of his holstered S&W.
“Not what you’d call an upmarket spot,” Schwarz muttered.
“Outfits like this are the workhorses of the ocean,” Kalikani said. “They carry local cargo at rock-bottom prices. Anything for a dollar and not too many questions asked, if they can get away with it.”
“So if somebody wanted to hire a boat and waved a thick roll of bills...” Lyons let the words trail off.
“No invoices. No tax. Easy money for an outfit like this.”
“Let’s hope it was a big roll,” Schwarz said. “This charter cost them a whole boat.”
They headed for the door, Lyons taking the lead, an expectant expression on his face.
“You think he’s getting bored?” Blancanales asked his partner.
Schwarz nodded. “Nothing really exciting’s happened so far. I guess you could be right.”
Lyons reached out for the door handle. The door was jerked open a second before he touched it. The guy blocking the way was large, his big stomach hanging over his waistline. He wore work-stained jeans and an equally grubby gray T-shirt a size too small for his bulk. A stubby beard masked the rolls of fat beneath his chins, and his shaved skull gleamed.
“What do you want?”
“We need to speak to the man in charge,” Lyons said.
“Maybe that’s me.”
“Okay, so can we do this inside?” Kalikani said. “Or we could go downtown and deal with it there.”
“Says who?”
Kalikani produced his badge and showed it to the guy. “We going to make a thing about this?”
“Mebbe,” the guy said. “What you come about?”
“How about the King Kamehameha?” Blancanales said.
If Blancanales had been expecting some kind of reaction, that was exactly what he got. The big man proved that size didn’t always matter. He moved with unexpected speed, bracing his thick arms against the door frame and driving his booted right foot into Carl Lyons’s chest, pushing the ex-cop clear of the door. As Lyons went backward a step, the guy slammed the door shut.
“Clear,” Lyons yelled, hauling his Python from its holster.
The others took notice of his warning yell and moved away from the door.
Heavy autofire followed. The door was punctured by a burst of slugs that blew holes in the aluminum construction.
“Damn,” Kalikani said.
“Check the rear,” Lyons said.
As Able Team and Kalikani moved, Lyons reached for the door handle from the side and yanked it open. He was met by a prolonged burst of return fire.
Lyons crouched and angled his Python around the door frame, triggering two rounds. He heard a yell, braced himself and then lunged for the opening. He went in a low dive, on his left shoulder, telling himself it was a stupid move, but Lyons did not like being shot at, and his impulsive nature forced him to react.
Lyons rolled and came to rest on his front, the large revolver thrust ahead.
He caught sight of the big man, still standing, pawing at a bloody gouge in his left cheek. He held a squat mini-Uzi 9 mm in his right hand. The stinging wound in his face had him unfocused long enough for Lyons to take advantage. He didn’t hesitate. Lyons had learned a long time ago that distraction, hesitation, a pause in the heat of a combat situation, was the sure and certain way to get yourself shot. Dead was dead, and there was no forgiveness in a bullet.
He angled the Python up and put a solid shot into the man, aware of the guy’s bulk and muscle. His only saving grace was the fact he was wielding a .357 caliber Magnum; the 158 grain Hydra-Shok slug possessed solid stopping and penetration power. The office echoed to the hard sound of the blast, and the heavy pistol jerked in Lyons’s grip.
The slug hit deep within the guy’s chest, targeting the heart. It cleaved its way through and punched a bloody hole in his back on its way out. The big man twisted under the impact, breath gusting from his mouth as he staggered, colliding with a desk. He rolled half across it, his trigger finger curling and sending a burst of 9 mm slugs into the timber floor. His massive bulk toppled to the floor, and the whole building shook as he slammed down.
Lyons pushed to his feet, staring around the room. There was another door in the back wall, and it was swinging back into position.
In the time the big guy had been inside the office, he had been able to warn others, and they had left in a hurry.
Lyons crossed the room, kicking the door wide and bursting through.
He caught sight of distant figures vanishing in among stacks of wooden pallets. They were spread out under an open-ended, roofed shed that ran along the edge of the dock, the water of the Pacific below the ten-foot drop.
Lyons heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw Schwarz, Blancanales and Kalikani coming up fast.
“In there,” Lyons yelled and set off in the direction of the shed.
He didn’t hesitate. Lyons’s reputation as a hothead when roused wouldn’t allow him too much caution. His teammates knew that and fell in behind to cover his actions.
Reaching the carport-configured shed, Lyons caught sight of shadowed figures ahead. One turned, and the Able Team commander saw the wink of flame as the guy opened fire. Wood splinters exploded in Lyons’s path as the hastily fired volley chewed at the pallets close by.
Lyons dropped to one knee, raised his Python and returned fire. He used his last three shots, clawed a fresh speed-loader from his pocket and made a fast change, aware that his partners were near, their own weapons firing.
Blancanales understood the mechanics of a firefight. There was little time to stand back and make plans. When the enemy was intent on shooting you down, there was only one response. Stay on line, hope to avoid being shot yourself and take the fight to the enemy. He followed Lyons into the shed, realizing the problems ahead as he scanned the rows of stacked wooden pallets, the crisscross tangle of shadows thrown by the stacks as sunlight speared in through the open sides. Ahead he spotted darting figures, the occasional flash of gunfire, followed by hearing the thump of slugs hitting the timber.
&nbs
p; He knew Schwarz and Kalikani were somewhere in the vicinity and picked up the noise of their returning shots.
He had chosen to act as backup for Lyons, knowing the blond berserker would be closing in on the opposition with his usual disregard for his own safety. It was the way Lyons operated. He moved with deceptive speed, almost like some human missile, locked on to his target, as if he had a tracking device implanted in his skull. There were times when Blancanales wished Lyons would hold back, assess, before he bulldozed in for the kill. He knew that was a forlorn hope. Carl Lyons would never go for the softly, softly option. It was head down, all guns blazing, once he hit the speed button and fired on all cylinders.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lyons picked up on the fleeting shadow from the corner of his eye. He made no indication that he had seen the movement but simply kept moving forward, as if nothing was amiss. He passed through a patch of shadow thrown across the storage shed floor. As he cleared the blackness and stepped into the light again, he saw the first of the crew tracking him.
The guy was short, stocky, with wide shoulders and a shock of thick black hair over his broad face. He carried a stubby SMG, and the moment he locked eyes with the tall American, he threw the weapon up.
Carl Lyons responded, the .357 Magnum on track in a millisecond. Lyons stroked back on the trigger and placed a heavy slug in the guy’s left shoulder, higher than he had anticipated. Despite being off target, it blew apart the guy’s shoulder; flesh was torn and ripped, and the bone disintegrated into multiple shards. A spurt of macerated flesh and blood exploded out his back, as he was turned around under force of the slug. With all coordination gone, he fell facedown, slamming into the concrete floor with a solid thud, screaming in pain.
The day blew all to hell after that.
Lyons heard a guttural yell from his left, turning in time to see another shooter emerge from cover. The guy opened up with his own SMG. The burst cleared Lyons with inches to spare. Lyons crouched, cupping his left hand under the butt of the Python to steady it as he tracked the shooter. He eased back on the trigger and laid a pair of slugs in the target’s thick chest. This time his shots hit where they were supposed to. The guy was stopped in his tracks, then kicked back by the solid mass of the Magnum’s power. His feet left the concrete as he toppled, landing on his back, his weapon bouncing from his grip.
Lyons didn’t stop to check him out. Lyons was on the move again, well aware there might be others around.
It turned out he was correct, as his way was blocked by an armed pair. Lyons took evasive action, turning on his heels and taking a wild dive through the row of stacked pallets. He threw his arms in front of his face, as he struck the pile. Wood splintered, as his muscular form hit. Lyons managed a reasonable shoulder roll, once he landed on the concrete, knowing he wasn’t going to have much time left, before his attackers altered course and came seeking him. Even as he gained his feet, he picked up the angry shouts as his pursuers came looking for him.
Lyons used his clear seconds to check his surroundings, then caught a glimpse of one of the enemy pushing his way through the stacked crates. He leveled the big revolver, tracked the figure partly concealed by the boxes and put two of his remaining shots into the moving target. The Magnum slugs powered through the flimsy timber, filling the air with dusty splinters, then cored in through the guy’s chest, toppling him in a flurry of arms and legs before his bloodied form hit the concrete.
There was a strained silence that followed Lyons’s shots. The Able Team leader flipped out the Python’s cylinder and ejected the loads. He slipped a fresh speed-loader from his pocket and inserted it into the cylinder. With the revolver fully loaded again, he moved from his position and crouchwalked away.
He had seen two shooters still alive, so there had to be one more around. Lyons accepted there might even be more, who hadn’t shown themselves yet.
He thought, Hell of a day, Carl; then added, And it isn’t over yet.
Easing his way through the lines of stacked pallets, he picked up the scent of old fruit still lingering in the air. The smell came from wooden crates nearby. The concrete under his feet was wet. The air humid. As the final row of pallets confronted him, Lyons saw the open outer wall of the shed.
His ears picked up the slight scrape of shoes on the concrete at the far end of one stack of crates. Lyons peered through the slatted pallets, searching for movement. His vision was hampered by the dark and light strips of sun. It didn’t prevent him from catching the brief gleam slanting off metal.
The metal from a handgun?
The identifying noise of a shot reached him—the loud crack as a bullet was expended from the barrel he’d just spotted. Lyons was showered by wood splinters. His right cheek blossomed with blood from a three-inch-long gash.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled.
The flash of pain brought a rapid response from the Able Team top man. His revolver snapped into position; he had cupped his left hand under the butt of the weapon, holding it steady. Lyons triggered three fast shots through the flimsy wooden barrier between him and his opponent, and two of his .357 slugs were directly on target. They impacted with the guy’s head, the heavy caliber bullets slightly deformed by their passage through the wooden crates.
One ripped into the target’s left cheek, splintering bone and cleaving its way to emerge behind the ear. It tore a gaping hole in the back of the guy’s lower skull, amid a bloody spurt of flesh and bone. The second shot hit just above the nose, tunneling through and into the center of the skull, where it ripped into the mass of the brain and lodged there. The guy went over backward, dead before he slammed to the floor, body convulsing briefly as his nerve functions slowed, then stopped completely.
The dead guy still had his weapon gripped in his hand. Lyons bent over to clear it, picked up a whisper of sound behind him as he jerked the pistol free from slack fingers. He began to turn, sensing a moving presence.
He saw a dark shadow on the concrete. Someone was moving in fast.
Heard someone grunt with effort.
Then something hard clouted him across the side of his skull. The blow drove him to his knees. Lyons tried to resist. A second hit dropped him to the concrete, and his senses faded as a third blow slammed him facedown. His revolver slid from his fingers.
Close to being unconscious, Lyons felt hands grip his arms and drag him across the concrete. Voices sounded, unclear, so he couldn’t understand what was being said. He was hauled upright, then thrown bodily forward, and he realized he was being manhandled inside a vehicle.
“Go, bro, fucking go.”
Those were the first words he heard clearly. Doors slammed. An engine swelled with sound and tires screeched. Lyons was thrown against the back of a seat. Hands pressed him down. The hard, cold muzzle of a weapon was jammed against the side of his skull.
“Stay down, asshole,” somebody said. “Mess with me and I’ll burn a hole through your brain.”
Lyons’s urge to fight back was diminished by the pain from the blows to his head. Yet in his weakened state, he was able to understand his current position. There was no way he could retaliate. If he did, he was simply going to put himself in harm’s way. The sensible thing, which went against his nature, was to do as he was told. At least for the time being. His chance would come.
* * *
THE UNCEASING CRACKLE of autofire delayed Lyons’s partners and Kalikani from closing in on his position. There were at least three separate shooters, raking the area with heavy fire. Slugs ripped into the pallets, filling the air with chunks and splinters of shredded wood.
Both Schwarz and Blancanales were concerned about Lyons. His wild man charge toward the opposition was a typical Ironman maneuver. He was never a man who came along at the rear. Lyons always had to be in front, taking the battle forward. He wouldn’t have been Lyons if he held back.
>
The three shooters kept up their relentless attack.
“This is crazy,” Schwarz yelled.
“We should have brought heavy ordnance,” Blancanales said.
Schwarz made a sudden move, angling around the stack of pallets he was using for cover. He vanished from sight around the end of the stack, crouching as he worked his way along the length of the row.
Blancanales and Kalikani kept up a steady rate of fire to cover his move. They kept a low profile themselves, not wanting to present easy targets.
* * *
SCHWARZ HELD HIS Beretta two-handed as he eased his way along, the sound of autofire growing louder as he closed the distance. He could hear the single cracks of return fire from Blancanales and Kalikani.
Peering between the slats of the pallets, he made out the shooters. Two were close to his position. The third guy was twelve feet off to the right.
One of the gunners near Schwarz dropped an exhausted magazine from his SMG and went to snap in a fresh load. Schwarz pushed his 92F through a gap and zeroed in on the man. Whether his move caught the guy’s eye, Schwarz never knew, but the shooter froze for a second, then turned his head.
Seeing the muzzle of Schwarz’s pistol, the guy opened his mouth the yell. That was when Schwarz double tapped the Beretta’s trigger, fast, and placed a pair of 9 mm slugs into the guy’s surprised expression. The impact collapsed his face, seeming to push it in on itself, before flesh and bone was blown apart.
As the man went down, face a bloody, raw mess, Schwarz angled his weapon at the second shooter. This one was much too slow, and he had barely registered his own partner’s demise before Schwarz put three quick shots into him. They took him in the side, shattering ribs and tearing at his heart. The guy went over uttering a single croaking sound.
* * *
BLANCANALES AND KALIKANI heard the shots. When they saw the two shooters go down, they moved instantly, angling toward the shed to confront the surviving gunman, who opted to quit the scene now that he was on his own. He had barely taken three steps when the combined force from Blancanales and Kalikani hit him, twisting him off his feet. He crashed heavily to the concrete, spitting blood and arching his fatally hit body.
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