"If you're not out in five seconds, we'll fire through the tent. One... two... three..."
Lyons took three steps forward, the silenced Beretta in his fist. He folded down the second handgrip and hooked his thumb through the front of the trigger guard. With a two-handed grip crouching for maximum steadiness he fired three shots.
Three of the guncocks went down. The fourth, known as Bill Frazer, had homed in on the barely audible sound. His Colt New Service M1917 swung to bear on the source.
Lyons swung the 93-R, targeting on his fourth hit. The last casing had stovepiped. In the darkness he could not see the frontsight for the shell stuck between the breech and the receiver. He squeezed the trigger, letting instinct aim, then flung himself to one side.
The Colt barked three times, its death messengers driving into sand, almost catching up with the diving Lyons. The Beretta had probably picked up sand, Lyons thought as his body crashed to the dirt. He bounced slightly, hoping he could stay clear of the incoming .45s until he could clear the jam.
The three unmuffled shots had roused the entire camp.
Lyons figured he had only seconds before the camp was transformed into a shooting gallery, using athletes as targets.
Lyons figured his own chances for survival were slim.
15
Colonel Frank Follet figured he had the world exactly where he wanted it. He would achieve two victories at once. He bent again to examine the blips on the radar screen. He would prove his genius for command and take care of that interfering goon from Washington all in one shot and he'd do so now.
The radio operator was speaking. "We have you on the screen, interceptor two. Stand by for orders."
Follet took the microphone from the operator and directed the interceptor pilot. "Keep the helicopter in sight. Let it get over land and away from the city, then force it down. Do you read that. Force it down."
"I read," the pilot answered.
Follet turned to the other radio operator. "Take an immediate message to all area commanders."
"Yes, sir."
"An enemy aircraft has breached U.S. airspace. Further report on the aircraft will follow."
"Is that it, sir?"
"That's it. Sign it Acting Commander F. Follet. And get it out now.''
"Yes, sir."
Follet turned his attention to the first radio tech. "Get those two Sikorskys back here. I don't care who this Lyons has backing him. I've got an enemy craft breaching U.S. airspace. I'm in command."
The operator tried to reach the helicopters. Follet stood behind him, smiling, dreaming dreams of being made a general.
"I can't seem to raise them, sir. They're not responding."
As the radio man watched the red creep into Follet's neck and face, he was glad of the hours he had spent practicing darts. He was the second best dart thrower on the base and at this moment he felt it was the only thing that stood between himself and a dishonorable discharge. Most of all, he was glad he had had the sense that had told him to throw his last match with Colonel Follet.
"Keep trying and let me know the moment you've ordered them back."
"Yes, sir."
Follet stormed out of communications.
"Whew," exclaimed one operator. "Wonder what that Lyons did?"
"Whatever he did in the past," the dart chucker replied, "it ain't nothing compared to spoiling old Follet's victory. Whoever this Lyons is, I hope he's got the sense to disappear."
Bill Frazer never had a chance to fire a fourth shot at the sprawling Lyons. Klansman Baker and Sam Jackson erupted from the tent like two human cannonballs. Baker hit the guy's ankles while Jackson hit him high and hard. As the man was going down, Jackson punched him in the face.
Lyons got up, worked the slide on the Beretta. The stovepiped shell flew clear, but he would not be confident of the weapon until he could strip and relube it.
Kelly, Mustav and another Klansman came scrambling out of the tent. Baker and Jackson got up off the ground. Baker went and looked at one of the silenced bodies. He waved his hand to the athletes and Lyons.
"Fade," he spat, "out of sight before there's a bloodbath."
KKK forces were already streaming toward the place where the shots had sounded. The foursome dropped and crawled away as quickly as possible. They moved until they were away from the tent, then turned to watch what was happening.
"Quiet down," Baker hollered over the babble of questions being thrown at him. "I'm not sure what the hell happened. Me and Terry were in the tent when Bill Frazer came and shouted for us to come out. He said he had the tent surrounded and would shoot if we didn't."
"I heard that part," a voice chimed in.
"I told Bill to come in and that nothing was wrong," Baker continued. "But he wouldn't. Me and Terry were coming out when somebody shot these poor bastards. Bill was shooting away like a madman so we tackled him and knocked him out."
One of the guards was inspecting the hit gunmen.
"Jonesy. He's dead," he said. The other two men were identified and confirmed dead. Baker and Terry both offered their guns for inspection. It was agreed the only gun that had been fired was Bill Frazer's.
A voice lifted above the others. "I don't buy none of this shit. It's all fishy as hell."
The man on the ground moaned. "He's coming around," Baker said. "Why don't you ask him?"
Everyone gathered around the fallen man. Jackson and Kelly took the opportunity to crawl back to the tent and grab the guns off the dead men.
"What happened, Bill?" someone asked.
The reply was mumbled and incomprehensible. The fallen man shook his head, tried to clear the cobwebs.
Suddenly he looked up. "Where's the nigger who hit me?"
"What nigger?" Terry asked. The question was fired too quickly.
"I heard talking in the tent. Baker and Terry were inside. Claimed they were questioning niggers. I told them to come out with their hands up."
He paused to take a few deep breaths. The men began to mutter among themselves. Suspicion hung onto their voices.
While the KGB hardman, posing as a Klansman, continued to speak, Jackson and Kelly crawled back to Lyons and Mustav. They carried the guns taken from the dead men. Once back they found positions five feet to either side of Lyons. The three kept their weapons trained on the gathering.
Lyons pulled back to Mustav. "Get everyone out of that tent. Fast," he whispered. Mustav nodded.
A voice cut the night air.
"Somebody's got Jonesy's Colt!"
The man who had not been buying Baker's story from the beginning grabbed the former lawman's shirt. He put a handgun to Baker's chin.
"You're lying," the hardman spat. "You've got a second to come up with the truth, assho...''
His words were chewed by the bullet fired by Carl Lyons. The Able Team sharpshooter had hoped like hell that his gun would be able to give him an accurate shot. He had hoped like hell and then he had acted. He'd had to try, it was their only hope. The Beretta's bullet pounded the man's face to a bloody pulp. He dropped in an instant. Baker had bought a little bit of life.
Lyons lifted, eyes searching for the KGB mole, searching for Bill Frazer. He was the chief danger. The scene was highly explosive, and Frazer was the fuse.
A bullet from a perimeter guard tugged at his ear-lobe.
He cursed the bastard, then killed him with a burst to the chest.
"Machine-gun the niggers before they overrun us." Frazer's voice boomed over the chaos. "Machine-gun the niggers.''
Lyons sprinted to intercept the KGB killer. His cut thigh fired shots of pain through his entire lower body. He ignored the pain and pressed on. His battle senses working overtime, he heard, between violent tugs of breath, a slow-flying twin-prop plane going overhead.
There was sporadic firing from the perimeter. Lyons was close enough to see muzzle flashes coming from the gate and the west side of the prisoners' tent. Athletes, knowing it was a matter of kill or be killed, were picking off anyone who was prepared to carry out Frazer's orders.