The burly guides began to bulldoze the press away from the athletes.
"Special press conference, my ass," Gadgets said. "Something stinks."
"What are those bastards doing?" Lyons exclaimed. He pointed at three men in gray suits who were roughing up Sheldon Archer. The men had found Archer's credentials. The large blond leader was shouting. Handguns appeared everywhere. Petra Dix, showing incredibly bad timing, stuck her microphone in the face of the head gunman.
"Archer and Dix are boxed in," Lyons said. "Move."
Blancanales straight-armed Dix's cameraman to the ground to get the flunky out of the way.
Able Team attacked.
Sheldon Archer held his own. He grabbed the hand of the top gunman. He forced the hand to give up the gun.
Gadgets took a long flying tackle, knocking Petra Dix to the pavement. He rolled with her, shielding her body with his.
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.