The shots killed nothing, but they spiderwebbed the windshield, dropping visibility to nil. The car pulled away to the right as the driver, unable to see the target, veered away from the area where the automatic fire had come from. The skidding back end of the car missed the rolling Able Team member by inches.
The car came to a stop about fifty feet from Gadgets. The door on the far side of the machine opened. The passenger and the driver both got out the same door. Schwarz could see their feet as he shoved another clip into his gun. Remaining prone, the warrior carefully lined up his sights on one of the ankles. Weapons were being swung to bear on him over the top of the car.
Simultaneously, three gunners popped up over the car at the bottom of the ramp. Babette managed to take out one before her clip was empty. She retreated from the edge of the ramp, out of range of a hail of bullets. She slapped the last clip into the Ingram.
Babette lay back from the ramp, waiting for the first head to appear above floor level. Her back was fanned by prop wash from the copter hovering overhead. She could not spare a second to look up; she could only hope it carried allies.
Screams chilling, almost unreal sounded. They were screams of fear, not agony. They were followed by a series of explosions. Bloodied bits of human beings rose, then fell. Babette risked taking a quick glance. She looked up at the copter from which the grenades had been lobbed into the attackers, but it was already landing at the entry to the parking building. She moved her eyes back to the ramps, determined to stop any survivors from surfacing.
Politician saw the two gunners from the car bringing their automatic rifles to bear on his partner. He fired on the run. The bullets stitched the car roof, nailing one of the gunners in the cheek, missing the other. Both of the bastards ducked low.
Gadgets forced them to duck even lower. Before the goons could think about getting off more shots, he fired a burst at one man's ankle and then the next man's. The guncocks crashed to the ground. Two more bursts guaranteed they would never get up.
Pol and Gadgets trotted back to the ramp to help Babette hold the fort. They could hear shooting from below.
Ten minutes later, following a two-minute silence, Carl Lyons called.
"Don't shoot. I'm coming up."
The men greeted each other.
Blancanales did the introductions. "Carl, meet Babette Pavlovski. Best backup gunner in the business."
They locked eyes. They locked hands.
"Nice to meet you."
He was six feet tall with wide shoulders, a barrel chest, narrow hips. His white hair gave him the look of maturity; he did not look old. His complexion had a flushed, just-scrubbed appearance. His blue eyes carried little expression, but they had the ability to send chills through anyone who dared to stare into them. He talked to three young men who stood uncomfortably before him.
"There were how many of you?" he asked in a cold, clipped voice.
The three glanced around the room, each more than willing to allow the other to answer.
After several silent seconds, the eldest, a thirty-year-old still fighting a losing war against acne, answered. " 'Bout thirty-five of us went there."
"And only three of you survived?" The white-haired man's tone indicated that no amount of convincing would make him believe such a failure had occurred.
"Well... a couple of the guys may have surrendered," one of the Riding Devils confessed.
The third, still-silent member of the bikers was busy putting a small pinch of powder between his thumb and first finger. Then he inhaled the powder, snorting deeply.
"I suppose you were all enjoying the dust," the white-haired man said. "How much dust?"
"Not enough to get real high, Mr. Boering. Just enough to make sure no one got chicken shit."
"Just enough? Just enough. I want one goddamn woman taken care of... you send three Devil Riders..."
"Riding Devils," the sniffer corrected.
Klaus Boering ignored him. "I even supply the guns. But three is not enough to take care of one woman! So you send thirty-five and only three of you come back."
"She had two bodyguards. Then some sort of SWAT squad came," one of the bikers tried to explain.
"Oh," Boering sneered sarcastically. "Thirty-five of you went after one woman. Turns out she had two bodyguards. It was obviously a trap. How lucky you are to have escaped!''
The three shifted nervously, spending most of their time looking down at their feet, at the floor. They didn't know how to deal with Boering. The white-haired man was obviously furious over their inability to get the job done. He waved at them as if he were shooing chickens.
"Goodbye. Good-goddamn-bye. I have no more work for you. Get out. Close the door when you leave."
The three turned and shuffled out; too defeated to protest their treatment. As soon as they had left, Boering picked up the telephone and dialed.
"Georgi, this is Klaus. I want the special team made operational immediately... I know they're for special use only. This is a special use.
"Listen. A small squad of one, two, three, maybe a couple more are protecting that damn defector. They just killed thirty or more goons to do it. The special team is the best. Use them. Take out Pavlovski and everyone around her.
"How's the other operation going? Are the athletes away clear? Good. If you hear from Frazer, give him my congratulations."
He signed off and hung up the telephone.
Soon he could forget about Pavlovski's bodyguards.
They would be dead.
He was sure of that.
7
"Welcome to my office," Carl Lyons said, laughing as his Able Team partners examined the trailer on campus.
"It's more spacious than Brognola's," Blancanales said. "How'd you swing this?"
"I phoned Archer, told him I wanted one of those portable offices used by construction companies and he got it. Magic."
"Presto. This is a bit better than the huts we're used to using in the jungles," Gadgets noted.
"How's the arm?" Politician asked Lyons.
The blond warrior looked surprised. "I'd forgotten about it," he said with a shrug. Lyons never gave small pain anything more than small consideration.
The trio settled down on some heavy, scarred chairs.
"How long do you figure it'll take Babette to round up the black athletes?" Gadgets asked.
"They've got to come from other areas where they're staying," Pol said. "Unfortunately they're not all together. Doesn't really matter, though. We need the time for planning.''
The three men outlined a plan, each pitching in with suggestions, questions, until one solid block of strategy had been mapped out.
"I'm going to need squealers miniature transmitters that send a constant signal and tracking gear," Gadgets interjected at one point in the session.
"FBI or cops have them?" Lyons asked.
"Not exactly what I want," he replied, "but something close enough. I can modify them. I'll need some tuning crystals, too."
Lyons went to make a phone call. When he returned he told Schwarz, "They'll have what you need in a half hour. Be delivered here."
The discussion continued until there was a knock at the door of the trailer office. Babette Pavlovski let herself in. She was followed by eight blacks.
"That was quick," Gadgets said.
"We're quick," one of the athletes informed him.
The only athlete the members of Able Team recognized was Sam Jackson, the U.S. amateur heavyweight boxing champion. Jackson was a huge man with huge fists. The fists hung at his sides, lightly closed. Over the past few years he had earned the nickname "Lightning" for the fast way those fists burned, punished opponents.
"So you're Lighting Sam Jackson," Pol said. "You're supposed to have the quickest hands in boxing."
"What do you mean, 'supposed to'?"
Jackson moved close to Blancanales, shadow boxing, his fists a blur. The Able Team warriors were more than impressed.