"Gringo putos!"
A woman shot Lyons in the back.
Lyons spun and the woman fired her revolver again, a .38-caliber slug roaring past his ear. One blast from the Atchisson tore apart her heart and lungs, throwing her body over. Dying, she tried to scream, her eyes fluttering, her hands opening and closing reflexively as liters of her blood drained from the vast through-and-through wound.
Gadgets picked the deformed hollowpoint out of Lyons's Kevlar and gave it to him. "Teach you to turn your back on a woman."
Plaster flew from the walls. Gadgets staggered, and Lyons felt a slash across his gut and right forearm. An autoweapon in the corridor fired burst after burst at the doorway. As Lyons went down backward, his arm screaming with pain, he brought up the Atchisson.
An International gunman, ammunition bandoliers belted across his sports coat, ran through the door. He fired an M-16 wildly, spraying the office at waist height. Squinting against the muzzle-flash above him, Lyons snap-fired a single blast.
Steel shot smashed the plastic-and-aluminum autorifle to scrap, tearing away the gunman's hand, ripping through his chest. He fell back into another fascist attacker. Lyons aimed the Atchisson and fired again, slamming the dead men back some more. The corpses fell in the corridor.
Autofire searched for Lyons, hammering the door, shattering plastic computer components on the desk tops. Gadgets groaned, then rolled across the floor to the doorway. He found a fragmentation grenade in his web gear. Pulling the pin, he let the safety lever flip off. He counted away the delay.
A fascist dashed across the doorway, an autorifle in his hands flashing. Roaring over Gadgets's head, the slugs swept the office. Gadgets tossed the grenade into the corridor and scrambled back as slugs whined off the doorframe. Burst after burst killed the carpet where he had sprawled only a second before.
The grenade stopped the firing. Blinded, a hundred wounds spurting blood, the gunman staggered to the office door. He held the wall and screamed with shock and despair. Lyons pointed his Atchisson at the dying fascist but did not fire. He crawled to help Gadgets as the screaming man died on his feet and fell.
"I'm hit..."
"Where?" His Atchisson pointed at the door, Lyons searched for blood on Gadgets with his left hand.
"There!" Gadgets gasped as Lyons touched the Kevlar over the left side of his chest.
Blood oozed through a tear in the battle armor. Though the steel trauma plate set in his armor protected him from a straight-on shot to his chest, a 5.56mm bullet had hit Gadgets from the side. Kevlar could not stop full-velocity rifle bullets. Lyons fumbled with the Velcro closure strips.
"Hey, let me take care of me." Gadgets pulled open his battle armor. "And you take care of you. Now your other arm's bleeding."
Checking himself, Lyons saw where a bullet had slashed across his battle armor, cutting a path across the black nylon exterior. The bullet had continued into his right arm. He pushed the sleeve up, saw two bloody holes where the bullet had entered and exited just below the inside of his elbow. Pain came when he made a fist, but his hand still functioned. The shallow wound had not severed any tendons.
"No doubt about it," Gadgets said, trying to twist his face into a grin. He pointed to a small hole in his ribs. "I'm shot."
Black uniformed commandos ran into the suite. For an instant, Lyons and Gadgets looked into the bores of the Mexicans' M-16 rifles, then a commando went to one knee beside the North Americans.
The Mexican tore open a field-dressing packet and pressed a bandage to the wound. Gadgets pushed the dressing aside. He probed at the wound with his fingers.
Blancanales joined them. "You hit? Where?"
"I'll live. I'm okay, I think. Nothing broken. Not gargling blood. Ughh — there it is. Found it. The wall and the Kevlar almost stopped it."
"Stay here," Lyons told him. "Pol, let's go."
As Gadgets surrendered to the first aid, Blancanales stripped off his partner's ammunition and grenades. Gadgets tried to sit up.
Lyons pushed him back. "Take a break. I'll call you if we need you."
"Get the number-one man!"
"That's the plan..."
Lyons and Blancanales rushed into the corridor.
Two Mexican commandos followed the North Americans. Firing continued at the stairwells. Bypassing the offices, the group went to the next corridor. Lyons dropped flat and looked around the corner.
In one instant of sight, as boots ran toward him, Lyons saw the elevator lobby. A group of International soldiers in uniforms and casual styles defended the stairs, spraying autofire up at the attacking Mexican commandos, then closing the door as the Mexicans returned the fire. Across the lobby, other gunmen shoved personnel — men, women, wounded — into the elevators.
Then a boot kicked Lyons as a soldier tripped over him. Blancanales brought down the butt of his M-16/M-203 on the back of the fascist soldier's head. The first blow of the plastic stock did not calm the struggling soldier. Blancanales slammed him twice again before he went slack.
The Mexican commandos dragged the unconscious man off Lyons. The soldier, wearing green fatigues bearing the emblem of the International Group of the army of Mexico, wore a vest of Uzi mags and a canvas bag of fragmentation grenades. Blancanales appropriated the weapon and the bag of grenades. He pointed to the sound of the fighting.
Lyons nodded. "Teamwork. You pull, I throw."
Pulling safety pins, Blancanales passed the grenades to Lyons, who let the levers flip before he pitched the grenades into the lobby. He threw three grenades before anyone noticed the olive-green spheres bouncing over the carpet.
One fascist shouted, then a blast slammed him against a wall. Blasts came fast and continuously as Lyons threw. He tossed all the eight grenades that the bag contained.
"Time to clean it up."
The North American and Mexican commandos rushed into the screams and swirling smoke. Wounded men and women raised pistols and shotguns. Others clawed the carpet to reach rifles. With an autoweapon in each hand, Blancanales killed everyone he saw, firing ambidextrous bursts from the M-16/M-203 and the Uzi.
Lyons kicked open the stairwell door. A bloody gunman pulled the pin from a grenade and swung back his arm. Lyons fired once, the point-blank blast tearing away the man's ribs and spinning him against the wall. Lyons closed the door. The steel fragments splintered the fire door with dozens of ragged holes.
A flash-shock boomed on the other side. The noise made Lyons stagger back. His body ached from the shock wave. Throwing the door open, he shouted, "No mas! We are here! Tenemos los fascistos! Alto!"
One soldier peered down. He saw Lyons and motioned to the others. A line of soldiers ran down the stairs. The lieutenant viewed the carnage in the elevator lobby. "Have you found the general?"
"No. But we only searched one office."
A fury of autofire broke out somewhere on the floor. The lieutenant shouted orders to his platoon. The young commandos went through the offices, searching methodically.
"There is still fighting below. My sergeant reports a unit of federal agents attempted to come to the rescue of the fascists."
"Then we'll search through the building until we find him. Him and Gunther..."
"No, American. You must leave. This will be trouble to explain. It is impossible for you to stay."
"We won't go until we find Gunther and the general..."
Blancanales interrupted. "You heard him, Ironman. It's his country. We'll go now."
"It's our war! We got to track down all these Nazis and stomp them out."
"I thank you for your help," the Lieutenant repeated. "But now I must ask you to go."