of the gun barrels firing on them obscured the targets somewhat, but not enough that Schwarz couldn’t implement an effective firing solution.
“Let’s see if we can’t give Ironman some support in another fashion.” Schwarz stabbed a button on the console and the van came alive with a steady, heavy vibration.
Blancanales gripped the arms of the driver’s seat and looked around the van nervously. “What the hell is that?”
Schwarz apparently hadn’t found time to fully brief his companions on every new on-board feature of the van, since they had taken possession of it only a few days ago. The roof-mounted, electronically controlled and fired .50-caliber machine gun happened to be one of those features.
Schwarz jerked a thumb toward the roof. “A top-ten hit by John Moses Browning and the Fifty Calibers.”
“I’ve heard that tune before,” Blancanales said with a grin. “An oldie but a goody.”
“I do try.”
Chips of concrete marked where the .50-caliber shells struck, raising clouds of dust and debris that obscured the van. Blancanales saw the opportunity to bail and cradled the Beretta SCS-70/90 in a ready position. He crossed the open space and managed to get clear of the front as he sprinted along the side of the building and came up on its rear. Once he reached a safe point, Blancanales stopped to catch his breath and put his back firmly to the wall. There were no terrorists shooting at the rear because there were no windows.
But Blancanales found what he’d hoped to find: a door.
The warrior took several more deep breaths of the chill midday air and then rushed to the door. He tried the handle first. Locked. Blancanales stepped back, held the SCS-70/90 tight and low and squeezed the trigger. The 5.56 mm rounds shredded the flimsy metal of the lock and the door popped from the lock and swung outward.
Blancanales smiled as he edged through the gap, thankful fate had gone easy on him so far. He’d never been the superstitious kind but right now was a time he could believe in it. Lyons had once again opted for the direct approach by charging the building in a frontal assault like a madman. Now Blancanales had to traipse after him, cover his six so he didn’t get it shot off by a horde of well-armed terrorists.
Blancanales spotted a stairwell to his right. The body of a terrorist heaped at the bottom of the steps marked Lyons’s trail. Blancanales hopped over the body and took the steps two at a time. The reports of autofire had faded with the onslaught delivered by the electronic heavy battery being poured out by Schwarz. Blancanales figured it was proving enough to keep terrorist heads down, and that would buy him the time he needed to find his friend.
Blancanales should have known it wouldn’t be difficult. As he reached the top of the steps, he glimpsed Lyons hunkered behind a large steel drum for cover as at least a half dozen terrorists were angling for a clear shot. Blancanales took them by surprise when he rested his Beretta across the railing that lined the opening to the stairwell and, using it as a sort of bipod, strafed them with a sustained barrage of NATO rounds.
Lyons glanced at his friend and then with a wicked smile he popped up from the cover of the steel drum and joined in the offensive. The terrorists were unprepared to have the tables turned on them in such a fashion, and it didn’t take much to cut them to ribbons. Blancanales took out four of the six with bursts that struck heads, chests and stomachs. Lyons implemented a more methodical strategy, taking the time to draw close aim on his targets before squeezing off 3-round bursts in precise kill-zones. Their assault lasted only a matter of seconds and when the dust cleared the Able Team pair couldn’t hear anything but ringing in their ears, didn’t smell anything but spent gunpowder.
A squawk resounded in Blancanales’s ear, a signal from the van com. “What’s up, Gadgets?”
Schwarz’s voice came back. “I got company here!”
Blancanales heard the autofire through the earpiece the same moment he and Lyons heard it echo through the cavernous second floor from outside. He tried to inform Lyons but the Able Team leader already seemed aware of it because he was on the move before Blancanales could utter a word. The two men descended the steps with all speed and made for the front door. They emerged from the semidarkness into the blazing sunlight, the effect nearly blinding them, but caught enough of the scene in front of them to understand.
Three terrorists had entered one of their vans and were trying to make a break for it, shooting at Schwarz as they attempted to flee. Before either Lyons or Blancanales could react, the unoccupied van suddenly exploded in a flaming gas ball. Metal shards rained near them and one missed Lyons by mere inches. The Able Team duo raced for their van as one of the terrorists who had taken advantage of the distraction got behind the wheel and fled with a squeal of tires.
Lyons and Blancanales reached the van, Lyons diving into the back and shutting the door behind him as Blancanales got behind the wheel.
“You all right?” Lyons asked, his eyes shooting to the splotch of blood soaked into Schwarz’s shirt.
Schwarz had been gripping his forearm, and when he pulled his hand away it was slick with more blood. “Minor wing.”
“Don’t look minor.” Lyons groused as he broke out the first-aid kit.
Blancanales put the van in motion and whipped it around with enough force to knock Lyons off balance. Lyons muttered curses under his breath but they weren’t really at Blancanales; he knew the stakes were high here. A lot depended on them catching up to those IUA terror-mongers. If the terrorists escaped, it could mean serious consequences for the entire country.
Lyons finished bandaging Schwarz’s arm and then moved to a spot between the front seats while Schwarz turned his attention to the console. The terrorists had put considerable distance between them but Blancanales managed to gain on them. Considering the head start they had, Lyons was impressed that Blancanales had enough foresight to figure their best direction, and he said as much.
“No sweatski,” Blancanales said. “The highway was the most logical choice for escape.”
“Still…” Lyons said, but he didn’t press it. The warrior looked over his shoulder at Schwarz. “You got any electronic doodads that might be able to disable that thing?”
Schwarz shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”
Lyons reached down and scooped up his M-16 A-3. He detached the M-203 from it as this model could perform in an attached or stand-alone capacity. The warrior reached into the bag and withdrew a 40 mm round. As he slammed it home and closed the breech with a pronounced movement he declared, “This should do the trick.”
Schwarz expressed horror. “That van’s our only remaining lead. You’re going to blow it up?”
Lyons grinned and his eye took on a fearsome glint. “Watch and learn, my friend. Pol, get up beside that thing.”
“Best possible speed. Aye-aye, skipper.”
Blancanales put pedal to metal and shortly they were gaining on the terrorists’ van. The thing the terrorists had forgotten was that most rental vans had governors on them—not that it would have been any competition against the 8-cylinder Hemi engine beneath the hood of Able Team’s van, which was further enhanced by a Cummins turbocharger. When they rolled up parallel, Lyons opened the side door of the van, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger of the M-203. The shotgun-style pop of the weapon drowned out the sound of breaking glass.
