toed the body. Close up now, the expression he found on his teammate’s face told him Blancanales had the exact same stunned reaction.
“It’s the pajama suit that turned him into a ghost,” Blancanales whispered, then backed away several yards to cover them both, weapon fanning the compass.
That was the only possible answer, as Lyons, one eye and ear on his surroundings, bent to touch the body. The material was some kind of soft fabric, silk maybe, or a silica fiber composite. It was woven in a pattern of scales, hard but flexible, overlapping but meshing together, if he was seeing right, and Lyons wasn’t sure what to believe after what he’d witnessed. The black-suit was molded skintight, from hood to customized boots, everything formfitting and blended into one piece except for the night-vision goggles. Had to be some kind of cutting-edge thermal insulation that trapped body heat, Lyons thought, freeing his Ka-Bar fighting knife. The possibilities, he knew, for gaining superior edge in night combat with such a suit were beyond frightening, the hairs on the back of his neck still bristling. There was webbing to Velcro spare clips and grenades, a sheath for a commando dagger—made of the same material—but as Lyons quickly patted down the body that was it. No radio, no ID. A vehicle, then. Where there was one invisible shooter…
Placing the subgun on the ground, Lyons dug the blade into a pant leg, sheared off a strip of material and shoved it down into a slot on his vest. Assuming they all survived the next hour or so and made it back to Wonderland, Brognola had a crack forensics unit at the Justice Department who could give the fabric a thorough exam. He was pretty sure it was pointless to fingerprint the corpse. Most black ops were functioning living ghosts in everyday society, buried so deep and off the books they certainly couldn’t risk a social security number. But he took out the inkpad and a slip of paper for just such an occasion anyway, sliced the fabric off one hand. A quick roll and press of dead fingers, and Lyons signaled Blancanales to head out in a due north vector. It was time to abort, and Lyons knew he didn’t need to explain the reasons why to Blancanales. What remained to be seen—or not seen—may prove lethal beyond all their combined reason and experience.
And waiting in the night, at the bunker.
SABOTAGE, SUBVERSION and sale of nuclear-platform satellites to the enemies of the Free World were bottom-lined into the Shadow Man’s parlay. Whether crafted to finagle Brognola and whoever the op suspected were the big Fed’s superiors, the moment suddenly felt all wrong to the Justice Man.
He gnawed on his stogie, perusing the black file despite the nameless op’s wishes he hold off. What he saw were standard sat pics and blueprints of the Galileo complex, and what the man informed him were shots of a classified ESA compound in Germany. A CDROM was tucked in a corner pouch, and Shadow Man relayed the password. As usual, these sources from what struck Brognola as a bottomless abyss of intrigue and treachery always said a lot but told him little. This time was no different. It was as if a jigsaw puzzle was being dumped in his lap and he was supposed to strain himself into a stroke fitting the pieces together. Factor, though, what he knew about the nuke blast in Australia, the suspect a killer satellite of unknown origins that had self-detonated, the panic now rocketing through the White House…
There was a mission here, no question, or at least a starting point, so it seemed. Brognola hated the feeling that a noose was being dangled over his head. No matter how the intel shook out, he decided this would be the last time he ventured outside his own circle for a face-to-face with spookland, unless, that was, they were an old and trusted acquaintance. He was pondering how many things could go wrong when his pager vibrated.
Brognola gathered up the file, maintained his composure as he set the cigar on the edge of the ashtray. He bobbed his head in rhythm to the man’s ongoing spiel about the necessity to hunt down any traitors in place or circling the fort of Galileo. Rising, Brognola whipped out his Glock.
The cigarette fell from the Shadow Man’s lips. “What the hell are you—”
“Get on the floor.” When he hesitated, the big Fed aimed the Glock at his knee and ordered, “Now. Or I’ll give you some help.”
Brognola heard the commotion out front. No weapons fire, but he caught coughing and yelling beyond the door. Able Team, he hoped, gassing the shadow guns. The custom-designed Little Bulldozer that Blancanales toted, he knew, had a few armor-piercing impact rounds for the twelve tubes, packed with potent tranquilizer gas. No matter how thick the bulletproof glass on the spook ride, the driver should be down for the count if Pol slammed a 40 mm sleeper home in the GMC. Which left open the grim possibility of hidden shooters in the wooded slopes.
The op stretched out on his stomach. Brognola relieved the Shadow Man of his Beretta M-9. He slipped it inside his waistband, then heard Lyons patching through, the Able Team leader’s voice steely but urgent. Satisfied the man was disarmed, Brognola grabbed his handheld radio. “I’m here.”
“We’re bailing. Your two shadows out front are down, but we may have a problem, I’m not sure.”
That didn’t sound to Brognola like the take-charge Ironman he knew. “Explain.”
“I’ll explain when we evac. You’re covered. Mr. S will be waiting at the front door.”
“Roger.”
“I caught that. Brognola, listen to me. I didn’t come here to set you up. I’ve been straight with you. We’re on the same team. We want the same thing. There are people I need to flush out, ops I fear who are on the take and ready to pull the plug on Galileo. But I can’t do it myself. I’m too close to it, and they’ll know. I told you already, my life is in danger, so is yours. Especially after what I just gave you.”
Brognola didn’t answer as he backpedaled for the armored door.
“Brognola! If you just took out my two men—”
“Not the way you think. The only pain they’ll feel is when they wake up with a hangover that will have them screaming for a detox bed. And don’t call me, I’ll call you.” The man was still pleading his case as Brognola tried the steel handle, afraid it was locked. It wasn’t.
Two men, Brognola thought, that’s what the spook said, as he stepped outside, Glock fanning the Stygian gloom, right and left. Say he told the truth, then who was forcing Lyons to make the call to abort?
The war van, lights out, was already waiting, the side door open, Schwarz at the wheel and confirming a message over his com link. A quick march past the outstretched shadow by the front door, the air still tainted with the after-bite of chemicals, and Brognola was up and in the high-tech belly. A second later, Lyons was bounding in on his heels.
“Go!” Lyons barked at Schwarz.
Brognola landed in one of the seats bolted to the floor. He held on as Schwarz threw the wheel hard left, then whipped the van around, engine snarling as the Stony Man warrior straightened. Lyons looked strange, frightened, if Brognola didn’t know better. The white-hot tension thickened yet more as Lyons, crouched in the door, watched the passing wooded hills, HK roving and ready. The Able Team leader growled for Schwarz to slow down as Lyons reached out and helped haul Blancanales aboard.
“What the hell is going on?” Brognola demanded as Lyons slammed the door shut and Blancanales plopped down in front of a console. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say something or someone put the fear of God in the both of you.”
Blancanales began working the GPS monitor with its grid map of the area, feeding Schwarz new directions other than the front gate they’d come through originally.
Lyons slumped into a chair
