got the shot?”
“Negative. Too far away. Too clustered.”
“Let me fix that.”
Lyons darted out from between a pair of parked cars and uttered a war whoop. The sudden flurry of sound and motion caused the three men to look up from their captive. The guy in the black coat, the one who’d shot Schwarz, went on the defensive immediately. Crouching, he spotted Lyons heading his way and capped off two shots that whizzed well past the approaching figure. Lyons held his own fire, in part because of the proximity of houses and because the men remained too tightly wound around Fox. There was a good chance that Fox would take a hit.
Lyons ran in a zigzag pattern as the air around grew heavy with gunfire. Bullets perforated car windows, tail- and headlights, or glanced off steel. He watched as the third man dragged Fox’s body toward the car, opening up more precious space between him and the shooters with each passing second.
One of the hardmen got brave. He separated from the others and unleashed a volley of gunfire at Lyons. The former cop dived forward, rolled, before coming up in a prone position. The Python thundered twice more, spitting jagged columns of flame from the barrel. A moment later the shooter flew backward, as though hit dead-center by a wrecking ball. The guy in the black duster reacted, wheeling toward Lyons and unloading another deadly barrage of fire. The bullets chewed into the ground, showering Lyons with dirt and grass. Without aiming, he emptied the Python at his attacker, hoping the slugs at least would throw the guy off his stride.
The guy’s weapon went dry at the same time, forcing him to break off the attack. Lyons watched as the shooter let the submachine gun fall on its strap, spin and head for the vehicle’s driver’s side. The other man already had succeeded in stuffing Fox into the back seat of the car, and was scrambling to grab a weapon from under his jacket.
Popping the Python’s cylinder, Lyons was emptying spent brass even as he came to his feet. Stuffing a hand inside his jacket pocket, his fingers encircled a speed-loader and he charged the weapon on the run, completing the task in the same microsecond that the other guy freed a pistol from its holster and began to raise it.
Before Lyons could fire, the man suddenly stiffened, his expression morphing from one of shock to terror. Wounds sprang open across his torso. His knees suddenly gave out beneath him, and he crashed forward to the ground.
In the same instant, Lyons caught a glimpse of Blancanales heading for the car. However, the driver gunned the engine and sent the vehicle hurtling straight toward the commando, forcing him to leap out of its path.
Even as the car gathered speed, Lyons already was rocketing forward, trying to catch up with it. Legs pumping like pistons, the Able Team leader surged after the car, trying to get to it before it hit at full cruising speed. It was a wasted effort. In the seconds it took him to reach its starting point, the vehicle already had put another two blocks between itself and him.
He watched as it blew through a stop sign, nearly colliding with an oncoming car before disappearing over a hill. Stopping next to Blancanales, he radioed the information to Kurtzman.
“Shit,” the computer expert said. “Gabe’s as good as dead.”
“Scratch that, mister,” Lyons replied. “We’re not done here. Not by a long shot. Pass along the description to the police while Pol and I try to round up a vehicle. We’re going to keep looking for him.”
“Roger that,” Kurtzman said, his voice telegraphing the same doubt that Lyons’s felt roiling in his own gut.
“And tell Jack we need to get that bird up in the air. I want a visual on this SOB, like five minutes ago. Got it?”
“But Jack needs to airlift Gadgets—”
“Jack needs to pick up the pursuit.”
“Carl—”
“Don’t even go there, Bear. It’s one life against the potential loss of thousands. You read?”
“Understood.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Cortez navigated the car out of the city limits, heading north, higher into the Rocky Mountains. Checking his watch, he smiled. He still had three minutes to reach the rendezvous point. The mission had come about as close to going to hell as one could imagine, with this crazy group of federal agents busting up his play. But he still had time to salvage the whole thing, if he kept his head about him.
A groan sounded from behind him, and he glanced over the backrest to scan his prisoner. The guy’s skin was pale, and he was shuddering, most likely slipping into shock. Cortez sent a mental prayer heavenward that the guy would make it. If the guy died, if Cortez failed to produce the goods, he knew the consequences of that failure. Miguel Mendoza wasn’t a man you wanted to disappoint under any circumstances, but particularly not when a big payday was involved. Cortez didn’t know all the details, but he definitely knew that the guy in the back seat was worth lots of money to someone. But not if he died.
Driving with one hand, Cortez torched a cigarette and puffed away, squinting through the blue-gray smoke at the road ahead. As it was, the guy was going to be pissed off at him. After all, the simple snatch-and-grab had turned into a bloodbath with at least two downed cops, a handful of his own guys dead or missing and perhaps even some wounded civilians. So Cortez had no delusions about the warmth of the welcome he’d receive when he returned to Mexico.
Glancing into the back seat, he eyed the guy again and shook his head.
“Easy, gringo,” he called over his shoulder. His English was nearly flawless from years of studying criminal justice at UCLA before returning to his homeland. “We’ll fix you up real good. You’re our little cash cow.”
Two minutes later he pulled onto the side of the road, parked it and exited. Taking out his cellular telephone, he hit the redial button. When the verbal prompt came, he hit three more buttons and terminated the call, tossing the phone back inside the car.
Grabbing the big man under the shoulders, he dragged him from the back of the vehicle, pulled him about thirty yards from it and laid him out flat on the dirt and sparse grass. Moments later a pair of helicopters crested a nearby mountain peak and knifed toward him. The crew worked quickly, strapping the prisoner onto a stretcher and loading him onto the helicopter. Two more guys, both heavily armed, sprinted for the car.
Mendoza’s son, Bernardo, appeared in the door of one of the choppers and gave Cortez a questioning look. He replied with a nod and the younger man hopped from the craft, an olive drab duffel bag in his hand, and strode up to Cortez.
Taking the bag, Cortez ran after the two gunners. Sliding down a small incline next to the car, he ran to the two men, both of whom gave him a questioning look.
Pulling open the rear passenger’s-side door, he stuffed the bag into the space on the floor between the front and back seats.
“More ammunition,” he said. “In case you need it. Now go, get out of here.”
The driver nodded. Cortez slammed the door and dismissed the two men by banging a fist on the roof of the car, watching as the vehicle backed up, then drove back onto the road and roared away. Grinning, he sprinted for the helicopters and boarded the nearer one.
Moments
