Colt 9 mm SMG for Schwarz and a short-barreled M-4 carbine for Blancanales. Plenty of loaded magazines, grenades, explosive charges and other hardware had been provided—Blancanales wondered, sometimes, how many blacksuits spent their days just thumbing ammunition into magazines for the Farm’s counterterror teams—as had been an M-32 six-round 40 mm grenade launcher. The modified Milkor MGL-140 with a fore-grip, collapsible modular buttstock, recoil pad, and quad-rail Picatinny fore-end could empty a half dozen grenades on target in less than three seconds. Their grab bag of firepower from the Farm also included plenty of Hellhound breaching/antipersonnel rounds and DRACO thermobaric grenades. Blancanales would have to check to be sure, but he thought their load-out also included some buckshot rounds—each grenade boasting twenty-seven 00 buckshot spheres that could blow a cone almost a hundred feet across at almost 900 feet per second.
It was a pretty typical bag of tricks for Able Team.
Each man also carried a tactical one-hand-opening folding knife with an integral guard, sizable chunks of steel that had been honed to razor edges. Blancanales had been resisting the urge to play with the one issued to him. It was clipped inside his right front pocket.
“Level twenty-three,” Schwarz announced. He turned to regard Lyons smugly. Lyons kept his eyes on the road, but Blancanales thought he could see the big former cop’s shoulders tense. Lyons might not really snatch the phone and pitch it out the window, but he seemed to be giving it some serious thought.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Lyons said, still staring straight ahead. His knuckles grew less white on the steering wheel as he spoke. “We hit the parking lot and break out the heavy hardware. Gadgets, you break left, cover the left side of the lobby as we head in. Pol, you break right. Watch the flanks while I drive up the center. You’ll lay down covering fire as I—”
“Wait,” Blancanales said. “What?”
“Uh,” Schwarz said. “Ironman?”
“What?” Lyons said, sounding annoyed.
“Are you…are you planning to just roll in and shoot everybody?”
“Well, what else?” Lyons said. “Obviously he’s the bad guy. He’s going to try to kill us as soon as he figures we have enough evidence to take him down. So, like I said at the briefing, we just cut to the end. It will save a lot of time and hassle.”
“You’re not serious,” Schwarz argued.
Lyons sighed. “No. I’m not. But it got you to put down that damned game for thirty seconds, didn’t it?”
Blancanales looked at Schwarz, who looked at Lyons. Lyons looked at both of them before turning his attention back to the road. Then Carl “Ironman” Lyons began laughing. It was a deep, hearty laugh.
“You had me going,” Blancanales admitted.
Schwarz blew air through his mouth. “Yeesh,” he said. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Ironman.”
“You’re already on it,” Lyons said. “You and that candy monster whatchamacallit.”
“Level—” Schwarz started.
“You announce what level you’re on one more time,” Lyons warned, “and I’m going to throw you out of this truck at seventy miles per hour.” Schwarz wisely chose not to comment further. “Twenty bucks says this Rhemsen character tries to punch our tickets the moment he thinks he can’t get away with his lies.”
“You’re on,” Schwarz said. “We’ve seen too many corrupt captains of industry. Sooner or later one of them’s bound to be a patsy.” He looked back at Blancanales. “You want in on this action, Pol?”
“I know better than to get in the middle of you two when you’re bickering,” Blancanales said.
“This isn’t bickering,” Lyons said. “I’m not bickering.”
“I might be,” Schwarz said.
“Might?” Lyons shot him another side-eye.
Blancanales could not help but grin. It was not too much longer before the windshield-mounted GPS announced the turn for their destination. Lyons pulled onto the RhemCorp property and rolled up to the guest parking spots near the front. He was careful to back the old Suburban in for a fast getaway, should it come to that. While he was doing that, Blancanales sent a scrambled text to the Farm from his satellite smartphone, alerting Barbara Price and mission control that they were on-site and preparing to make contact with Harold Rhemsen.
“Check it,” Schwarz said as they exited the vehicle. He jerked his chin toward the guards at the front door. There were two outside the building, one on either side of the ornate double doors. Both had Brugger and Thomet MP-9 submachine guns with extended barrels and skeletonized stocks. The weapons had red-dot optics and fore-grips with built-in weapon lights.
“That’s a lot of hardware for civilian contractors on American soil,” Blancanales noted.
“There’s still time to break out the bigger guns,” Lyons said. “I’m game.”
“Now you’re just teasing,” Schwarz put in.
“Come on,” Lyons said. “Let’s go through the motions.” He reached under his bomber jacket and adjusted his shoulder holster. As they neared the security guards, the insignia on the two operatives’ uniforms became visible.
“Blackstar,” Schwarz mumbled under his breath.
“Well, that’s just great,” muttered Lyons. “How many legit businessmen would sign on with those ghouls? Want to give me that money now, Gadgets?”
“I’ll pay as I go,” Schwarz quipped.
Blancanales frowned. Blackstar was a notoriously discredited military contractor and mercenary supply outfit. Government oversight committees were even now investigating Blackstar’s parent company for war crimes in both Iraq and Afghanistan. If RhemCorp was employing armed mercenaries for security, that did not bode well. Blancanales was tempted to think Lyons’s plan to just knock the place over might be a good idea.
Lyons eyed the two Blackstar men hard as Able Team passed between them. The trio of counterterror operatives emerged in the lobby of RhemCorp. It was an unremarkable space, not overlarge. The building itself was similarly nondescript. Able Team had seen some pretty lavish and indulgent office structures in their time working on United States soil. Whatever sort of power-broker Rhemsen was, he wasn’t the kind of man given to ostentatious displays of wealth.
Lyons, with his teammates close behind, strode up to the reception desk. The receptionist was an older woman, her face lined and haggard. Blancanales watched as Lyons tried and did not quite succeed in hiding his reaction when she looked up from paperwork in front of her.
“Yes? May I help you?” she asked. Her voice was piercing and nasal. It was the kind of voice television comedians put on for a laugh. Evidently this was the one she’d been born with.
“Agents Perry, Tyler and Hamilton,” said Lyons. “We’re with the Justice Department.” He flashed her the Justice credentials Brognola’s office had issued to Able Team. Lyons had no idea what names were actually written on the credentials. In situations such as this he just offered the first three names that came to mind. He
