noncom hadn’t spotted the looming peril.
“That’s trouble!” Schwarz cried.
“He doesn’t see them, Pol,” Lyons said. “We need to get in front of him!”
Blancanales was obviously already in tune with the thoughts of his friend because he’d tromped the accelerator and whipped the nose of their sedan into the oncoming lane to pass Shubin. As they gained ground, the precious seconds ticking, Blancanales ordered his friends to brace for impact.
And then they smashed headlong into the fender of the van.
CHAPTER FOUR
The crunch of impact and screech of metal tearing fiberglass blasted the ears of the Able Team warriors.
All senses came alive for the trio as their sedan glanced off the van—the torsion created by the forces of the spinning vehicle caused their hearts to bottom out in their stomachs, or at least it felt that way. Blancanales gritted his teeth as he worked the steering wheel to keep some control. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best plan they’d ever come up with but at least it hadn’t ended in disaster for Shubin. Now all Blancanales had to do was to get the sedan stopped or at least to ditch it in a place that wouldn’t put any bystanders at risk. He waited until the sedan spun 180 degrees and then slammed the gearshift into reverse and tromped on the accelerator. The increased speed and sudden change of direction brought them neatly out of the spin that would have occurred had a trained stunt driver not been at the wheel.
Blancanales checked the rearview mirror, found his saving grace in a fire hydrant and jammed on the brakes just before hitting it. The rear bumper collided with the hydrant, shearing off the top portion as the breakaway safety cells locked into place to prevent water from bursting out of the pipe. The valves were not intended to completely block water flow; they merely reduced the amount of water that leaked out and diffused the pressure generated from the hydrant’s direct connection to a water main. The result was a bubbling fountain that came aboveground with enough pressure to pool around the vehicle and christen it to a stop.
Lyons took several deep breaths and then barked, “Report status!”
“Nothing broken,” Schwarz said from the backseat. “I’m good.”
“Pol?” Lyons didn’t get an answer and looked in the direction of his friend. Blancanales stared through the windshield and although he seemed unharmed, his skin had blanched somewhat. “Blancanales, snap out of it! Are you okay?”
“I’ll need new shorts but I’m good.” He waved out the window and added, “I think we’re just getting started.”
All three watched as the rear doors of the van, now on its side with the front wheels still turning, burst open and armed men staggered out. The scene was almost surreal as if the van was some great creation machine vomiting human offspring. They numbered six in all and appeared to be Caucasians save for one with dark skin and black curly hair. They wore camouflage fatigue pants, black T-shirts and combat boots. Their weapons were mostly SMGs with one or two full-profile assault rifles in the mix. At first they didn’t appear hostile toward Able Team or Shubin but that changed quickly enough.
Lyons noticed they were gaining their senses and a few began to sweep the area with the muzzles of their weapons for threats. Shubin had somehow managed to steer his sedan onto a sidewalk and smash into the exterior wall of a PX building. The senior noncom was trying to get his door open, kicking at it while uttering what were probably curses although Lyons couldn’t make out any of the words.
“Hostiles. Let’s hit it,” Lyons said.
The trio went EVA and drew their pistols.
Lyons carried his trusty Colt revolver—this time a .44 Magnum Anaconda with 240-grain jacketed hollowpoints. Blancanales produced his SIG-Sauer P-226 chambered for .357 Magnum. The standard of combat handguns carried by federal law enforcement, Texas Rangers and Navy SEALs, the SIG had proved itself a formidable ally and Blancanales favored it for close-quarters combat. Schwarz had selected a Model 92—a military variant of the Beretta 92-SB—that Stony Man’s crackerjack armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had modified to withstand a hotter 9 mm load and an 18-round magazine.
While the pistols might not have been much good against the autoweapons carried by their enemy, they were effective tools in the hands of these veterans, who weren’t shy about demonstrating that fact as they left the sedan and set down a steady stream of fire.
Lyons’s handcannon boomed its first report as the Able Team leader took one of the gunners with a clean shot to the head. The heavy slug busted the man’s skull open and showered his stunned companions with blood and gray matter. Lyons sighted on the second target but Blancanales beat him to the punch with a double tap from his SIG. Both .357 Magnum rounds cut through the man’s breastbone and lodged deep in his lungs. Pink, frothy sputum erupted from his mouth and his weapon flew from numb fingers.
The remaining four realized they had suddenly become targets, their ranks reduced by a third in just seconds. Each man scrambled for cover but realized he was in a poor position for it. They realized the best they could do was split up, each man for himself, and try to keep the heads of the Able Team warriors down while they broke for some kind of shelter from the assault.
“Pol, trunk!” Schwarz shouted as he snapped off three rounds of his own.
Blancanales ceased firing long enough from his position behind the door to reach in and stab at the switch for the trunk release. Schwarz urged his friends to get behind the rear doors, all knowing the thin skin of the fiberglass and metal in the modern sedan wouldn’t do much to stop the heavy-caliber rounds. At least the rear doors, both which Schwarz had opened for them, would add additional shielding. Lyons and Blancanales made their dash for the failsafe retreat position even as the enemy began to reach cover and return fire. A maelstrom of rounds peppered the front doors and windshield, a couple tearing through the front doors and exiting the other side in the empty space vacated by the Able Team warriors milliseconds before.
Schwarz reached the trunk, unzipped a long bag and came away with his prize. The M-16 A-3/M-203 sported the classic combination of effective small-arms features. Built with a carbine-style profile, it chambered 5.56 x 45 mm NATO rounds. The tubular style grenade launcher running beneath the foregrips fired a variant of the 40 mm grenades of the grenadier’s choosing. Schwarz settled for a high-explosive round this time around, retrieving a satchel of HEs as he ratcheted the breech forward with one hand.
Schwarz popped a shell into the breech, jacked the tube home with a click and flipped the leaf sight into action. He knelt, locked the stock against his shoulder, quick-sighted and squeezed the launcher trigger. The weapon kicked against his shoulder with the force of a 12-gauge shotgun, which paled in comparison to the impact of the blast that came a second later. The shell struck the van center mass and exploded on impact. A fireball erupted from the vehicle, followed by a roiling black cloud of smoke. A secondary explosion signaled the ignition of the gas tank. The blast didn’t engulf their enemies but a good number of them were knocked off their feet by the concussion.
Schwarz didn’t relent, rocking the tube forward to eject the inert shell and popping a fresh one into the breech.
Blancanales called for Schwarz to surrender his Beretta, which he did reluctantly, but also understanding when his friend gestured in Shubin’s direction. He tossed the pistol underhanded and Blancanales caught it one-handed. Schwarz then aimed the grenade launcher and triggered the second 40 mm HE shell. This one he adjusted to land a little farther aft of the van but with no less
