Dick Stivers - Warlord of Azatlan

Luis parked in the entryway, the doors of the taxi only a step from the guard post.

They loaded the teenage soldiers into the taxi, then opened the gate. Seconds later, the rented van and a late-model Fiat sedan followed the taxi into the estate.

His silenced Colt in his hand, Lyons ran to the front door. He heard the others rushing from the cars as he sighted on the lock, fired twice, and kicked the door open.

Standing in a white entryway decorated with European pop art, a slender young woman in a form-hugging gown of red acetate screamed. Behind her, a mustached man in a tuxedo and bow tie dropped to one knee, his hands going for a pistol in an ankle holster.

Lyons leaped in, straight-armed the woman in the throat, her scream stopping as if switched off, then sprinted three steps to the man and kicked him in the face. The man rolled back, blood spraying from his smashed nose, a small pistol flying from his hand.

Blancanales held and questioned the two while Luis searched through the desk drawers and file cabinets of the lieutenant's office. Lyons and the squad of anti-fascist fighters swept through the house. In the bedrooms, they found an elderly nanny and two children.

"They don't know the exact location of the base," Blancanales told Lyons and Gadgets when they reunited. "Lieutenant Garcia never goes into the mountains. The senora only goes as far as a village at the end of the paved road, a place called Azatlan. From there, she says, Unomundo's men or local policemen take the information."

Lyons squatted in front of the handcuffed couple. Tears streamed down the woman's face, powder and mascara splattering on her breasts. The lieutenant glared hate at the North American who had broken his nose.

"Why the bombs?" Lyons asked them.

The woman glanced to her husband. He shook his head. They did not answer.

"I asked you, why the bombs?"

Luis rushed from the lieutenant's office, sheets of typed columns in his hands. "Look. These are death lists. Every name a corpse. Or a family butchered. She has murdered hundreds of..."

"No! I killed no one. I only carry messages. I am a courier."

The three North Americans checked the typed sheets. A penciled X marked most of the names. Lyons smiled to the woman.

"Tonight you carry another message to Azatlan. Us."

"No! No! Por el amor de Dios ," Senora Garcia cried out. "Unomundo will kill us. Kill my babies."

"You will take them to the Nazis," Luis told her, "or we will kill your children."

Blancanales motioned Lyons and Gadgets to one side. Keeping their voices low, they discussed their options.

"If we take her with us," Blancanales suggested, "she could lead us directly to her contact. With these people holding her husband and children, she won't give us any problems."

"I don't want to take the doctor's squads with us," Lyons whispered. "Carloads of people with rifles and pistols get noticed."

"Yeah, and we don't have the extra radios," Gadgets added. "Mucho problems with communications."

"That, too," Lyons agreed. "But the fact is, I don't trust them. That Luis, we don't take him in for the hit, okay?"

"You're paranoid," Gadgets said.

Blancanales agreed. "He's proved himself. He doesn't work for Unomundo."

"That's not it. Luis is twisted. Something happened to him. All he wants to do is kill and torture..."

Gadgets laughed. "The Ironman doesn't like that?"

"I do what is necessary. I don't enjoy it. You know that."

Blancanales cut off the talk. "We'll take her to Azatlan to make the contact. We'll take Luis with us so he can bring the woman back immediately. Agreed?"

They nodded. The anti-fascist fighters took the lieutenant and the children away in a car. Senora Garcia's face was a mask of grief and panic as her family disappeared. Other fighters loaded the lieutenant's files into another car. Luis reported to Able Team.

"My people will hold the traitor and his children until we return. The death lists and messages from Unomundo will go to the newspapers after we break the fascists. How many fighters do you need for the attack?"

"None," Lyons told him. "Your fighters can shoot, but they aren't trained soldiers."

"Three men? Against many soldiers and mercenaries?"

"We only need to kill one man," Lyons answered. "Unomundo."

In two cars — the rented Volkswagen van and Lieutenant Garcia's unmarked Dodge — Able Team traveled west, following the Pan American Highway through the foothills and ravines surrounding Guatemala City. Traffic was moderate. Luis, wearing tailored and pressed fatigues from the lieutenant's wardrobe, drove for Lyons and Senora Garcia. Blancanales and Gadgets followed in the Volkswagen.

Switching on an official-band radio in the Dodge, they heard military and police units reporting on the massacre in front of the warehouse. Luis translated for Lyons.

"They call them Communist terrorists… fourteen dead… no weapons, but some of the dead men had holsters for pistols… it is now being investigated by the army…"

Lyons keyed his hand-radio to brief Blancanales and Gadgets.

"We're monitoring the police units at the bomb factory. The police have turned it over to the army to investigate. Seems they think it was a Communist terror operation."

"What about Colonel Morales?" Blancanales asked.

"Nothing.

"… they have no witnesses…"

"Anything about three North Americans?"

"Nothing yet."

Luis continued to translate as he followed the winding freeway through the night. "…there is another report… an army colonel murdered by guerillas on the highway… Colonel Crespo."

"You know this Crespo?" Lyons asked.

"Did you take his name to Unomundo?" Luis demanded of Senora Garcia, who rode silently in the back seat, her hands cuffed behind her, plastic handcuffs looped around her ankles. "Answer me!"

But she only cried. Luis cursed her in Spanish. He told Lyons: "The president appointed him to reform the National Police. Colonel Crespo threw out those who kidnapped and tortured and murdered. And now he is dead, machinegunned in Chimaltenango. By hombres desconocidos . Unknown men. It was unknown men who killed my wife and baby. Are you proud of that, puta! Puta fascista!"

"I killed no one. My husband killed no one."

Luis flashed a glance of hatred at the woman in the back seat. "You think your lies will save you? I saw the lists! I know..."

He went quiet to listen to the military-police radio. "Roadblock! They will search cars for the Communists."

"Where?"

He pointed ahead.

"Pol. Wizard. We got problems. We're going into a roadblock."

"Any way to go around it?" Gadgets asked.

Luis heard the question from the hand-radio. "Tell your friends I have the fascist's identification. In this uniform and this automobile, perhaps they will allow us to pass without a search."

"With a foreigner and a woman?" Lyons asked. "And what about my partners?"

"Well… perhaps we will pass before they close the highway."

Accelerating, they swerved through the late-night traffic. The powerful Dodge passed the other cars easily, flashing past buses and trucks laboring up the incline. But the Volkswagen lagged. The hand-radio buzzed.

"Ironman!" Gadgets called. "We can't keep up. This thing's got a small engine..."

"Forget it. We're there."

Traffic jammed bumper-to-bumper in the lanes, clouds of exhaust glowing red with brake lights. Luis moved over the center dividing line.

"Don't try to turn around!" Lyons warned him. "They'll spot us for sure. We've got to chance it."

"Of course. But any army officer would not wait with the other cars. Radio your partners to follow."

Lyons keyed his hand-radio. "Stay on our bumper. Luis is going to the head of the line."