Dick Stivers: Royal Flush

"Yeah, guv'nor," Ripper nodded. "It's a damn good thing they did." Looking into his mirror, he watched the blue Jag sink back into the medium to heavy traffic that trailed behind them on the three-lane highway connecting the airport with the capital.

Lyons noted Ripper's distraction and leaned forward.

"Get off at the next exit and find a nice quiet street," he said. He retrieved the three cases from the front seat.

Gadgets brought a pair of wire cutters to bear on the three seals and broke them. The warriors stripped off their suitcoats. Shoulder holsters for the Colt autopistols were strapped into place and the coats replaced. Ingram M-10s rested on their legs. Spare magazines for the weapons filled all jacket pockets.

Ripper pulled out his own piece, passed it back to Lyons and asked him to chamber a round. Sir Jack Richardson gazed at it. The weapon was a Beretta 93-R. The compact self-loading pistol was familiar to Able Team. Its fifteen 9mm missiles could be dispatched one at a time or in groups of three. But Able Team had abandoned the silenced version of this weapon. Carl was the first to make the switch to the modified Colt. His argument was that the silencer on the Beretta reduced the speed of the 115-grain bullets to subsonic. At that slow speed, a kill required a perfect headshot. Anything less would not necessarily stop the enemy, not the kind of enemy Able Team faced. The .45-caliber slugs of the Colt did considerably more damage at the slow speed required for a silenced weapon.

"This standard issue now?" Lyons asked Ripper.

"Not likely," the owner chuckled. Ripper was a convert to Mack Bolan's cause from years back, had been brought in on the Shillelagh case in recognition of his links with both the mob's lizardmen and Mack Bolan's global war, and now he looked with eager curiosity at the men who sat behind him.

Sir Jack Richardson produced an Uzi from a shelf beneath the seat. Standard issue for the Secret Service, the Israeli SMG could empty a 32-round magazine of 9mm flesh-shredders in just under three seconds. There were no Secret Servicemen in the car, nor in its proximity; the fear of personal sabotage had taken its toll and denied the American penetrators any protection. But the weapons of the Service remained in the car, primed and ready for use.

Ripper found the quiet street he was looking for and powered the limousine into a sharp turn. He brought the car to a halt immediately. Lyons and Schwarz jumped out and headed in opposite directions.

With the sound of the slammed doors, Ripper tromped the gas pedal and the car roared down the street. After about four hundred feet, he managed a controlled spin that brought it screeching across the street. It was still backing from its turn as Ripper and Richardson got out and ran for the buildings aft of the car. Blancanales had already exited and made for cover.

Ripper's "quiet street" was a fashionable residential row in the south London suburbs. It was lined with houses built close to the street. The side of one building nearly touched the side of its neighbor, leaving a narrow space between them.

The Jag took the corner very quickly. It flew past Lyons and Schwarz and headed toward the limousine. The driver stood on the brake. The big sedan's nose touched the side of the blocking vehicle. Four gunners clambered out brandishing AK-47s and Uzis. Two stayed with the Jag, while their partners went to the street corners and began a building-to-building sweep.

A Rover TC-3500 slowly turned the corner and came to a smooth stop at the top of the street. Four more men entered the scene. The new arrivals opened up.

Schwarz flattened as rounds chipped at the brickwork around his position. One chip grazed his right cheek below the eye. He inched forward, extending the muzzle of the Colt just past the edge of the wall, and a stroke of the trigger sent a three-round burst to the Rover. He jerked quickly back. He heard a dying man moaning as his life drained away into the London gutter.

Lyons directed another quick burst of persuaders toward the Rover. Targets died hurriedly.

The sweep began to fall apart. Colts dispatched 230-grain messages and brooked no reply. A string of crimson holes sprouted down the side of two enemy gunners as Ingram slugs stitched them from collar to crotch.

But Gadgets was still pinned down with a hail of 7.62mm lead. From fifty yards away, Ripper saw the American's predicament. The ex-mafioso gripped his weapon in two hands and sent three 9mm slugs to provide an edge in the confrontation. The slugs slammed into the shoulder and chest of the last visible gunner. Wounds gurgled as air leaked into the chest cavity.

Lyons looked around him. Residents remained cowering in their homes in the damp late afternoon. It was a scene that reminded him of Northern Ireland firefight footage he had studied back in the States. The air hung with palpable horror on all sides. Who knew where the next shot would come from?

Lyons took the risk. He ran to the nearest dying man. The guy looked up at him with fear and helplessness in his eyes. Lyons kicked him in the side.

The mortally wounded man groaned. "This ain't personal — I was just sent on a job…"

"And now?" Lyons glared at him, kneeling.

"Huh?"

"Now that I've wiped out your buddies, you still have no personal feelings about me?"

"Yeah. No …!"

The foresight of Lyons's Colt ripped along the guy's cheek, splitting the skin apart.

"Who sent you?" Lyons shouted.

The almost-dead tough found a last gasp of bravado.

"Fuck you! Wha'd you have to say to that?"

"That you're not a very interesting character," Lyons replied. Standing, he stroked the Colt's trigger with his forefinger.

Any other survivors from the Jag had split, presumably through the gaps between the buildings and away.

Ripper walked to the Rover and removed two of the bodies that lay in its path, leaving trails of red in his wake. He climbed into the Rover and was thankful that the keys to the car were still in the ignition. He didn't want to search the bodies. The car started smoothly and he moved it out of the way of the Secret Service vehicle, feeling the bump as he drove over an arm. He parked, then returned to move the Jag away from the side of the limo.

Finally Ripper returned to sit at the wheel of the limo. He stared into the mirror at the men in the back seat, their bodies crouched next to the sweating figure of Sir Jack Richardson, their eyes darting about at all times.

What in the hell kind of men were these?

Settling back into the limo's front seat, Ripper took his passengers away from the battleground. The police were very efficient in London. The limo encountered a roadblock within two blocks. There had been no exterior damage to the car, and the diplomatic status of the vehicle guaranteed its passage through police lines without difficulty. The hardware rested snugly in the cases and the tinted windows of the vehicle prevented examination of its occupants.

Ripper drove on through wet streets to Grosvenor Square and the underground garage beneath the U.S. Embassy. There, Able Team went EVA in peace and quiet, disembarking and stretching their limbs and anxiously looking forward to some food and sleep. In the embassy itself, they were guided to quarters without introductions or interference. They had an hour or two before meeting with Leo.

Security for Leo Turrin had been a nightmare, so his arrivals and departures were secret and erratic. If the wrong people saw him in London, then eventually Leo could be assured of a slow and very painful death at the hands of a turkey doctor.

"Turkey" was a brutal form of torture, used by the mob to "interrogate" informants or to punish traitors. The victim's body was slowly brutalized until only a living mound of something resembling flesh remained. Throughout the ordeal, the victim was kept alive and fully aware of everything going on, screaming anything his torturers wanted to hear — anything to stop the pain.