Dick Stivers - Into the Maze

"Keeps us alive."

"Until someone surprises you."

"Never happen. We're ready for anything. Boy Scout motto..."

On the helipad, a gunman pointed at the approaching troopship. Another gunman raised an Uzi. The crowd of fascists unslung weapons. Davis banked the helicopter away and shouted through the headphones. "You ready for a hot LZ?"

Slugs clanked into the fuselage. The helicopter veered away. Lyons looked down at the lights of the avenida , then the helicopter returned to level flight.

As the Mexicans raked the rooftop with their M-16 rifles, Lyons slung his Atchisson over his shoulder. Trusting his life to the safety webbing, he stood behind the pedestal-mounted M-60. He pulled the belt of 7.62 NATO cartridges from the can. Locking back the bolt, he set the safety and opened the feed-tray cover and positioned the first cartridge in the feed-tray groove. He closed the cover and eased forward the bolt to chamber the first round. He sighted on the stretcher.

If he killed General Mendez, he killed the commander of the International in Mexico.

Green tracers from the M-60 skipped off the asphalt helipad and pinwheeled into the night. A fascist gunman staggered back and fell over the stretcher. Other gunmen threw the dead man aside. They grabbed the handles of the stretcher and ran for shelter. Lyons held the sights on the white-wrapped man on the stretcher. One of the gunmen carrying the stretcher fell.

The helicopter gained altitude, throwing Lyons's line of fire off. He saw the surviving gunman drag the stretcher into the penthouse. Lyons spoke into the intercom. "Davis, circle level and hold it."

As the helicopter dropped, Lyons saw muzzle-flashes in the windows of the penthouse. He sighted on the dark windows and fired, holding the trigger back as the line of green tracers shattered the windows and punched through the walls. He saw green zigzags inside the penthouse as tracers ricocheted through the interior.

Grazing fire from a machine gun and the M-16 rifles of the Mexican soldiers drove the fascists off the rooftop. Lyons spoke into the intercom again. "Put us down."

The helicopter rose higher. Lyons leaned out the door and fired straight down into the roof of the penthouse, punching 7.62mm holes through microwave antennae and electronic components. A relay box exploded in a spray of sparks. Lyons continued firing — through the roof, through the walls, then directly through the door and windows — until the helicopter descended and the skids hit the helipad.

Soldiers rushed past Lyons. A submachine gun flashed from the penthouse. A soldier fell. As the wounded man crawled to cover, the other soldiers went flat, directing fire at the gunman while another soldier ran to the right. On the run, he pulled a grenade from his web belt and tossed it through the window.

Designed to stun terrorists and hostages with a blinding white flash and overwhelming shock without the wounds of shrapnel, the antiterrorist grenade exploded and blew glass and debris from the penthouse. The soldier threw a second grenade inside.

The platoon rushed the ruined penthouse. No more firing came from inside.

Sprawled on the asphalt, a wounded gunman raised himself from his blood and fired an Uzi. Shot in the legs, a soldier dropped. The gunman continued firing at the wounded soldier, a bullet knocking his M-16 from his hands. Lyons fired a single blast of 12-gauge, the double-ought load, taking away the fascist's head.

As a medic tended the wounded soldiers, Lyons followed the Mexican commandos into the wreckage of the penthouse.

Flashlights revealed dead men, groaning wounded, smashed furniture. Overturned file cabinets spilled thousands of papers. Blood puddled on the Persian carpets.

Soldiers searched through the destroyed office, shining flashlights on the faces of the dead and wounded. They did not find General Mendez or Colonel Gunther.

A private elevator connected the penthouse to the lower floors. The lieutenant posted four men to watch the elevator and the wounded fascists. Then he led his men out to the roof again.

Far below, they heard shooting. The lieutenant's walkie-talkie buzzed. He spoke into the radio for a moment. Then he directed his men to search the roof.

"They attempted to escape through the garage," Lieutenant Soto told Lyons. "My sergeant's platoon turned them back. They are trapped now."

A soldier shouted. He pointed to a door.

"Those are the stairs down," the lieutenant told Lyons. "Are you ready?"

"Consider this, Lieutenant," Lyons replied. "These Nazis are murderers. They're involved in the drug syndicates. Many of them are foreigners who are wanted for atrocities in their own countries. If they surrender, it's execution or life in prison. Chances are, they'll fight to the death."

"What do you suggest?"

"Withdraw your soldiers. Send word that the ex-president has arranged an escape for the Nazis. Then send helicopters to take them away. And take them directly to prison. Otherwise, you'll lose half your men in the building. Too many young men will die for other people's politics."

Lieutenant Soto clasped Lyons's shoulder in his hand. "American, you're a good man. But if I am to rid my country — if we are to rid our countries of these fascists, it must be tonight. Now. Tomorrow we may be in prison. You understand? I have no other way. We are alone in this."

Lyons nodded. " Entiendo ."

The helicopter returned. As it touched down on the helipad, soldiers jumped from the doors. Gadgets and Blancanales jogged over to Lyons. They wore their battle armor and gear.

Lyons touch-checked his weapons. "Hold off on the assault until me and my partners are ready."

"We must start now," the lieutenant said.

"We only need a heavy rope. And then we will lead the assault."

"No, you are foreigners," argued the lieutenant. "This is my duty."

"Let foreigners fight foreigners," Lyons insisted.

Shock-flash grenades boomed. As the Mexican soldiers sprayed autofire down the stairwells, Lyons dropped off the edge of the roof.

Thirty floors above the Paseo de la Reforma, he hung on the end of a rope. The overhang of the roof placed him six feet from the windows. He watched the offices in front of him. Three windows down, men moved inside an executive suite. But the explosions and shooting in the stairwells kept the attention of the fascists away from the skyline of Mexico City.

Lyons looked down. The lights of police cars and ambulances surrounded the tower. Emergency barriers blocked the avenida . He saw the specks of police officers and soldiers, but no one immediately below him.

He waited until his side-to-side swinging stopped. Then he moved back and forth to swing toward the plate-glass windows. He built up his swing. His shoes touched the steel frame. He pushed off.

With his silenced Colt, he fired four slugs through the plate glass as he swung outward, one shot to each corner. The glass shattered in sheets. Most of the glass fell into the office, but some fell to the empty sidewalk.

As he swung in, he reached out an arm to put it through the empty window frame and grab a handhold on the inside.

Slowly he eased through the window. Nothing moved in the dark office. He untied the harness of rope around him. Then he went to the door and locked it. By the light from the gray sky, he searched the office. He found only desks and filing cabinets.

He paused to reload his Colt, slapping in another extended 10-round-capacity magazine.

Returning to the window, he knocked out the last pieces of plate glass in the frame. He gave the rope two jerks, then two more. After a few seconds, the rope went slack. He pulled the lower end of the rope into the office and tied it to a heavy desk.