Dick Stivers - Five Rings of Fire

Lyons regained his feet, at the same time instructing.

"Run for it. Run like hell."

Dix was still screaming. As he passed her, Lyons grabbed a handful of hair and lifted her toes clear off the sand. She gasped. Having been shot at, almost killed, and now this... Petra Dix was losing every inch of self-control.

"Bitch," Lyons snapped at her. "Almost got everyone killed."

He let go of her hair and she looked up at him, ready to lodge a raging complaint. Lyons stared her down. She shuddered.

"What are you doing here anyway?" Lyons snarled.

"I was after a story and I seemed to have found one. What's happening?"

Lyons shook his head. There was no way to deflect this woman away from a story. No way.

Two killers in combat fatigues, who had entered the compound minutes earlier, now used Lyons's escape route and crawled under the barbed wire. Rising to their feet over a small dune, they came upon a helpless Petra Dix and a spinning Carl Lyons. Lyons confronted the gunners, snapping off a burst from his combo gun. The weapon did its work, wiping away their faces in a bloody smear. Dix watched the man at work. Her breath grew choppy, her knees began to buckle.

Lyons grabbed her and propelled her toward the disappearing line of retreating allies.

"Catch up and keep low," Lyons ordered.

She tottered after the line.

"Lower. Faster," Lyons prodded, pushing her in the back with the hot gun barrel.

He could hear activity behind him. The paratroopers were taking over the compound, unaware that those once in the compound had left. Lyons knew they would discover the total emptiness of the area within a minute. Then they would be on the warpath to find the athletes, the deserted Klansmen and whoever had killed the KGB moles.

Lyons decided it was time to discourage pursuit. He stopped and turned, plucking three fragmentation grenades from a bandolier. The first one landed over the dune just as two heads appeared over the top of the sand. They collapsed back, screaming, as the grenade blew.

Lyons raised the M-203 and fired the next two grenades farther back. He was rewarded with ear-piercing screams. He turned and took off with a burst of speed.

When Lyons arrived at the helicopters, they were full. Both were warming up and the pilot of one was waiting to speak to him. Some people were still waiting to board. Lyons looked for his teammates. Pol and Gadgets were holding the area against the most probable directions of attack. Babette, Kelly and Zak Wilson eyed the third quadrant, Mustav and Jackson the fourth.

The pilot reached Lyons at the same time Petra Dix did. Both spoke at once. Lyons slapped in a new clip and then placed a firm hand over Dix's busy mouth.

"Go ahead," he said to the pilot.

The pilot was clearly uncomfortable with his message. "When we turned our radios back on, we were ordered back to base and told to take no further orders from you, sir. Colonel Follet says he's captured a Soviet spy helicopter over American soil."

"I'm real happy for the hero. You intend to dump the passengers?"

"Between you and me — not a chance."

"Copilots seats filled yet?" Lyons asked.

"Saved them for two of you," the man replied.

Lyons turned to Dix. "There's not enough room for everybody on these birds," he said, fanning a hand at the two jam-packed Sikorskys. "Can your chopper take four more?"

She nodded.

A burst of automatic-rifle fire flew high as Gadgets took out a sniper from the top of a dune. Lyons waved Kelly, Mustav and Wilson over. They arrived on the run.

"One of you in each copilot seat. Hold a gun on these jockeys until they unload everyone at UCLA. The extra person — hop on. Now, move."

The trio sprinted for the copter's doors.

"Thanks," the chopper pilot said. "That lets us off the hook." He took off for his machine.

Lyons thrust five grenades into the arms of Petra Dix. "They're getting too damn close for comfort," he snapped. He loaded a sixth into the M-79 and then, as the sandstorm from the chopper blades began to whip around them, he ran back along the way they had come. Dix hesitated for a moment, but when she saw Pol, Gadgets and Babette following, she hastened to catch up to Lyons.

The crest of the dune ahead of them bristled with M-16s. Very few heads showed — the assault rifles were being aimed at the rising helicopters. Lyons's grenade launcher was the first to speak. The other two Able Team members and Babette joined in with their Ingrams, sweeping the crest of the dune, tearing into heads, kicking up sand. Lyons snatched another grenade from Dix's hand. The M-79 boomed again. Two figures straightened up as nerves were blasted by the impact of thousands of wire shards.

Lyons grabbed another grenade.

"Helicopter is over to the right," Dix shouted. But Lyons did not seem interested in the positioning of the copter; his mind and sights were on the enemy. The second chopper lifted like a monster off the desert floor. All Able Team members felt a great sense of relief. The only bodies on the line were those of Babette Pavlovski and Petra Dix — both volunteers on the war's battlefront — and themselves, professional fighters, a justice-by-fire death squad.

The eastern horizon was bloody with the arrival of the sun. The sky was light. Soon the sun's strength would be unbearable.

Petra Dix watched as Lyons and his cohorts moved straight ahead, into enemy fire. She wondered what the hell she was doing with them. She was covering a story. She did not want to become one.

When Lyons took the last grenade from Dix's carefully kept hands, she turned right and ran. There was a spare camera in the copter. She could take off and use it on remote. She sprinted. Her lungs, unaccustomed to running, heaved madly.

As she scrambled up the side of the dune she remembered that she had the means of transportation for the others. Later, she thought. Later. She topped the dune in a trot and sped down the other side, right into the arms of four men wearing camouflage combat fatigues. Two of the gunners reached out and caught her by the arms.

"Look what dropped in," one said, a sick grin opening up on his sand-swept face.

"Think we've got us a deserter," said another. The pair threw Dix to the ground. She landed with a thud. She realized her time to play reporter was up. This was no longer a game. By leaving Lyons she had left safety. Now she was paying the price.

The four men were not in a good mood. Their asses were on the line. The athletes had escaped. A small team of crack gunners had decimated their ranks. The sun was up and fast becoming blistering. They wanted no more than to kill the enemy that remained and get the hell out of the sandy battlefield.

One of the bastards held a knife to her throat while another searched her for weapons. He grabbed roughly at her crotch, slapped his hands across her breasts. Dix bit her lip trying not to cry. She wanted to scream but the knife at her throat told her not to.

"How many troops over there?" the man with the knife asked.

"Three men and a woman," Dix whispered.

"Bullshit," the other man snarled, slapping her breast with a powerful swat.

"Hon... honest," Dix gasped. "The rest took off in the copters."

One of the men who hadn't spoken yet piped up. "If they've got only four, let's take them and get out of here."

The man with the knife turned Dix onto her stomach. He took the knife and passed it along her spine. She felt nothing more than a light tingle as the knife sliced through her two-hundred-dollar bush jacket and her bra. The goon pulled her jacket and her bra off, leaving her naked from the waist up. "Tie her feet," the man told his companion. "And hands."

The man, grinning a gap-toothed grin, slobbered on the newswoman as he tied her up.