Dick Stivers - Five Rings of Fire

"Don't get into the threats, Braddock. You'll never back them up. I need your cooperation. I've got a letter..." Lyons wheeled around and saw what he expected to see: Bly, the well-cut policewoman, with a .38 Charter Arms Police Bulldog in her hand pointed at Lyons. She was smart enough to have waited for backup before challenging the Able Team man. The second cop was a black giant in combat fatigues. The monolith held an Uzi in one enormous, beefy hand.

Lyons's radio beeped.

Emergency.

He reached for his belt to answer Gadgets's summons.

"Don't," the female cop cautioned. "Keep your hands clear or lose a hand."

Where have I heard that before? Lyons thought. The four-inch barrel of the .38 was staring at him.

"Braddock," he snapped, "call off the hounds. This beeper, it's an emergency."

Braddock moved out from behind his desk to confront Lyons. "You think you're something," he said. "Busting in here. Demanding things. You'll sit here, Lyons, until I get some answers."

Lyons's radio beeped again. He turned back to the doorway. Len Terney had joined the party.

"Len. You've got a brain. I've got the governor's backing. The President's backing. I've got a letter from the Man . You've seen it. Tell him to check it out."

The desk sergeant's voice was weak. "I've got three weeks until retirement. I'm sorry, Carl. I do what the chief says."

The giant in battle fatigues had taken a step back from the others. He still had his right hand wrapped around the Uzi. He had a portable radio in the other hand. He was engaged in a conversation; his voice was low. Lyons figured the guy was calling in reinforcements. Some cops liked to stack the odds.

The Able Team warrior knew the police would be reluctant to shoot if he gave them no reason to — if he didn't threaten anyone. He raised his shirt slowly so that everyone could plainly see he was not reaching for a weapon. He deliberately reached for the radio on his belt.

"Don't," Officer Bly commanded.

Lyons slowly unclipped the radio.

Braddock ordered Terney to take his gun and "other toys."

Lyons moved like lightning, pressing the button.

"Ironman here. Wizard, what's up?"

He was answered by dead silence.

Able Team was in trouble. With Terney nearly on top of him, so was Lyons.

Terney reached for the radio. Lyons threw it at the elderly officer's stomach. As the cop moved to deal with the flying object, Lyons popped him with a solid hook in the ribs, knocking him toward the policewoman's .38. The young woman sidestepped to avoid her co-worker. She got set to fire.

Lyons had not pulled his Beretta; a shoot-out would have been suicidal. He had to get someone on his side, if even by force. He made a low dive and hit the woman below the knees, dropping her hard to the floor. Then he felt a monster hand clutch his shoulder.

"Guns away,'' a voice bellowed.

Lyons looked up. The giant in combat garb was standing over him. "Sorry, Lyons," he said, a sheepish grin crossing his face. "I checked with Archer. You're okay."

"Took you long enough to figure that out," Lyons snarled. "I could be dead meat."

"This isn't exactly my territory," the man explained. "I'm Tim Sanders, Commander, DeltaBlue Light Team. That's the code name for an instant-response team the FBI's put together. I'm here with Braddock to coordinate Olympic security.''

"Instant response could be a little faster," Lyons said.

Sanders laughed. "I deserve that," he admitted. "Took me a second to contact Archer."

"Who's Archer?" Braddock demanded, fury forming lines across his forehead.

"Archer's a Fed," Lyons said. "Sanders, is your team here?"

"All here for a briefing. Chopper, too."

"My team's in trouble. Can you help?"

"Glad to."

"Let's move," Lyons said.

Lyons was so angry he felt like slamming the door. He couldn't. He had already kicked it in.

Two minutes later, Lyons, Sanders and the men of Delta Blue Light Team were airborne. Lyons gave Sanders a quick briefing.

"I left two men to check on the security of the gymnasts at UCLA. Also, a Babette Pavlovski clone was going to show up and draw the termites out of the woodwork. My men buzzed me. By the time I got to reply, there was no answer."

The specialist nodded.

Lyons brooded.

Babette, Gadgets and Pol were weaving toward the brick face of the multilevel parking structure. They snapped shots at the enemy. The Riding Devils advanced, chewing them up the ass with wild gunfire. Gadgets tried again to reach Lyons. A bullet tore the small communicator from his hand.

They ran along the side of the building and turned in the exit ramp.

"Watch the metal spikes," Babette cautioned. "They cut the tires of cars trying to sneak in the exits." Her voice was spliced between deep gasps of breath.

The team stepped over the metal plates and pounded onto the concrete ramp. Pol shot out instructions. "Right to the top. We don't want them to flank us."

The ominous throaty roar of large powerful motorcycles came from the parking lot the trio had just abandoned.

"They won't drive over the spikes," Gadgets said. "They'll come in the entry at the north end of the building. We've got to get to the middle ramp to go to the top."

"You two stop at the first ramp," Politician said, "and cover me. They'll need some slowing down."

The three took off in another sprint, hoping to reach the ramps before the bikers entered the first level. At the first ramp, Babette scrambled partway up, turned and covered Gadgets and Blancanales. Gadgets stopped, crouching behind the wheel of a van. Pol went fifty feet farther before moving behind a parked car, just as the first motorcyclist appeared at the end of the aisle.

Pol watched as eight bikers wheeled into the garage. Each man had a handgun out, ready for action. The bikers rode in single file, moving slowly. Blancanales knew more bikers were in the area but could not pinpoint where — the noise of the bikes in the garage was deafening. The Able Team ace had a hunch that the building was surrounded, that the eight inside were just the stopper in the bottle.

Instinct grabbed at his guts. He turned in time to see a Riding Devil lining him up with an automatic. Pol dropped flat as an entire clip of .45s snapped angrily over his head. He fired a burst under the car at the tire of the lead bike. The tire blew and the rider went down in front of the other bikers. They spread and stopped. Their handguns were up.

The bastard who had fired on him was now edging toward the grounded Able Team member. Rolling and lining up at the same swift instant, Politician laced a burst that tore up the killer's chest. The biker grabbed the area of his heart as hot blood spat wildly from the pulverized organ. Pol rolled back to his original position. Again spotting from underneath the cars, he saw the fallen biker lift his machine off himself as he struggled to rise. He didn't have a chance. Pol triggered his Ingram, and a burst blasted the bastard under the chin. Jawbone collided with brain matter in a gory smear of death.

Reacting with the speed of a man half his age, Politician surged to his feet and sprinted between parked cars and the outside retaining wall. Bullets whistled by him. He stopped behind a car, fired, then moved on. After half a dozen cars, Pol came to a pickup with a high cab. It was backed against the retaining wall, blocking his path. Keeping low, Blancanales moved back toward the center roadway, his legs churning to carry him with speed.

The bikers had all moved past their fallen buddies. Pol took out their new lead rider with a burst to the side. Bullets tore, chewed. The man screamed but his cry was lost in the din. The bikers, caught behind the corpse, stopped. There they waited for the man they felt they had trapped. Pol was trapped, but he held the key to freedom.