Dick Stivers - Deathbites

"Not much. I certainly don't need three or four shadows following me around. Your people can stick to their own jobs. Miss Devine, my assistant, is the only observer I need."

Brognola nodded, his face bland except for a slight hardening of the muscles around his mouth.

"Then I'll tend to business. Let me know what you find. I'll be in my office in about half an hour. I'll wait until I see you again."

"Okay," Lyons answered.

"By the way," Brognola asked, "how's traffic along the parkway?"

"Not bad. I have one of those Fords that the city provides. I managed to get here without putting a ding in the fender. It's hard to explain that you totaled another car because of some battered GMC pickup that you didn't see."

The acting chief-executive officer of Elwood Electronics shook his head as he left the reception area. "Amazing," he muttered.

"What's so amazing about getting here without an accident?" Deborah wanted to know.

"With you to look at, it's a miracle that I could spare any attention for the road," Lyons told her.

She ignored his flattery. "Weird," she commented. "What do we do now, Mr. Inspector."

Lyons led her out of earshot of the receptionist, before answering. "We inspect. We go through every square foot of the place until we're certain that this scientist is either here or not here. You have her description?"

"Of course. I was given it at the same time you were, remember?"

"Just barely."

"Then let's start inspecting, inspector."

Hal Brognola hurried away from Lyons. He had been uncertain how the big blond would handle the undercover work. No one ever really knew what Lyons would do next. However, there was no doubting the communications, in spite of the witnesses who were watching and listening.

Brognola went over the points in his mind. "Advise you of unsafe conditions" and "return today or tomorrow" could only mean that Lyons had come to scout the place for another attack by HIT, but what were the conditions? Hopefully Lyons could clarify that before he left the building.

"Three or four shadows" when Miss Devine was the only assistant he needed was also clear. Brognola hustled into his office and locked the door behind him. He pulled out a sports bag filled with tools of the trade.

He slipped off his jacket and put on a soft-leather, breakaway shoulder harness. He checked the clip on a Heckler & Koch VP 70Z. The eighteen 9mm parabellums were all waiting for action. He slammed the clip home, making sure it was seated. Then he clamped a stubby sound suppressor over the end of the barrel, tightening small set screws into the thumb grooves on the side and front of the gun barrel.

With the suppressor and the internal spring mechanism that delayed the shell ejection, the automatic weighed almost three pounds. He slipped the deadly German-made gun into the clip under his armpit and then put his jacket back on. The impeccable tailoring hid the presence of the gun very well.

Brognola rummaged in his sports bag until he found a weighted cosh, which he slipped into his left pocket. He unlocked his office door and headed for a side-door exit.

"I'm stepping out for a breath of air. I'll be back in ten minutes," he told his secretary.

It took no time to find the battered GMC pickup on the company lot, but there was no one with it. That gave Brognola the problem of finding the terrorists who were probably spread out watching all the entrances to the building. After a moment's thought he went to his rented Chrysler.

He started the car and drove carefully through the lot until he came to the pickup truck. He stepped his speed up to about twelve miles per hour and steered the heavy car into the front fender of the truck. The impact was exactly right. It curled the fender into the tire so the truck could not be driven until the fender was straightened or removed. The high-impact bumper on the New Yorker absorbed most of the shock. The crumpling of the fender did poke out one headlight, but Brognola noticed no body damage when he got out and looked.

It took only eight seconds for a thin man with a knife scar on his left cheek to make his appearance.

"Why the hell don't you watch where you're driving?" the man demanded in a whiny voice.

"I did," Brognola assured him. "I hit exactly where I aimed. The trouble is that tinny fender didn't crumple as it should. It broke one of my headlights."

"You did what?"

"I saw that disgraceful piece of garbage on a private lot, where it has no right to be. So I decided to disable it. Now it can't be driven away without slicing up the tire. I didn't count on breaking a headlight. I think you're going to pay for that."

"You think I'm going to do what!"

Another man drifted over to check the cause of the disturbance. He was a beefy character, dressed in jeans and cowboy boots. He needed a shave.

"What's the trouble, Kelby?" the newcomer asked.

"This asshole ran into my truck deliberately."

"Well, he's seen you now. We'll have to take care of him."

Brognola felt an uneasy prickle across the back of his scalp. These two would be too easy. That meant there were one or two others out there, and if they knew what they were doing, their guns would be trained on him right now.

Brognola turned and ran, pulling the VP 70Z as he threaded his way between cars, bending almost double to present a smaller target.

Two bullets came from a low angle and bounced off the roof of a car. Brognola caught sight of the only other terrorist from the corner of his eye. He let his knees buckle as if he was hit. As soon as he was below the rooflines of the cars, he turned and waited.

The fat goon in cowboy boots appeared first. He had run less than fifty feet, but was already puffing. Two parabellums tore into the terrorist's chest. He dropped in a pool of death.

Brognola changed position slowly, duck walking and listening as he went. He kept down and zigzagged toward the spot he last saw the gunman who had shot at him. He could hear the scar-faced terrorist scuffing tarmac as he tried to sneak up on the place where the Fed had dropped from sight.

Brognola went flat on his stomach, aimed his weapon and waited. Soon scar face's scuffed shoes came into view two cars down. Brognola put a bullet through each ankle and scrambled away quickly. Two bullets ricocheted off the parking-lot surface inches from his retreating legs. Brognola knew he was not the only one to think about shooting under cars. The whine of the bullets were lost in the screams of the man with two shattered ankles.

Brognola put his head close to the ground. He saw no one, so he took a few quick steps closer to the screaming man. He paused next to a set of tires and looked below the cars again. Proceeding in that way, he reached the wounded terrorist.

"Tell me who sent you or I take out your kneecaps as well," Brognola told the terrorist.

"They'll kill me if I say anything," the man gasped through his panic. He was still in too much shock to feel the pain.

"And you'll never walk again if you don't," Brognola told him in a loud voice.

Two more shots rang out. Both bullets jarred the fallen man's head. He had been shut up forever by one of his own kind.

Brognola leaped from the ground to the hood of the nearest car, and from there to the roof. Each step took him in the direction of the sound of the last shots.

The angle worked to Brognola's advantage. He saw the top of the terrorist's head before the terrorist had straightened enough to line his gun up on the bouncing Fed. The VP 70Z coughed again. A small neat hole appeared in the top of the terror monger's head, and much of the back of the skull disappeared in a fine spray of red.

Brognola looked around. No one had been close enough to pay attention to the shots. Working quickly, he carried the bodies to the battered pickup and tossed them in the back. Luck was with him when he found a tarp in the truck and did not have to search for something to throw over the bodies. He then put the Chrysler back in its parking spot and pulled a suitcase from the trunk.