Dick Stivers - Deathbites

Lyons was instantly upon them. He dropped the terrorist with the brass knuckles with a short, sharp kidney punch. The killer with the blackjack received a foot stomp that ended his useless life. The other left the world after taking a blow to the temple.

Lyons walked around the building until he found where the power cables entered. His job was clear cut — get Deborah away from about forty armed terrorists and do it before they could react and kill her.

He pulled the Colt Python from the holster in the small of his back. It was not his usual gun. He had chosen a simple four-inch barrel, .357 Magnum. He could not spare the pocket space for rapid loaders. The bulk would have shown, but he did have extra ammunition distributed around his pockets, about twenty extra rounds. It was not much, but it had to be enough.

He fired two 200-grain bullets into the power transformer that served the building. While the transformer arced and died, he replaced the two spent shells with live rounds. He then walked to the front of the building.

The front quarter of the ground floor was just that — a front. Step two was to remove these naive types from the battle zone.

Lyons put a hand to his cheek. It was still oozing blood. He wiped the hand clean, first on his forehead and then on his shirtfront. By that time he was passing the large display window in the front of the building.

The WAR volunteer workers were bustling around because the electric typewriters and the copier no longer worked. They stopped bustling and stared when a blood-smeared monstrosity kicked in the display window and strode over the broken glass, gun in hand.

The only person in the office who was not suddenly frozen was a redheaded secretary outside the manager's office. She produced a .25 Bauer automatic with her right hand, while reaching for a concealed buzzer with her left. A single, lead mind stopper canceled the intentions of both hands.

"You have thirty seconds to get out of here," Lyons shouted.

All took the hint.

Lyons went through the empty manager's office to the door in back. He knew his first stop had to be the firing range in the basement. There he could arm himself and cut off the access to the guns and supplies of ammunition. The brig or cage was not far from the range. That would be the next step. He figured that would be where they had put Deborah.

He reached the stairs to the basement without incident. However, James Saint and two of the imported terrorists came out of the firing range just as he reached the bottom of the steps. Saint was not slow. His first glance at the gun-toting, blood-smeared apparition was sufficient.

"Get him," Saint commanded.

Saint backed his command with a flying dive through the door to the firing range. His two henchmen did not have guns in their hands; Lyons did. The two terrorists never had guns in their hands again. The first was still trying to get a hand under his shirt when the 200-grain Magnum went through the hand, through the shirt and through the terrorist, removing three inches of spine from his back.

The second killer managed to produce an ancient Astra 400 from his side pocket before a bullet made mush out of his face.

Lyons scooped up the unfired Astra. He hoped the 1921 model automatic would not blow up in his hand, but he needed every shot he could find. Before following Saint into the firing range, he paused to recharge the Colt.

Before he could continue, he heard Deborah Devine shout. "Carl. Not in here. It's a trap." Then she screamed. The voice came from the brig area of the basement.

At the bottom of the steps there was a small hall off which opened three doors. One went to a storage cupboard and was always locked. Another was for the firing range and the third was for a utility room, which contained the cage.

"I heard you. Thanks," Lyons called out.

Then he hit the door.

The ruse had worked.

Six of the hard-core terrorists were in the room with the cage. They all had M-16s. When Lyons called that he had the message, they went into motion to pursue him. When the door swung inward, it caught one terror goon in the face. The other five were all in motion and not set. They never had a chance to get set.

Lyons fired both the revolver and the automatic, one from each hand — twelve bullets. Each ambusher had his ticket to hell punched twice.

Deborah was curled in the cage. Her clothing was torn and there were some cigarette burns on her back and buttocks.

"God, am I glad to see you," she gushed.

Lyons just nodded as he charged the Colt once more. He put it back in its concealed holster and then released her. While he tended to the guns, Deborah did a quick-change act. She peeled her torn clothing and took pants and shirt from the body that was closest to her size. It was a common-sense action, done quickly and efficiently.

Lyons's eyes reflected a rare warmth when he handed her two of the M-16s. In return, she gave him a smile — shaky, but genuine.

"What's next, boss?"

"Next, we close this joint down."

There was no argument, no discussion of the odds, no mention of referring the decision up the chain of command. She merely nodded, checked the clips on both rifles and waited for further instructions.

"A large group are holed up in the firing range, waiting for us," Lyons told Devine. "We can't attack and we can't get out of here past them."

"So?"

"So find some black tape on the workbench."

While Deborah sifted through the clutter on the workbench, Lyons got two cans of Coke from one of the coin machines.

"No tape, but there's some black spray paint."

"It will have to do. Blacken these as fast as possible."

He tossed her the cans of Coke.

"Just the right size for Israeli grenades," she commented.

"Let's hope they think so."

Deborah was back within a minute. The cans dripped paint across the floor and down her left hand. Both fighters held their cocked automatic rifles ready to fire with one hand.

Lyons took a slippery can of pop in his left hand and put half a clip of .223s through the opposite door.

It took only five paces to cross the hall and kick the door to the firing range open the rest of the way. Both fighters launched their blackened cans of pop through the door, paused one second and followed.

There was a strangled cry. "Hand bomb!"

When the warriors stepped into the room, every killer's eye was still fastened on the soaring cans of Coke.

Deborah emptied one M-16 in a sweeping motion that cut across every standing terrorist in the room. She then ducked behind a gun cabinet and started to pick at individuals.

Lyons fired short bursts, taking out Saint and the terror goons he felt most dangerous. He used the half clip and then a full clip with lightning-fast selective shooting.

The battle of the firing range was over before most of the participants were aware that it had begun. Devine and Lyons looked at each other and then at the clutter of bodies. There were ten goons who would never again kill a computer scientist. Lyons opened a cabinet and lifted out a batch of clips for the M-16s.

When they left the firing range, Deborah carried three loaded autorifles. Lyons carried six, five of which were slung on his right shoulder.

Two curious faces looked down the steps to the basement. Both faces vanished in a spray of red. The sound of weapons' fire outside the firing range brought one student to the door of the dojo. Lyons saw him and waved him over. The curious student came over and received a single shot through the eye. At the same time, Deborah stepped through the doorway to the karate-training gym and took out the rest of the class.

The mop up was quick, brutal. No one was left in the terrorist wing of the WAR building. By the time it was finished, the sound of a siren was near. Someone from the front part had telephoned the police. Lyons and Deborah dropped the M-16s and left the building by a fire exit.