Don Pendleton - Texas Showdown

Thirty yards behind him, the rear windows of the hacienda looked out over lawns and flower gardens. Trees blocked the view of the garage. Lyons doubted anyone could see him from the house.

But there was an apartment above the garage. At one side, stairs led to the second floor. Several curtained windows overlooked the asphalt. Curtains flagged in one open window.

Lyons slung the M-16 over his left shoulder and hooked his thumb through the sling. Letting the flashlight dangle from his right hand, he ambled across the asphalt, looking neither to the right nor left, only at his feet. When he gained the shadows of the garage, he snapped into action, setting down the rifle and slipping out his bayonet.

First he went to the garage side door. He inched it open. He heard nothing inside the building, saw only darkness. He eased inside, and closed the door silently. He waited. Listened.

Footsteps creaked on the floor above him. He heard a scrape, then more steps. Faint voices and music came through the quiet.

The voices and music alternated. Then came the sounds of shots, squealing tires, and screams. The music rose to a steady beat... A television.

Cupping his hand over the flashlight, Lyons switched it on, his fingers tinting the glow a faint pink. He saw several limousines, a Porsche, and racks of tools. He went to the limos, tried some of the doors. The doors opened. He went to the workbenches to search for the keys to the limousines' trunks.

There was a television monitor on the workbench. A video cassette deck sat next to it. Wires connected the two. Lyons swept the area with his finger-shaded flashlight. Across from the television and tape deck, he saw a lounge chair and a five-gallon oil can. On the oil can was an ashtray heaped with cigarette butts, both tobacco and marijuana. Lyons knew where he would hide the dead sentry.

* * *

A hundred youthful Tate Monroes looked down from the walls of the trophy room. The old chair-bound man that they had become pointed a skeletal finger at Jorge Lopez, raved: "You would have doubted us every step of the way! You doubted that I could finance your coup d'etat. You doubted I could form a secret army. You doubted that my technicians could create the weapons, that my soldiers would have the discipline! And on every point I, Tate Monroe, have proved your doubts groundless. Now you demand proof that we are capable of the strike..."

"Mr. Monroe, sir. Sir!" Commander Furst interrupted his employer. "Please, sir, don't..."

"Don't what! What!"

"Your anger is justified, but unnecessary. Senor Lopez believes a command performance is required to demonstrate our men and machines. Please see it from his viewpoint. We have done the impossible. Formed and trained a secret army capable of striking deep into his nation. After all, his soldiers couldn't do it. Correct, Senor Lopez?"

Lopez scratched at his notepad with his pen. He considered the question for a moment before answering. "You misunderstand my request in two ways. One, I do not doubt the ability of your force. I viewed the films of training. I know the attack will be devastating and deadly. I simply said that the time of the attack approaches, and that our leader — my leader and your ally, correct me — would like to watch a rehearsal..."

"He'd risk everything, he'd..." Monroe's words were cut off by a choking fit. He coughed up a wad of mucous and spat it out on the floor. "Coming up here would risk everything! What if he were detected? What if an informer reported to your government?"

"Mr. Monroe," Lopez countered patiently. "What greater risk could El Rojo take than to go ahead without a rehearsal? The visit and demonstration would require only a day. He would come as I have come, in darkness and leave in darkness. He and the other generals would watch the demonstration, then return to their garrisons, confident of victory."

"What other generals?" Furst asked. Now it was his turn to be visibly disturbed.

"Other patriots who have the courage to stand against the wave of socialism threatening our hemisphere..."

"I'm sure they're patriots. But how many patriots do you have involved in this venture? It used to be only El Rojo's troops. Now there are more generals?"

"They are vital to the success of the coup. General Montoya heads the section responsible for all communication — the facilities, the equipment, the soldiers guarding the communications. Without telecommunications on our side, there can be no announcement of victory!"

"And the others?" Furst pressed.

"General Leon, Commander of the Paratroopers securing the Federal District. It is his soldiers who should respond to our attack. If they do not respond, we have the victory. You see, if we had to fight these forces, the socialists and leftists and communists would have time to rally their troops..."

"And what about all the other generals?" Furst continued his questioning. "Will we be presenting demonstrations for them? How many generals are there? Maybe we should set up bleachers."

"We must have allies in this," Lopez told him, ignoring the sarcasm. "Your force will make the first strike, but that will not assure the victory. We must neutralize the opposition. The participation of Generals Montoya and Leon will remove the greatest threats before they can rise. Really, gentlemen, why should loyal Mexican soldiers die? With the control of the communications and the paratroopers guarding the capital, victory will be ours the very minute that your force strikes..."

* * *

Lyons heard all this outside the window. He glanced at his watch. Only another two minutes before flames engulfed the garage.

Inside the room, Lopez finally flared: "These small arguments waste time! The time of the attack nears and we..."

Forcing himself to slip away, Lyons pushed through the wet branches and flowers of the landscaping. He stayed low, using every shadow. He avoided the rectangles of light spilling from the windows. From time to time he stopped, frozen in shadow, to watch and listen.

A hundred yards away, the guards at the gate talked and laughed. To the rear of the mansion, boots paced the walkways. Lyons crept along the side of the mansion, finally coming to the hedge screening the service driveway.

Lyons straightened the rifle slung on his shoulder. He checked his uniform. To his satisfaction, he looked like a sentry. He stood in the shadow of the hedge, waiting for the flames.

He waited to the count of one hundred before glancing at his watch. In the garage, Lyons had set the video deck's automatic timer to turn on the recorder. Opening the unit, he had disconnected the power wires to the drive motor, pulled the wires out and crossed the bare ends. Then he'd put the wires into a gasoline-soaked rag, piled other rags around the video deck, and spilled gasoline on the workbench and floor. The second the timer powered the deck's motor, the short-circuiting wires would ignite the gasoline, and then the garage. Thus the dead sentry, who lay stripped of his uniform in the lounge chair in front of the television, would be unrecognizably charred.

Fire should have burst out two minutes before. But Lyons saw no flames, heard no alarms.

"Bander!" a voice called out.

Lyons pressed back into the thick branches of the hedge. He prayed he could not be seen.

A sentry walked past him, calling out: "Bander! Report to the shack!"

Waiting until he saw no sentries, Lyons stepped out of the shadows and walked leisurely across the grounds. He left the lights of the house, driveways, garage far behind him. When only ten yards of open lawn separated him from the iron fence, Lyons dropped flat beside a row of flowers and waited again.

Everywhere on the estate, he heard voices calling for "Bander!"

Lyons set down his rifle and flashlight and crawled toward the fence. He felt ahead of him, searching by touch for dips or irregularities in the lawn's turf that would indicate pressure-sensors. His hands found nothing unusual. But when he neared the fence, his ears told him that climbing the iron fence meant death.