Don Pendleton: The Chameleon Factor

The driver slammed onto the gas, and the big Detroit engine roared with power for only a single moment. Then the vehicle crashed hard, to a halt the front windows exploding out of the frame. Every loose item went flying, the prisoners were thrown forward in their seats, setting off more Mace, and the guards tumbled to the floor in a loose pile of bodies.

It took a few minutes for the pinned driver to regain his composure and pull a knife from his belt to stab the airbag pinning him tightly into place. As the metallic cushion deflated, the USP guard gasped at the sight of a smashed pile of fallen trees blocking the forest road, the trunks painted black to render the barricade invisible. Damn! The bridge had to have been blown just to make them go faster and slam hard enough into the barrier and cripple the bus. That was a trap!

There was nothing moving in the darkness outside the broken windows, but the driver knew trouble was coming, and soon. Frantically, he tried to get the engine to turn over and only got a clicking sound. The battery wires had to have ripped loose in the crash. Shit! Pulling an M-16 assault rifle from a boot alongside his seat, the driver pulled the arming bolt and started over the jumbled forms of the groaning guards sprawled on the floor to shoot the prisoners when he suddenly felt very warm and relaxed.

As his thoughts became muddy, it became difficult to stand and he slumped to the floor, losing his weapon. Fighting to stay conscious, the driver vaguely understood this was a gas attack. Summoning his last vestige of strength, the USP guard tried to slap the emergency alarm button on the dashboard that would send off a flare and radio signal, plus detonate a series of explosive bolts to lock down the entire transport, rendering it impossible for anybody to enter without using a cutting torch. The Black Vipers couldn’t be set free! The feeling had left most of his body and the man could only mentally order his arm to hit the switch. But the warm embrace of the gas filled his universe and everything went pleasantly dark.

SLUGGISHLY, THE FOUR members of the Black Vipers came awake in a field of damp grass, the moonlight overhead bathing them in silvery light.

“By God!” one of the terrorists exclaimed, lifting both hands to stare in wonder at his bare wrists. The handcuffs were gone.

“We are free,” the giant rumbled, holding his head. “How is this possible?”

The skinny leader rose and raised his arms high, savoring the sensation of unfettered movement.

“I do not care, my brothers,” he said in Arabic, just in case there were listeners in the woods. Years of confinement with guards always monitoring had made the men paranoid, even worse than when they first went into prison. “Let us take this gift and leave.”

“But which way?” the third man said in a nasal whine, his strength returning with every breath.

He turned about in every direction, and there was nothing in sight but trees. Maybe they had been thrown from the crash into the Cassatt Forest Preserve? But if so, what had happened to their shackles and cuffs? The terrorist sensed danger of some kind but couldn’t readily identify what it was. His first impulse was to stay exactly where he stood and let the police capture him again. Then his anger flared at the very idea that the Americans had beaten fear into his soul and sapped the strength from his will.

Just then, a fiery explosion rose in the distance, illuminating the nighttime.

“This way.” The leader pointed and took off in the opposite direction at a stumbling run.

The grassy field was empty and smooth, but it took the men a few moments to get past the wall of their cell. Eight feet was as far as any of them had walked without chains for years since their incarceration. That ninth step felt like bursting out of a bubble of glue. Suddenly, the killers were laughing as they ran, putting on speed and tearing off the hated prison jumpsuits. Naked, they raced through the night. Somewhere they would find new clothing to wear. A laundry line, a closed store or from the bodies of murdered strangers.

“The Americans must not capture us again, my brothers,” the leader panted, leaping over a shallow ravine. “They will slay us on sight and claim we fought back.”

In silent agreement, the others dashed into the forest dodging trees and running for their very lives. None of them spoke or stopped for miles before reaching a small creek. The smell of the fresh, clean water was overpowering, and the parched men dropped to their bellies to lap at the creek like thirsty animals.

“The Yankees shall pay for our years of imprisonment,” the thin man growled, rising to his knees after a while. “No, their families shall pay. I have been designing new bombs in my mind. Ones perfect for children. There shall be a slaughter like America has never seen.”

“Revenge shall be ours!” the third cried, wiping the water from his mouth with a hairy forearm. “By the blood of the prophet, this I do swear. America will pay for its crimes against us in the red blood of its children!”

“Not this time, freak,” a voice of stone said from the darkness.

The Black Vipers leaped to their feet as three armed men stepped out of the nearby shadows. Incredibly, the newcomers weren’t prison guards or police officers, but soldiers, their camouflaged jumpsuits covered with weapons.

“What is this, some sort of trick?” the leader demanded, lifting a rock from the mud of the creek. “By the blood of God!”

“God. You do everything for God, right? You ever actually read the Koran, asshole?” Lyons demanded, leveling an Atchisson assault shotgun. “It’s a book of peace, not war.”

The big prisoner snarled, lifting a piece of fallen fence post from the creek. The wood was old, a poor weapon, but better than nothing.

“Want a weapon? Try these instead,” Schwarz said, tossing a canvas sack onto the ground. The bag landed with a heavy metallic rattle.

“That’s filled with guns,” Blancanales stated in a hard voice. “More than enough to fight your way to freedom. Money, too. Small, nonsequential, unmarked bills. Clothing and passports. Food, medicine, the works.”

The terrorists stood there in the chilly night, looking at the freedom given to them in a canvas sack.

“Why would you do this?” the leader asked suspiciously. “Do you support our holy cause? Who are you?”

“Your cause is full of holes, not holy,” Lyons said, flicking the safety on the Atchisson and tossing it aside. “As to who we are, we’re your sworn enemies and want nothing more than to see you bastards buried in the ground.”

The terrorists stood in confusion, the gift and the words together not making any sense.

Blancanales clicked the safety on the M-16/M-203 assault rifle combo he carried and lowered his own weapon. “We knew that there were two more members of your hate group still running around loose in the world. So we arranged for your transfer in the hope they would try to come to your rescue.”

“And they did,” Schwarz muttered, his hands holding a 9 mm Beretta pistol.

“So they are now captives of the American secret police?” the leader snarled hatefully.

Softly in the distance came the chatter of several MP-5 submachine guns all firing in unison.

“Not anymore,” Lyons stated without emotion. “You have friends, and so do we. But I’m betting that our guys just sent yours to hell.”

Fighting a shiver from the cool breeze, the leader of the Black Vipers muttered something in Arabic to the others.

“Not quite,” Blancanales answered in English. The former Black Beret only knew a few words of Arabic, but as a master of psychological warfare he could guess what the other man had said. “If we wanted you dead, we would have slit your throats when you were unconscious instead of taking off your shackles. But we’re offering something you never gave any of your victims. A fighting chance for life.”