Don Pendleton - Deadly Payload

“Loudmouth’s mine,” Lyons whispered over his LASH radio.

“Roger,” Schwarz answered. “Remaining three fair game.”

Lyons slid a phosphate-coated Ka-Bar fighting knife from its sheath. A dull black, even to its razor-thin, flesh-slicing edge, it was a shard of night hidden among the shadows. Tso and his crew would obviously be alert for the sound of a suppressed handgun. Even though the muzzle-flash was swallowed by the steel tube, and the roar of the bullet was reduced to a cough, there was still enough sound for a nearby opponent to lock on to a target. Wiping out half of the investigating force had been easy with the initial shots, and even from cover, Able Team had been relatively secure against return fire.

The ex-cop saw Blancanales glide from behind a tree and wrap a muscle-knotted arm around the throat of a Hispanic gunman. The Colombian’s eyes went wide as the former Black Beret’s forearm closed over his throat, cutting off his air. Blancanales didn’t give the ENT sentry a chance to strangle to death, even though his grasp had been tight enough to crush the man’s windpipe. Another black-bladed combat knife punched through the bone and cartilage of the Colombian’s breastbone, spearing through the thick trunk of the aorta beneath it. The point had missed the guard’s heart by an inch, but with a wicked twist and a hard rip, the knife had rendered the blood pump useless by severing the major artery. Blood pressure dropped like a rock and the Puerto Rican’s victim didn’t even have the strength for one final thrash, his arms and legs dropping limply like wet noodles to the forest floor. Dark, cold eyes stared lifelessly at Lyons as he circled behind a second of Tso’s commandos.

Lyons lurched from the shadows, his hand wrapping around the Asian’s face, palm clamping over the gunman’s mouth while he slammed his Ka-Bar into his reedy, brown neck. The thick Bowie-style blade carved through arteries and windpipe in one savage intrusion. Lyons cranked on his knife handle as if it were a cantankerous stick shift, pulling the knife forward.

The wiry little Asian tried to scream, his arms flailing into the big ex-cop’s face, and the guard’s windpipe resisted the Ka-Bar, hanging on with rubbery tenacity. Unable to pull the knife forward, Lyons twisted the blade around and shoved back. His adversary’s eyes rolled crazily as the phosphate-coated edge crunched and ricocheted between vertebrae, parting cartilage. Nearly decapitated, the ENT soldier’s corpse fell instantly still. Lyons wiped the blood off his blade and looked for the team’s commander.

The Thai security commander’s handgun revealed him, bullets cracking loudly. Lyons whirled and spotted Schwarz, diving for cover, pulling the body of his last ENT victim along with him as a shield. Tso howled in rage and reloaded his handgun.

Lyons let his knife fall and lifted his silenced .45. He aimed low, striking the ENT guard in the rear.

Contrary to comedy, anything more than a load of bird shot in the gluteous maximus was guaranteed to cause major injury. One of Lyons’s 230-grain hollowpoints rounds, stopped cold, deforming as Tso’s pelvic girdle absorbed its forward momentum. Unable to deal with 350 pounds of force, the hip bone shattered. The second round tore through fatty tissue and muscle to burst Tso’s bladder, ripping out a half-inch chunk of groin muscle. Either wound would have made it impossible for the Thai to stand upright. Together at once, they dropped the ENT commander to the forest floor in blinding agony.

Blancanales rushed to the wounded man, kicking the gun out of his hand before checking his wounds.

“He’ll live?” Lyons asked.

“Missed the femoral artery, but he’s bleeding badly,” Blancanales said. He pulled a small tube from his medical pack and poured a black silt into Tso’s groin wound. It was gunpowder, and the Able Team medic ignited it with an electric lighter.

The Thai gunman thrashed in agony as his bloody wound was cauterized shut, damaged blood vessels sealed off as they cooked instantly.

Lyons leaned onto Tso’s throat, his hands clamped on either side of his neck.

“Speak English?” Lyons asked.

“Go to hell,” Tso answered.

“Good enough for me,” Lyons replied. “We’re going to have a little talk.”

Tso coughed violently. “Or what? You’ll torture me? Didn’t you hear that torture was illegal?”

“How long do you think it’ll take for you to die in this jungle?” Lyons asked.

Tso’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re a cripple. There’s no way you can walk out. And even if you could crawl one hundred miles to the nearest city, I’m pretty sure you’ll succumb to a few dozen infections. You’ll never go anywhere on your two feet regardless,” Lyons stated.

“You cauterized my gunshots,” Tso said, his voice a nervous warble.

Lyons rolled his eyes and pulled his Ka-Bar. The blade sliced into Tso’s upper arm, opening the skin. “How many cuts do you think we’ll need, Pol?”

“Just that one,” Blancanales replied. “Any more, and we’d run the risk of jaguars finding and finishing him off too soon.”

Tso’s features paled instantly.

“You know,” Schwarz said, “the cats aren’t the real threat. I’d be more concerned about ants or maggots.”

“Actually, the maggots would be helpful,” Lyons told Schwarz. “Maggots only eat necrotic flesh and leave healthy, uninfected tissue alone.”

Schwarz nodded. “There’s that. But you’re talking about garden-variety maggots. There are flesh-eating larvae in these jungles that burrow down and even gnaw into living bone.”

Tso grimaced. “You wouldn’t do that…”

Lyons frowned. “You just said, we Americans can’t torture you. And you’ve done nothing for us to give you a quick, clean death.”

The Thai looked at the hard-faced members of Able Team.

“Nice try,” Tso said. “I’d find a way to make it quick for—”

The sound of his shoulder dislocating and separating exploded across Tso’s consciousness like an atomic blast. A red curtain of blood replaced his vision, his ears resonating with the rumbling echoes of his cracking bones and popping cartilage. He returned to reality, the taste of his sour bile in his mouth, the stench of vomit next to his head. He didn’t remember throwing up, but it had to have been while his consciousness disconnected. His arm was a limp, useless mass of twisted muscle and bone.

There was no one to be seen around him.

“Hey…” he croaked. His throat was raw from yelling, or maybe the acid in his bile searing unprotected esophagus.

There was no answer and he twisted, looking around.

“Hey! Hey! I’ll talk!” Tso shouted.

The forest was empty, except for the corpses of some of his men. He tried to roll and crawl, but with only one arm and a shattered pelvis, he was helpless, motionless. All he could do was clutch at leaves and roots, unable to pull his lifeless limbs along. He saw the handle of his pistol poking out of some leaves and reached for it. Fingers sank into mud and he pulled. It seemed to take an eternity to shift only an inch, and two of his nails had been pried out by the roots due to his efforts. Bloody tips stung as they sank into the dirt for more leverage and haul himself closer to the pistol.

He was drenched with sweat, and his cut was burning from the effort. Tso looked at the puckered brown skin, seething with infection. With another tug, he felt the rubber grips of his pistol and he pulled it closer. It felt lighter, and he looked at the magazine well.

Empty.

Maybe there was a round in the chamber. He thumbed back the hammer and pressed the muzzle to his temple. The trigger tripped and the hammer fell with a loud clack.