Don Pendleton - Close Quarters

The man turned and studied Harland for a time, his eyes indiscernible behind his sunglasses. A scar ran along his meaty jaw, very faint but evident. It was thin and looked as if it might have been caused by a razor blade or very sharp knife. His breath stank of cigarettes as he leaned in and studied Harland with a steady gaze.

“What is your name?” he asked in English.

That accent! Where the hell had Harland heard it before? He couldn’t remember and it was driving him nuts because it sounded nearly identical to the accent of the one who’d yelled at him. Harland knew it didn’t really matter, however, since his chances of getting out of here were slim. And even if he did manage to escape or they decided to let him go, who would he tell?

“I asked you your name!” the leader said. He tapped Harland’s forehead and said, “Are you stupid, American?”

“Harland,” he said. “My name is Christopher Harland. What’ve you done with my friends?”

“You should be worried for your own future,” the man said with a smile that lacked any warmth.

“Where are you from?” Harland asked. He looked around him at the men busily emptying the trays and silverware and other materials from the camp mess and then affixed his gaze on the man. “You’re not part of any guerrilla outfit I’ve ever seen. And I should tell you that we’re a U.S. Peace Corps group. If we’re out of contact long, you can bet your ass someone will know about it soon enough. They’ll come looking.”

The military leader favored Harland with another flat smile as he removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, put one in his mouth and turned his head to the side. An aide immediately stepped forward and lit it. The man took a deep drag, let out the smoke slowly through his nostrils and studied Harland, nodding steadily.

“Yes, yes…I’m sure you’re correct. And that is exactly why you have been chosen among your people to walk out of here alive.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying as long as you do what I tell you, your friends will remain alive. Otherwise, they are all dead and so are you.”

Harland considered this for a time, finally realizing he didn’t have any choice. If Dee and the rest of his entourage were to survive then he would have to do exactly as the man said. He couldn’t very well risk their lives. He’d never wanted this responsibility anyway—never asked to be responsible for the safety and welfare of others—so it didn’t make cooperating with this man seem so bad. Whoever he was, it made little difference. Harland was going to come out of this breathing and save a lot of lives in the process. How could that be bad?

“All right, I’ll play the game your way. What do you want me to do?”

And so the man issued Christopher Harland detailed instructions.

CHAPTER TWO

Little Havana, Florida

The stifling humidity had put Carl “Ironman” Lyons in a foul mood.

Only the ice-cold beer served by a smoking-hot waitress with wild brunette hair kept his temper in check. The sweat from the frosty bottle dribbled across

Lyons’s left hand and pooled onto the table. Once in a while, he’d wipe the cool water against his forehead but it didn’t help much. Lyons couldn’t remember the humidity being this bad during his time in Los Angeles when he was a cop with the LAPD.

Watching his Able Team partners stuff their faces with jalapeño nachos washed down by copious amounts of Malta Hatuey soft drinks didn’t improve his disposition. Lyons, leader of the elite covert-action team, sighed as he took in their surroundings for the tenth time in the past half hour. “Once more we’ve been

relegated to doing a job that should be assigned to the federal boys.”

“You know what I think?” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz managed to ask around a giant bite, cheese and sour cream running down his chin. “I think we should order another one of these.”

Rosario “Politician” Blancanales made a concerted effort to chew and swallow his own decadent mouthful before saying, “Cheer up, Ironman. You should make the most of this. Try to think of it as a vacation.”

“A vacation.”

“Sure,” Blancanales said, drawing the word out like a man tempting his grandchildren with a story. “I mean, there are much worse places the Farm could’ve sent us.”

“Oh, yeah? Like where?”

“Well, I—”

“Alaska,” Schwarz said.

Blancanales jerked a thumb at his companion. “There you have it! Alaska. It’s cold there.”

“They also have some of the best fishing this time of year,” Lyons countered.

“They also have polar bears,” Schwarz mused. “You could get eaten alive.”

Blancanales feigned a conspiratorial whisper, cupping his hand to his mouth as he said, “I don’t think they’d find Ironman too palatable.”

Lyons ignored the gibes from his friends as two men escorted a third across the street. They headed straight for Able Team’s table in the cabana-style exterior setting of the lounge. Lyons scowled at them, wondering how they’d managed to escort the guy this far without getting him wasted. Their charge wore khaki shorts and a Hawaiian-style silk shirt; sandals adorned his feet. He had light red hair that protruded in clumpy tufts from beneath his Marlins baseball cap. The man’s dress perfectly blended with the styles worn by the Able Team warriors, but his escorts stood out like highway cones in their government suits.

They stopped at the table, and the taller one in serge blue removed his sunglasses. He looked around, then said, “You Irons?”

“Yeah,” Lyons confirmed. He gestured to Blancanales and Schwarz respectively. “This is Rose and Black.”

“Here’s your man,” they said.

Without a word the pair whirled and made distance back the way they had come.

The man stood there with a somewhat beleaguered expression. Lyons felt a bit of empathy for the guy. The two FBI agents assigned to bring him here were obviously intent on more important things, and Lyons couldn’t imagine what he’d been through. The wrist brace on his right arm and deep scratches on his legs made it obvious he’d been in a recent tussle. Lyons had no doubt this was Christopher Harland.

“Have a seat,” he said, waving Harland into the one vacant chair at their table.

The young man stuck his hands in his pockets and studied their faces in turn—almost as if sizing them up—before he sat.

“You hungry?” Blancanales asked.

Harland inclined his head at the disappearing agents and said, “They got me something when we landed. I’m good.” After a pause he added, “Thanks.”

“How about something to drink? You must be thirsty.”

He nodded and Blancanales signaled the waitress. The young man ordered a beer—a Tecate—and watched the waitress with obvious appreciation as she jiggled away with his order.

Lyons smiled at his two companions. Okay, so maybe he could learn to like the kid, after all.

“How was your flight?” Schwarz asked to break the silence.

“It was okay.”

“Those guys, they treat you okay?” Lyons asked.

“I suppose.”

“You go by Chris?” Blancanales asked.

“I prefer Christopher.”

“Fair enough.”

Schwarz went back to shoveling food into his mouth while Blancanales took another pull at his malt-based soda.

Lyons looked around. He saw only a couple of people nearby, nobody within earshot. Midafternoon and the lunch crowd was gone. It was too early for happy hour. “We’ve been briefed on what happened to you.”

“Okay,” Harland said.

“Anything you want to add?”

“It’s pretty much like I told them.” Harland clammed up as the waitress dropped a napkin on the table, followed by his beer.