Don Pendleton - Hostile Dawn

The team’s levity was short-lived, giving way to a grim silence as they made their way to the debris-filled crater that had once been the orientation center. The blackened, smoldering hellhole was nearly twenty feet deep, flames consuming any trace of the explosives that had created it. Lying on the perimeter like tossed dolls were the members of the SWAT team, most of them dismembered by shrapnel, none of them breathing.

“What the hell did they have stored in there, World War III?” Lyons wondered, gazing past the bodies into the crater.

The blast had caught the attention of the rest of the backup teams, and by the time Grimaldi joined his colleagues, the other two choppers were headed toward them. Sirens wailed to life out on the road as a pair of CHP Crown Victorias pulled out of their barricade positions and raced toward the parking lot along with one of the SWAT Hummers.

“They’re a little late,” Schwarz said.

Blancanales had ventured over to the enemy gunman who’d dived from the building shortly before the explosion. He turned the body over, then looked at his partners.

“It’s not Ahmet,” he reported.

Lyons glanced at the crater and shook his head. “If he’s in there, it’s gonna take more than dental charts to ID him.”

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