Don Pendleton - Promise To Defend

“Damn straight I am,” Lyons said. “We’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes and the guy still hasn’t shown. He’s the best link we’ve got at this point.”

“Hang loose, hombre. He’ll be along.”

“Maybe he knows that we’re looking for him.”

“You think Hal called and tipped him off?”

“All right. Point taken.”

“Relax,” Blancanales said. “He’ll be along any minute.”

They’d come looking for Abda Hakim, a Saudi Arabian who, according to classified reports from the Treasury Department, raised money for Arm of God and funneled it back to the group’s overseas operations. The current site housed a fairly sophisticated money-laundering system that tapped into dozens of overseas banks. In addition, it backed into a warehouse containing stacks of counterfeit CDs, DVDs, software and video games shipped from overseas and sold in the United States.

A fairly sophisticated operation, Lyons grudgingly admitted. For a hairball. Having lost the terrorists’ trail at the border, Able Team had decided that Hakim made the best point of contact for the killers once they moved into the country.

That put him at the top of Able Team’s list.

Increasingly impatient, Lyons returned to his full height and brushed the brick dust from his shoulder.

As he did, three young men dressed in gang colors swaggered past, eyes boring into him, unsuccessfully trying to intimidate him. Lyons, his mouth a hard line, his eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses, held their stares behind the shades and let his scowl deepen. The stakes of the mission in front of him and the other members of Able Team were high, and he was in no mood to indulge in a contest of wills with a pack of gang bangers. The first two either lost interest or sensed they were outclassed; the third let his hard stare linger, apparently waiting for the moment when the former L.A. cop would back down. It didn’t happen.

As the final gang banger walked on, Lyons noticed a tremor pass through the guy. He allowed himself a tight grin.

Blancanales’s voice came over his earpiece. “Ironman, you still got it.”

“Bet your ass I do.”

Schwarz, who was watching the rear of the target building from a nearby rooftop, broke in. “Look alive. We’ve got Hakim’s Beemer pulling in.”

“Roger that,” Lyons said. “He have help?”

“Right. Two, no, three hard-looking guys. Probably bodyguards.”

“Probably,” Lyons said. “Or walking corpses. Depends on how they want to play it. Let’s move.”

Lyons crossed the parking lot and waded into traffic. Irritated drivers honking their horns and shouting obscenities barely registered with him as he crossed the street. From his peripheral vision, he saw Blancanales exit a surveillance van disguised as a bakery truck and approach the office building from the right.

The men met at the building’s entrance, a pair of glass doors. Lyons slid his hand inside his jacket. His fingers encircled the Colt’s grip, but he left it in its holster. Driving a shoulder into the door, Lyons entered the lobby with Blancanales a step behind him. Moving in lockstep, they strode across the room. A pair of heavies, one dressed in a suit, the other in jeans and a T-shirt, lounged at what Lyons guessed was a guard station, a steel desk topped by a telephone and a sign-in sheet attached to a clipboard.

The bigger of the two men, the casually dressed guy, rounded the desk, his face a hard mask of anger. His exposed arms a mosaic of ropelike muscles, veins and stretch marks, he stepped between Lyons and the elevator.

Snapping off his shades, Lyons stepped to within a hair-breadth of the guy and locked eyes with the bigger man. The guard stank of perfumed hair gel and apparently had bathed in a mixture of anabolic steroids and cologne before work.

“You are here to see who?” the man in the suit asked.

“As I was about to explain to your lady friend here,” Lyons said, “we’re here to see Hakim.”

“You got an appointment?” the suit asked.

“You work for Hakim?” Blancanales asked.

“I ask the questions around here,” the suit replied.

“I beg to differ.” Blancanales produced his fake Justice Department credentials and flashed them at the man.

Scowling, the guy studied their credentials. He reached for the telephone. “I got to call the man.”

Blancanales shook his head. “Wrong. You and Mr. Anabolic here are going to cop a squat off the premises and wait until we’re done with our business. Comprende?”

The guy stared at Blancanales for a long moment, nodded his head. “Sure, man. We can do that. Anything for the Justice Department.”

“Much obliged,” Blancanales said. “I trust you won’t call your boss?”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

Lyons heard footsteps slap against the floor behind him. Staring over the body builder’s shoulder, he saw a reflection of Schwarz stepping into view, a dart pistol in his hand. The pistol whispered twice as he swept it over the two men, planting tranquilizer darts into the bigger guard’s neck and the smaller man’s left shoulder. Lyons watched as the big man’s face contorted with anger and confusion. He slapped at his neck, trying to find the source of the pain. Lyons drove an open-palmed strike into the man’s sternum, knocking him back. The guy hit the floor. He tried to bring himself back up, but found his muscles going slack. Within moments, he’d fallen unconscious.

“So much for negotiating in good faith,” Blancanales said. “How long will they be out, Gadgets?”

“Hours.” Intel had it that Hakim used contract security for the building, so the team had opted for nonlethal weapons.

They dragged the men out of sight, hiding them in a vacant office. Blancanales and Schwarz took the elevator to the fourth floor, while Lyons used the stairs. According to intel provided by Stony Man Farm, Hakim occupied the entire top floor of the building, which was only accessible from a single elevator located further within the building.

The men converged on the fourth floor and fanned out. The elevator opened into a large waiting area filled with cushy chairs and potted palms. A pretty Latina sat behind the reception desk. Flashing his own Justice Department ID, Lyons jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Jackpot time, lady,” he said. “You just got the day off. Go home.”

The woman gave him a quizzical look and started to reach for the phone. Lyons put his hand on hers before she could lift the receiver.

“What do you say we do this smart? Your purse. Home. Now. Understand?”

The woman cast a glance over her shoulder at her boss’s office, but nodded and began to gather her things. When she palmed her mobile phone, Lyons shook his head.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Leave the phone. You can pick it up later.”

Hesitating, the woman regarded Lyons for a moment, then nodded. Clutching her purse, she came to her feet and rounded the desk, giving the men an uncertain look as she did.

Lyons lightly gripped her upper arm, stopping her. “Anyone else on this floor besides Mr. Hakim?” he asked.

She shook her head no. “He sent everyone home yesterday, telling them to take the weekend off. He asked me to come in and answer phones. He promised me double time and I figured, what the hell? I’ve got a baby at home, you know, and the money—”

“He have any visitors?” Lyons asked.

She paused, chewed at her lower lip and scrutinized Lyons with a lingering stare. Finally she shook her head. “This morning. A group of men. In the conference room. I heard them, but Mr. Hakim never let me see them. They were speaking a foreign language. Not Spanish. I’d know that if I heard it.”

“Arabic?” Blancanales ventured.