Don Pendleton: Maelstrom

Lyons had a perfect view of the terrorists that had exposed themselves, and took a quick head count: seven. Okay, so that wasn’t too bad at all. He leveled the shotgun sights on the closest terrorist, took a deep breath, braced the shotgun tightly against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The AS-3 roared as the first specialty load rocketed from the muzzle and took one of the terrorist’s full in chest. The terrorist dropped the AK-47 as the heavy shell flipped him off his feet. The force of the blast landed him on his back and his butt crashed through one of the few unbroken windows.

Schwarz got the terrorist next to Lyons’s target a few moments later with a well-placed 3-round burst from his FNC. Two of the 5.56 mm NATO rounds punched through the terrorist’s throat and the last split his skull wide open. The guy’s head exploded in a grisly spray of blood and gray matter, and his body spun awkwardly. He dropped off the edge of the bus and disappeared from view.

The terrorists turned their attention in every direction above their heads, probably in realization they were no longer taking their fire from ground level. They began spraying the area with fresh autofire, and Lyons moved back as a few of the rounds chipped away plaster and stone from the edge of the parapet. As soon as there was a lull in the firing, Lyons returned to his position, sighted the next target and delivered another shell blast. This time, though, Lyons was gunning for a prisoner. The special shotgun load did a number on one terrorist, blowing out a large chunk of the guy’s knee. The terrorist dropped with a scream that sounded like combined pain and surprise to find he was suddenly unsupported by both of his legs.

BLANCANALES KNEW his chances of staying alive in this environment wouldn’t last. His mission had been to smoke the terrorists into the open, and he’d done that. Now it was time to get the hell out of the line of fire before the terrorists realized he was immediately below them and posed an easy target. The Able Team warrior yanked the Glock Model 19 from his shoulder holster, jumped to his feet and rushed for a corner drugstore with a square, brick support in front of it. He made it to the thick support just in time to avoid a hail of slugs fired at him by several of the terrorist goons. Blancanales waited until the firing stopped, then risked exposure in tracking for a target, pistol held in a Weaver’s grip, forearms braced against the support.

It didn’t take him long.

Blancanales quickly found his target and squeezed the trigger successively. Both 9 mm rounds reached flesh, the first punching through the enemy gunner’s stomach and the second cleanly detaching his left ear. The terrorist dropped his weapon, one hand clutching his gut while the other attempted to stop the sudden, violent flow of blood from his head. The terrorist dropped to his knees and began to moan, but it didn’t appear to Blancanales that either shot was lethal.

SCHWARZ WATCHED the terrorists fire on Blancanales as his friend sprinted for cover. The Able Team warrior found it interesting that they would focus all of their energies on one man. That wasn’t the typical discipline of terrorists, especially when they were the ones being terrorized. Then again, now wasn’t exactly the time to worry about it.

He listened for any further signals from Lyons, but the Able Team leader—his blond hair visible even in the twilight—wasn’t showing any sign of letting off the pressure on the terrorists below. He watched as Lyons took another one with a head shot. Schwarz followed suit. He aimed at one of the terrorists focused on killing Blancanales and squeezed the trigger. A trio of rounds rocketed from the muzzle of the FNC and drilled through the terrorist’s shoulder, continuing onward to blow out a good part of his chest wall.

The body of one of the terrorists they had wounded began to convulse and jerk. It took Schwarz only a moment to spot the reason for it. A lithe, shorter terrorist had managed to squeeze clear of one of the rearmost windows. A cascade of dark hair protruded from under the terrorist’s cap. The terrorist was a woman, her body lithe and shapely, even beneath the coveralls she was wearing.

Schwarz keyed his transmitter. “We’ve got one female party killing our wounded, guys!”

“Acknowledged,” Lyons replied. “Take her out.”

Schwarz nodded, sighted his target and squeezed the trigger. Milliseconds before fire from the Able Team trio reached her, the woman turned and dropped off the back edge of the bus. Schwarz was in motion even as he noticed movement from Lyons in his peripheral vision. His headset crackled with a burst of static and the sound of Blancanales’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He keyed his transmitter as he reached the fire escape. “Say again, Politician…I didn’t copy.”

“I said, ‘she’s headed eastbound on that side street.’ She’ll be closest to you, Gadgets.”

“Copy.”

“We’ll have to hold our position here, buddy,” Lyons replied. “You’ll be on your own on this one, so watch your ass.”

“Understood,” Schwarz replied as he slid down the ladder, then began to descend the steps of the fire escape three at a time.

It took him only twenty seconds to reach the sidewalk and he made it in time to see the woman duck inside a large club half a block down. Schwarz launched himself in the direction of the club, trading his FNC for the Beretta 93-R on the fly.

The Able Team commando came low through the club entrance, pistol tracking quickly and smoothly. It was comparatively cool to the muggy, outdoor air. He cleared the vestibule of the club, which was decorated with muted blues, grays and purples, and then proceeded into the main area. It was a pretty decent club, typical for middle-class clientele. The place was crowded, not surprising since it was a Friday and it was happy hour, and Schwarz kept his pistol low and behind him as he maneuvered between the tables. He smelled booze, food and cigarettes, and he also detected the fearful odor of his prey; she was very close.

So close that he nearly got his head blown off.

The female terrorist emerged from the shadows of an alcove Schwarz hadn’t seen and unleashed hellfire from her machine pistol. The Able Team electronics genius rolled to avoid being hit, came up near the bar and prepped to take his target. But pandemonium erupted after the shooting started and too many people scrambling for the exit made the job a bit too risky. One young woman caught a bullet that dropped her on the floor and left her screaming and writhing with pain.

Schwarz waited until the firing ceased with a click of a bolt locked back on an empty magazine, then exposed himself long enough to rush the felled bystander while simultaneously laying down a hail of fire in the terrorist’s general direction. It was meant more as a play to keep the gunner’s head down than to actually hit her. Besides, they still needed to take one of the terrorists alive, and Schwarz had no idea if any of the ones they’d wounded in the initial play at the bus were still alive after their cohort had turned her weapon on them.

Schwarz reached the wounded club-goer and dragged her behind a heavy, overturned table. She wasn’t moving and her eyes were closed. He checked her carotid pulse—it was strong and regular—and a quick check of ear to nostrils confirmed she was breathing. Okay, so she’d passed out from the pain, which was sure as hell better than being conscious for it.

Schwarz waited for a lull in the firing and then decided to take a risk. He had to neutralize this woman and fast. He reached to his belt and latched on to a flash-bang grenade. He pulled it from the belt with a quick turn of the wrist. A pop and snap followed, indicating the special mechanism he’d rigged to his belt had broken the plastic strap designed to prevent inadvertent dislodging of the spoon and simultaneously removed the pin. He jumped into view and hammered the area where he estimated his target had taken cover. While firing to force the terrorist to keep her head down, Schwarz released the grenade in a light over-hand toss.