Don Pendleton - Season of Harm

“Thank you,” Blancanales said softly. It wasn’t clear whether he was expressing his gratitude to Lyons or to the cocktail waitress who had just offered him a bottle of sparkling water.

Blancanales worked his way around the room, blending in as one of the customers. The nondescript outfit the Politician had chosen for this little run included a tan button-down shirt open, dark slacks and a leather blazer that had seen better days. In short, Blancanales looked just like one of the nightcrawlers gambling at the Drifts, which was exactly what he’d wanted. The Politician could blend in anywhere, anytime. It was one of the things that made Blancanales so effective an operative in these scenarios.

He was moving through the slot machine pit now, dodging lifers of all ages transfixed by the one-armed bandits. Lyons was amused to see the magnetic cards being swiped through the machines. He supposed a lot had changed since the last time he’d been in a modern casino, but it didn’t seem the same to him: waiting to hit the jackpot so you could increase the balance on your gambling card, rather than filling a plastic cup with metal tokens. It was all fool’s gold, he supposed, but that didn’t make it any less amusing. He and Schwarz watched as Blancanales passed row after row of desperate players swiping those cards and pressing push-button gaming screens instead of yanking on metal handles.

As the two other Able Team members watched, Blancanales made a slow, careful circuit of the entire main level of the casino. While not the largest or the nicest gambling house in Atlantic City by any means, the Drifts was still a fairly elaborate establishment. It took some time, and Blancanales knew his work well enough not to push too hard. Hurrying would look suspicious. He had to search the casino without looking like he was searching the casino, being careful not to raise any suspicions.

“There,” Lyons said finally. “There’s another one.”

“Another one?” Schwarz asked, looking at him.

“Pol,” Lyons instructed, “without looking like you’re doing it, back up three paces and slowly pan right.”

Blancanales took his time. He managed to make the move look natural, from what the two in the truck could see. The scan from his camera eventually took in what Lyons had noticed. He pointed to the screen.

“That guy?” Schwarz queried.

“That guy,” Lyons said. “That’s the second big mother in a black turtleneck and black jeans I’ve seen tonight, just standing around. They’re not dressed like casino security.” They had seen the official security guards working the casino; those guards wore matching maroon blazers.

“Sure looks like a guard,” Schwarz agreed. “What’s he guarding?”

“Pol, can you tell what he’s pretending not to cover?” Lyons asked.

Blancanales moved around slowly, taking in the guard from two different angles, then moving farther down the corridor just off this corner of the casino. Finally he found a remote corner where, Lyons figured, there was no one to overhear.

“There’s a fire door at the end of the hallway, opposite the guard,” he reported, whispering. “There’s also a camera focused on that door.”

“Take another look around,” Lyons said. “Let’s be sure.”

Blancanales did so. He worked his way across the casino again, paying special attention to the darkest corridors and corners. When he was satisfied that the door he’d seen was the only one guarded in that manner, he reported as much. Lyons nodded to Schwarz. During Blancanales’s sweep, they had counted a total of three of the black-clad incognito guards. Two of them were surreptitiously guarding the front and rear entrances, in both cases doubling up on the more overt casino security personnel. The lone guard in front of the camera-equipped door was therefore unique.

“How do you—” Blancanales said, then stopped. Schwarz and Lyons watched as a pair of women in micro-mini black dresses flounced past him.

“Not bad,” Schwarz remarked.

“Hookers,” Lyons said.

“As I was saying,” Blancanales said once they were out of range, “how do you want to play it?”

“I’d like to know what’s beyond that door,” Lyons said, “but I’d rather not tip our hand just yet.”

“All right,” Blancanales said. “But we’ll only get one shot at this. It might get hairy on the way out.”

“If it does, so much the better,” Lyons said. “We’ll back you up.”

“Easy for you to say, Ironman.” Schwarz poked him in the ribs.

“Zip it,” Lyons growled.

The two watched as Blancanales moved along the corridor, essentially flanking the lone guard while staying out of what was likely to be the mounted camera’s field of view. He affected a drunken stagger, if the sudden swaying of the video feed was any indication. Then he was stumbling into the guard.

“Hey,” the guard said, sounding disgusted. “Get the hell off me, asshole.”

“Whereza baffroom?” Blancanales slurred.

“Not here, stupid.” The guard reached out to give Blancanales a shove. To Lyons and Schwarz it looked as if he was reaching right for the camera.

Blancanales lashed out with a sudden, vicious edge-of-hand blow to the side of the man’s neck, staggering him. Blancanales followed up with a knee to the man’s groin and then a relatively light blow to the back of the head. The guard dropped like a stone.

“Remind me not to piss off Pol,” Schwarz cracked.

“I said shut up,” Lyons said absently. It was an old act between the two of them, and one neither man had to think about consciously.

Blancanales dragged the guard into the corridor he was guarding, careful to stop short to stay out of the mounted camera’s field of view. Lyons and Schwarz watched as their teammate quickly searched the man, after first checking his pulse.

“He’s not dead, is he?” Lyons asked.

“No,” Blancanales said quietly.

“Proceed,” Lyons instructed.

Blancanales found a 1911-pattern .45-caliber pistol in the man’s waistband, under his turtleneck. He also found a key card. He tucked the .45 into his own waistband, where Lyons knew it would keep Blancanales Beretta 92-F company. Then he moved quickly to the door, swiped the magnetic key card and popped the door open.

“Go fast, Pol,” Lyons said. “Whoever’s watching knows you’re not supposed to be there.” He checked the loads in his Colt Python before replacing it in its shoulder holster. “Get ready, Gadgets.”

“Roger,” Schwarz said. He set the video unit on the console between them and drew his 93-R. Then he checked the machine pistol’s 20-round magazine.

On the small color screen, Blancanales was making his way down a stairway. It was dimly lighted by small red light bulbs set within metal grates along the cinder-block wall. All pretense of the supposedly lavish gambling establishment had been dropped here. Whatever this was, wherever it led, no attempt had been made to disguise it.

Blancanales stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He was facing a pair of metal double doors. Pushing past these, he found himself in an empty anteroom. There was another set of doors. These were locked, but the electronic lock pad on the wall matched the one that had been installed at the top of the stairs. Blancanales used the key card again, sliding it through, and was rewarded with the metallic click that signaled the door unlatching.

He pushed the door quietly open.

At least a dozen men looked up at him.

On the screen, the scene was clear enough, in the split second Lyons and Schwarz had to observe it. The basement, which was lighted by overhead fluorescent lights, was filled with long, low tables. Men sat at these tables, weighing and dividing individual portions of white powder into smaller plastic bags. Several other men holding shotguns and rifles, a mixture of Mini-14s, AR-15s and even Ruger 10/22s, stood around the room at intervals watching over the process.