Don Pendleton - Hell Dawn

He surveyed the craft and felt an unsettled feeling move into his gut. Other than a tail number, the craft carried no identifying markings, and the men wore no uniforms. His weapon still hidden, he spun on a heel and started for the group. Cortez fastened a single button on his coat to keep from revealing the Ithaca, and fumbled for the FBI credentials looped around his neck. Another of his men, the driver of the second SUV, a Chicago killer named Johnny Hung, fell into step behind him.

Cortez knew all his players, of course, meaning he had three interlopers stepping onto his territory. His mind working overtime, he decided on a plan. Take out these bastards, take their helicopter and go home with the big prize.

CARL LYONS HAD a bad feeling about the black-clad guy from the get-go. Forget the credentials hanging around his neck or the smile creasing his thin lips. It was the hand that remained at his side, lost in the folds of a black leather duster that spoke volumes to Lyons, telling him everything he needed to know. Instinct honed first as an L.A. detective and later as a covert commando screamed that the guy was looking for blood, even before Lyons’s eyes confirmed this.

The guy’s eyes narrowed, a harbinger of something bad, and Lyons felt himself tense. A glance left told him that Blancanales, though smiling, was also eyeing the guy warily. With the helicopter’s rotors thumping over-head, the two men couldn’t easily converse, and Lyons had made the mistake of not yet putting on his earpiece and throat microphone.

Three other men had fallen in with the approaching man, their presence only heightening Lyons’s cautiousness.

Schwarz was just behind the other two men, working to set down the wheelchair ramp for Kurtzman. Turning, Lyons motioned for Schwarz to stop and pay attention. Before he could turn back, he saw Kurtzman’s eyes widen and he raised his hand to point. Lyons whipped around, his hand already stabbing under his jacket for the Colt Python.

Things began to happen quickly.

The lead guy’s hand was coming up in a blur. He snapped off two shots in Lyons’s direction, immediately putting him on the move. The rounds burned through the air, missing the big commando by inches before smacking into the Chinook’s hull.

Lyons cleared leather. He brought the Python to bear on the guy, ready to line up a shot. He halted. A young man stood on the curb, frozen by the gunfire. The black-coated shooter squeezed off two more rounds at Lyons. The commando thrust himself to the asphalt. His elbow absorbed the impact, white-hot bolts of pain emanating from the joint. He ground his teeth and rode out the pain. He tried to line up another shot at the guy, but he’d stepped onto the curb. Turning to Lyons, he smiled, then grabbed a handful of the bystander’s jacket and shoved him into the street just as Lyons was trying to get in a shot.

The man disappeared through the front door of a nearby building.

Holstering the Colt, Lyons fisted the .357 Desert Eagle he carried on his right hip in a cross-draw position. He paused long enough to put his earpiece in place before crossing the street with long strides.

A voice buzzed in his ear. “Ace to Ironman.” It was Grimaldi.

“Go.”

“According to the scanner traffic, we’ve got shooters behind the line of buildings ahead of you.”

“Is our package back there?”

“Unknown. But these guys put down a cop.”

Lyons cursed under his breath, but kept moving. An instant later Blancanales fell into step with the Able Team leader and the two men moved onto the sidewalk. At the same time Lyons caught the sound of sirens closing in from the distance, the wail eliciting another oath. Adding more guns, even those wielded by good guys, introduced new variables into this volatile equation. And he knew, again from experience, that these officers would hit the scene with blood in their eyes, wanting to put down the shooters.

And since Able Team had the guns…

Lyons keyed his throat microphone and spoke. “Get the bird in the air. And call the Farm for a cleanup crew on this. Tell Hal, or Barb, or whomever, to start greasing the wheels. Otherwise we’ll be stuck here.”

“Roger that, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

From behind, Blancanales had stepped in close to a nearby building, raising his weapon to cover Lyons while he edged along the line of stores, occasionally ducking below the length of a window. Covering another building length, Lyons found an alley opening to his left. Halting, he craned his neck to peer around the corner. Even as he did, another shot rang out, followed by a strangled cry.

Kneeling behind the front bumper of a maroon Ford Taurus, Schwarz ground his teeth and rode out a blistering fusillade of gunfire as two hardmen emptied automatic weapons into his cover. Bullets pounded through the vehicle, flattening tires, rending upholstery, shattering glass. An occasional round pierced the car’s sloped hood, exiting within inches of Schwarz’s crouched form. Lead pounded the engine block, pinging like metallic rain as the block stopped the rounds from ripping Schwarz apart.

Only moments earlier, the Able Team commando had started around the edge of the sedan, his micro-Uzi carving a path for him while he looked for the black-clad killer. When a flash of motion had registered in his peripheral vision, he had dived behind the Ford, his combat-honed reflexes taking him off the firing line a heartbeat before death found him.

A momentary break in the gunfire provided Schwarz a chance to raise his head slightly over the hood to scan the scene, but he saw no one. His opponents apparently had gone undercover while reloading their weapons.

Moving in a crouch, Schwarz rounded the car’s front end, now with his M-4 assault rifle leading the way. Climbing onto the sidewalk, he moved along the edge of the line of vehicles, his senses alert for any sign of trouble.

The sudden slap of feet against concrete drew his attention. He wheeled toward the sound, scanning for a target, his finger tightening ever so slightly on the trigger. A heavyset woman, apparently considering the silence a chance for escape, darted out from inside a drugstore, her worn leather purse clutched tightly to her chest. Seeing the commando, his weapon pointed at her, the woman froze and screamed.

Shit!

Schwarz pointed the rifle barrel skyward and waved her on with his free hand. Eyes bulging, the woman stood there rooted to the spot, her lips working wordlessly as her overloaded mind tried to process the events unfolding around her. Realizing the numbers were falling too fast for such a distraction, Schwarz felt his own anxiety creep up a notch.

“Move!” he yelled, hoping that the sound, if not the word, might jar her into action.

His command startled her, but she stood still.

Damn it! Left with no other choice, Schwarz surged forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. The instant his hand gripped her bicep, the fingers sinking into the cushy flesh, the woman screamed and threw a haymaker at Schwarz’s jaw.

The punch connected, jarring his teeth. He’d experienced a lot worse, of course, but the sudden sensation of pain emanating from his jaw diverted his attention for an instant. Almost long enough for him to miss the furtive figure rising from behind a nearby parked car.

Almost.

With a shove he bulled the woman out of the way and brought up his assault rifle. The weapon spit a line of 5.56 mm rounds that pounded into his opponent’s head, reducing it to a fine red mist. His attacker’s smoking weapon slipped from dead fingers as the partially decapitated corpse folded into a boneless heap, disappearing between two parked cars. Seeing the violence, the bystander screamed again and darted back toward the drugstore. Schwarz felt a rush of relief when the electric door slid closed behind her.