Don Pendleton: Hell Dawn

Moving with slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the space between himself and the felled shooter, figuring he ought do a visual check to make sure he’d cleared the nest. He found the man’s crumpled form where it had fallen. He made a mental note to search the guy later, even as he acknowledged that such an effort likely wouldn’t yield much. These guys obviously were pros and if they carried any identification at all, it likely would be fake. But they’d run the traps nonetheless.

The crackle of gunfire died down for a few moments. Schwarz heard a terse exchange between Lyons and Grimaldi. Moments later the helicopter’s engine grew louder and the craft rose from the street, cresting the rooftops as the pilot executed a starboard turn.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Schwarz noticed his combat senses kicking into overdrive, the small hairs at his nape brushing against his shirt collar, a cold sensation rushing down his spine.

Turn! his mind screamed.

He spun. Even before his mind registered the threat, Schwarz knew he was going to take a bullet. The guy with the black coat was poised on a second-floor balcony, his weapon aimed dead-center on Schwarz’s chest.

Move!

The Able Team warrior shot up.

Flames lanced from the other man’s weapon. Almost the same instant Schwarz felt something smack hard into him, the force robbing him of his footing, sending him tumbling to the ground. The shot, sounding oddly far away, registered with him even as his mind struggled to grasp the sudden trauma seizing his body.

Fire tore through his shoulder. Through blurred vision, he saw the other man adjust his aim, saw more flames leap from the gun’s barrel. White-hot pain lanced through his abdomen and he cried out in spite of himself.

He tried to raise his own gun hand but found it unresponsive.

I’m going to die.

He’d imagined it a thousand times, and here it was. If he was going to go, he’d make some damn noise.

Cocking his knee, his working hand stabbed down to his ankle, groping for the Colt Detective’s Special holstered there. Fire ripped through his bent calf, causing him to grunt in surprise and pain, making him forget about the weapon. His leg went limp. When he dropped to the ground, he glimpsed the shooter, poised and grinning, surveying his shattered form with satisfaction.

Schwarz struggled to remain conscious but found himself slipping away. The popping of gunfire, the wail of sirens, grew faint, distant.…

A TAUT VOICE EXPLODED in Blancanales’s earpiece.

“Man down!” Kurtzman said. “Gadgets is injured and taking fire.”

The commando keyed his headset. “Location?”

Kurtzman told him. Blancanales turned and began retracing his steps, moving at a dead run to reach his fallen comrade.

“Ironman?” he said into his throat microphone.

“Go.”

“You’re on your own.”

“Right. Take the bastards down.”

“Clear.”

Blancanales surged into the street, his eyes scouring the area for the shooter. He spotted the black-coated man, his lips twisted in an ugly grin, drawing down on an unseen target. Blancanales assumed his friend was on the ground somewhere beyond the string of parked cars lining the street.

From behind him, he heard the police cars closing in, a cacophony of blaring sirens and squealing tires. He did his best to ignore their approach, knowing he had less than a second to save his friend.

Twin Berettas chugged 3-round bursts, the bullets cleaving through the air to reach the shooter. His aim thrown off by the jarring impact of his footsteps smacking against concrete, the first volley cleaved through the air and collided with a brick wall several feet to the shooter’s right. Shards of brick exploded from the wall, nicking the man’s face, causing him to screw up the right side of his face and bunch up his shoulder in a protective gesture.

Whipping around, the guy spotted Blancanales and his pistol flared to life. The Able Team commando surged left, his weapons spitting another blistering fusillade. As before, most of the shots drilled into nearby brickwork or tore through the man’s long coat, driving him back, but not biting into flesh.

Blancanales darted right, purposely moving away from what he believed to be Schwarz’s position. Stuck in the middle of a four-lane street with no protection, Blancanales knew he made too tempting a target to pass up and he wanted to draw fire away from his comrade.

As he ran, bullets kicked into the asphalt, snapping at his heels. Turning at the waist as he moved, he squeezed off matching tribursts from the Berettas. This time a 9 mm Parabellum round cleaved into the side of the man’s neck, apparently just nicking the skin. He slapped a hand over the wound as though striking a bug. The realization that he’d been wounded seemed to unnerve the guy a bit, prompting him to unleash a final barrage from his weapon, the flurry of lead forcing Blancanales to sprint for cover behind a parked car. Even as he did, his opponent backed away, disappearing through the balcony door.

Springing to his feet, Blancanales crossed the street, his eyes taking in the carnage as he did. He counted at least three fallen hardmen, though there could be more sandwiched between cars or slumped in recessed doorways. Dozens of pockmarks scarred the historic buildings, pierced car bodies and caused spiderweb cracks to form on the car windows.

Even as he closed in on his friend, the commando kept an eye trained on the front door of the building that only scant heartbeats ago had provided a perch for a killer, knowing the guy might burst through the front door, gunning for a rematch. However, Blancanales considered the chances remote. The shooter more likely would find a rear exit, get the hell out of there while he still could.

He knelt next to Gadgets and checked to see whether his old friend was breathing.

CARL LYONS SPED through the diner, winding his way between patrons sprawled facedown on the hardwood floors scuffed and scarred from more than a century of use.

Thrusting his full body weight against the swing doors, he surged into the kitchen, intent on reaching the rear exit. He found himself facing a young man, hair dyed green, standing there, his face etched in terror. The kid clutched a butcher knife in a white-knuckled grip. Lyons halted, eyeing him warily, unsure whether he planned to attack. The young man held the knife to his heaving chest, as though it were a shield.

The young man’s face was pale, making his green locks seem all the more garish.

“We got a problem here, kid?” Lyons asked.

The young man shook his head, squeezing the knife against his chest.

“How about you put down the knife?”

“Can’t.”

“Kid, I’m losing time here. Drop the damn knife.”

“My fingers. They won’t move.”

Impatience flared within him, but Lyons squashed it with a deep exhale. He needed to get through that door, but he didn’t want to charge a panicked kid with a knife. Under normal circumstances, the kid likely wouldn’t pose a threat. But he had the look of a cornered animal and Lyons didn’t want to push him.

He adopted what he called his “jumper” voice, a soothing, patient tone he’d learned to use as a cop.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m a federal agent. I need to get through that door. What say you drop the knife?”

“They shot her. I saw it.”

“Who?”

“The lady cop.”

“Kid, we’re burning daylight. I gotta go through that door. You’re in my way.”

Hesitating another heartbeat, the young man finally shuddered and dropped the knife.

“Good,” Lyons said. He gestured the kid away from the door, and this time he complied. “Hide somewhere until the cops come to get you,” Lyons said as he brushed past the young man.