Don Pendleton - Triplecross

“Hate,” Lyons said. “Seething, white-hot hate.”

“You don’t mean that,” Schwarz said.

“Oh, yeah?” Lyons started. He stopped when the metal sphere of a grenade bounced to a stop a couple of feet from his right boot.

Schwarz shoved Lyons sideways, into the column. Lyons had time to look down and recognize the threat. Schwarz, meanwhile, had shoved Lyons to “clear the road” for a massive, swing-through kick. He nailed the grenade with his toe and sent it flying from their position. It exploded, throwing clods of soil everywhere, spraying dust on Able Team.

“Thanks, Gadgets,” Lyons started to say. “I take back everything bad I just said.”

“No, don’t!” Schwarz shouted.

“Huh?” Lyons had time to say before another grenade, then another, then a third, rolled to a stop by their feet.

This time it was Lyons’s turn to act. He grabbed both Schwarz and Blancanales by their collars and shoved them forward, around the other side of the column. This put them in the line of fire from the roof above. As Lyons propelled them, his partners took the cue and ran for their lives. Bullets were biting at their heels when the three grenades blew, tearing large chunks out of the support column with their trebled destructive power.

Something cracked high above.

Lyons looked up and back as they ran, trying to find an angle at the corner of the headquarters that would make it harder for the roof gunners to track Able Team. What he saw caused him to reach out and grab Schwarz and Blancanales again.

“It jinxes us when you’re nice to me!” Schwarz blurted.

“Shaddap, Gadgets!” Lyons yelled again. He dragged his teammates against the wall of the headquarters building as the shaft behind them snapped in two, falling toward them like a redwood before an army of lumberjacks. Concrete shrapnel flew everywhere. The crash of the column was followed by the staccato pings of nails from the walkway overhead. They were being wrenched out under tension as the walkway tore itself apart on the way down. Half the walkway struck the dirt below, bringing with it whatever machinery was being housed inside. This raised a sudden sandstorm of dust and grit and billowed over the Utah war zone and forced Able Team to crouch more tightly against the building.

“You there!” came the voice from the bullhorn.

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