Critical Effect

“Perhaps we were a bit rash,” Blancanales noted.

Schwarz looked at his friend in amazement. “Ya think?”

“Split up!” Lyons commanded.

The trio did as ordered. It would be difficult for their opponents to take all of them at once if they headed in different directions. The time it took the pair of gunners to clear the Ford bought Able Team what they needed to find adequate cover. Lyons secured safety behind a purple PT Cruiser, while Schwarz charged in the direction of a metal bus shelter.

Blancanales opted to skirt the front of the Lincoln, keeping below the driver’s line of sight until he reached the curbside fender. He arrived in time to see another pair of gunners trying to hustle Delmico through the rear passenger door. Blancanales stood, raised his SIG P-239, aimed directly at the driver and squeezed the trigger three times. The man’s eyes widened as a trio of .40 S&W hardball rounds first made short work of the windshield and then his face. The impact slammed what was left of the man’s skull backward and the reciprocal force drove it forward to rest on the steering wheel.

Blancanales turned the pistol on the pair just as they got Delmico inside the SUV in time to realize their enemy had them dead to rights. The pair foolishly pawed for their weapons, but they were too late. At that range, the Able Team warrior couldn’t miss. Blancanales dispatched the closer man with a single round through the chest. It perforated his heart and exited his left shoulder blade. Blancanales swung into acquisition on the second gunner as the man brought his weapon to bear, and ended the face-off with a double-tap center mass and number three to the head. The impact lifted him from his feet and slammed him against the open passenger door.

The door swung backward as Delmico burst from the rear seat. The scientist’s suit snagged on the catch and the door pinned it there. He slid from the jacket and started to run. Blancanales started after him but suddenly went prone when a second Lincoln crew wagon pulled up.

Blancanales rolled as their weapons opened up.

H ERMANN S CHWARZ REACHED the bus shelter, got behind the corrugated metal and crouched. A screech caused him to turn and he found himself staring at a pair of wide-eyed college girls.

He gestured in the opposite direction with his pistol. “Get out of here! Run! ”

He didn’t have to tell them twice. They burst from the shelter like a pair of spooked gazelles.

Schwarz returned his attention to the matters at hand. Two gunners appeared at the rear of the Expedition and swept the area with their weapons. The Able Team commando braced his right wrist against the shelter post, steadied his Beretta 92-F in a Weaver’s grip and squeezed the trigger twice. Twin 9 mm Parabellum rounds struck one of the gunners’ weapons and knocked it from his grasp. A lucky ricochet grazed the man’s neck, and his hand slapped at the spurting blood as if he’d killed a mosquito. Schwarz swore under his breath as he reacquired and sent a third round booming from the pistol. This one drilled through the terrorist’s chest and drove his back against the Ford. The man slid to the ground as the light left his open eyes.

The other terrorist never stood a chance under the crack marksmanship of Carl Lyons. The Able Team leader got it done with a single squeeze of the Anaconda’s trigger. The .44 Magnum weapon reported thunderously, even from that distance, its message to the hardman plain and simple: game over. Lyons’s round caught the guy square in the chest and dumped him on the pavement next to his deceased partner.

Schwarz turned in time to see Blancanales had bought himself some fresh trouble. He broke cover and beelined to help his friend, signaling Lyons with a loud whistle between thumb and forefinger on the move. Lyons waved and burst from behind the PT Cruiser. Schwarz came up the sidewalk on the passenger side of the smashed Lincoln in time to see Blancanales find sanctuary behind a small brick alcove near the building entrance.

The electronics expert reached the rear bumper, dropped and squeezed off a volley of rounds in the direction of the new arrivals. He didn’t have anywhere near the firepower of the enemy, but what he lacked in quantity Schwarz made up in quality. The combat veteran put two rounds in the chest of the closest gunner. The 9 mm slugs ripped through the tender flesh of lungs and pink, frothy sputum erupted from the man’s mouth. The impact spun him into a second gunner who had been a bit too close. The falling corpse tied up the second man long enough for Schwarz to draw a bead. He finished their dance with a single skull-buster to the forehead.

Lyons got one at the front left fender with a single shot to the hip. The bullet shattered the man’s thigh and his weapon fell from number fingers. The guy fell. Schwarz got to his feet and rushed for Blancanales, sending a few more rounds at his enemies for the sole purpose of keeping heads down.

It did little good. The next ten seconds seemed to run through Schwarz’s head like a slow-motion replay.

Two other gunners got Delmico into the SUV.

The Lincoln’s driver leaned out the window and pumped a volley of rounds into the man Lyons had wounded.

The Lincoln jumped into Reverse with a roar, churning up a cloud of smoke, dust and bits of gravel.

Schwarz reached Blancanales just as Lyons pumped out his last two rounds at the retreating SUV.

Everything after seemed to return to normal time.

Lyons trotted over to his friends. He crouched, nodded at Schwarz, then looked at Blancanales with mild concern. “You okay?”

“Got winged,” Blancanales said, breathing a bit heavily as he gripped his arm to stanch the flow of blood.

Schwarz jerked his head toward the Ford. “There’s a med kit in my satchel. Why don’t you grab it.”

Lyons rose and trotted for the bag.

“Hang tough, partner,” Schwarz said. He showed Blancanales a reassuring grin. “You’re going to pull through just fine.”

‘Thanks, amigo,” he replied. “But I sort of already figured that. Really, there’s no reason to get all mushy on me. People will talk.”

I N THE W AR R OOM of Stony Man Farm, Brognola and Price sat and listened as Carl Lyons relayed his report of the past few hours.

“So Rosario’s going to be okay?” Price asked when Lyons finished.

“Fine,” Lyons replied.

“We thought there might be a connection between yours and Phoenix Force’s mission,” Brognola said. “But we sure as hell didn’t expect you to walk into a firestorm like that.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Lyons said. “That’s why you pay us the big bucks.”

“The only question now is how this relates to what went down in Germany,” Price said. She directed her voice toward the speakerphone receiver in the center of the conference table. “Carl, we have a theory based on some leads we’ve been pursuing here. It’s still a bit thin, but it may be enough for you to move forward. And we can always fill it out once David checks in.”

“We’ll take anything you’ve got,” Lyons replied.

“Well, we started looking into Delmico’s recent activities,” Price said. “We have it on reliable word that while he was in Germany giving that lecture, he became acquainted with a man named Choldwig Burke. Other than a sheet of misdemeanors, Burke seems clean. However, about seven years ago he did an eighteen-month stint in jail. He didn’t have any more run-ins with the authorities, successfully completed his six months of parole as required by German law, so he fell off the radar.”

“I’ve heard this story,” Lyons cut in. “Suddenly he shows up at a seminar and befriends a microbiologist formally employed by the DOD.”

“Right,” Brognola said. “We think he was working with inside information. Somebody told Burke who Delmico was and how to contact him.”

A low buzz sounded for attention from an overhead speaker, followed by Kurtzman’s voice. “I’ve got David McCarter on our secured satellite line.”

“Conference him in, won’t you, Aaron?” Price asked.

“Your wish is my command,” Kurtzman replied.

A moment later McCarter joined them.

“David, we have Carl on with us,” Brognola said. “What do you have to report?”

“We found the plane,” McCarter replied. “Cargo was gone, and the entire crew dead except for the captain. We also ran into some friends.”

“Terrorists?” Price inquired.

McCarter snorted. “Hardly, although they’d probably like to think they are. We took a prisoner and he did some talking. We got all we could from him, so now we’ll probably need a way to unload him on local authorities.”

“We’ll make the arrangements,” Brognola said. “I’ll have someone get with Interpol and take him off your hands.”

“Thanks,” McCarter said. “He’s starting to get on our nerves.”

“What did he tell you?” Price asked, steering the conversation back to topic.

“He said he’s a member of some bloody outfit calling themselves the Germanic Freedom Railroad. He alleges to know nothing about any operations there in the States. Apparently he’s just a grunt and has only been with this group for about six weeks.”