Close Quarters

Lyons’s cold blue eyes glinted wickedly in the sunlight as he expressed alert like a terrier on a rabbit’s scent. “I think it just got cut short.”

Even as Schwarz and Blancanales turned to see what had Lyons’s attention, the Able Team warrior was rolling out of his seat and grabbing hold of Harland’s shirtsleeve. He yanked backward as he warned his two companions to take cover, although it seemed pointless since Blancanales and Schwarz were already in motion with the practiced reaction of combat veterans. The four men ate the decorative tile of the patio as young Arab types exited a black sedan, leveled SMGs and opened up on their position.

The report from the weapons drowned a shout of pain from Harland, who got slammed onto his shoulder with some significant force. He wouldn’t realize until later it was a small price to pay in consideration that Lyons had kept his promise to save Harland’s ass. Lyons ordered his charge to stay where he was, then whirled on one knee and reached beneath his loose-fitting shirt. In his fist rode a 6-inch Colt Anaconda, its silver finish brilliant in the afternoon sun. A successor to Lyons’s .357 Colt Python, the pistol had been qualified by Lyons with six rounds in a one-inch shot grouping using 240-grain XTPs at 30 yards—a champion marksman’s score. The Anaconda was deadly in the hands of the Able Team leader.

Lyons snap-aimed the pistol, going for the opponent who had experienced a gun jam, and squeezed the trigger twice. A pair of 300-grain jacketed hollowpoints crossed the gap in milliseconds and caught the intended target as if Lyons had fired point-blank. The first busted the gunner’s chest open and exploded his heart, while the second ripped out a good portion of the left side of his neck. The man did a pirouette as the jammed SMG fell from his fingers and then he toppled to the pavement, bright blood springing from his neck in a geyser.

Lyons went low and pressed his back to the waist-high brick wall lining the dining patio even as a fresh maelstrom of rounds buzzed the air around them. The street and sidewalks had erupted in complete pandemonium, and the few diners who’d been sitting outside had either hit the ground and crawled for cover into the restaurant or simply beaten feet out of there.

Schwarz and Blancanales had produced their own sidearms, a Beretta 92-DS and a SIG-Sauer P-239, respectively. The pair found relatively decent concealment behind a set of potted rubber trees just ahead of the patio wall to the left of where they’d been seated. They took up positions and began dishing out some of what they’d been served.

Lyons took the moment to inspect Harland and make sure the young man was still alive, and then risked breaking cover to assist his companions.

Two of the remaining gunners made a beeline for the cover of an old, beat-up SUV while a third apparently thought he was Superman and tried to take out his quarry single-handedly. For his troubles he got three of Schwarz’s 9 mm slugs to the belly, followed by a head shot courtesy of Blancanales.

The other two opened up from the cover of the SUV parked at the curb, but they didn’t have great position and their attack proved mostly ineffective.

Lyons considered their options and realized they had a better chance of squaring off with the opposition if they didn’t have Harland to worry about. After all, chances were good he was the real target, and their enemy probably considered Able Team little more than collateral damage. They hadn’t obviously thought it through, figuring they had surprise on their side, and now it had cost them half their team.

During a lull in the firing, Lyons said, “It would seem discretion being the better part of valor would apply in these circumstances.”

“Agreed,” Blancanales said. “You have a plan?”

“An idea. Give me covering fire. I’m going to get our lucky boy out of here.”

Schwarz and Blancanales nodded in unison and returned their attention to their attackers. Lyons waited until they started pouring on the heat and then jumped to his feet, ran to Harland and hauled him to his feet. They continued on to the entrance in the restaurant, where Lyons quickly located the waitress.

“You got a freezer?”

She swallowed hard but an impatient scowl from Lyons shook her back to reality. She nodded and jabbed her finger toward a swinging door at the back. Lyons, one hand clamped on Harland’s good arm, made the door in three strides and pushed it open with the muzzle of the Anaconda. He followed the weapon, his eyes tracking where he pointed the muzzle, ready for any sign of trouble. They reached the freezer door unmolested and Lyons yanked it open.

“Inside, little man.”

“What? You ain’t sticking me in no freezer…big man.”

“They always want to argue,” Lyons said before he hurled Harland through the doorway and slammed it shut behind him. He located a mop handle, wedged it against the bar so it couldn’t be opened from the inside and then yelled, “Stay toward the back and keep down! I’ll be back in a minute!”

The Able Team warrior then whirled and began searching the kitchen diligently for what he knew had to be close. It took what seemed like hours but was only actually a few minutes to locate several Sterno cans, the oversize kind designed for catering large parties. Lyons nodded in satisfaction and spun on his heel. He headed through the kitchen and returned to the main restaurant.

“One more thing, miss,” Lyons said calmly amid the continuous exchanges of gunfire echoing on the air. “Any high-content alcohol? Preferably clear?”

Without leaving her position tucked behind the bar, the waitress turned, withdrew a bottle filled with clear liquor from a cabinet nearby and tossed it to him. Lyons set the cans on the counter, quickly inspected the contents and then nodded with satisfaction. He broke away the cap, snatched a wad of paper napkins off the bar and stuffed them into the top.

“Hey, buddy!”

Lyons turned in time to see something small and silver fly through the air. He reached out and snatched it, then noted it was a Zippo lighter with the symbol of the U.S. Army 82nd Airborne, Vietnam era. Lyons looked at the dark-skinned man whose salt-and-pepper beard stood out starkly against that face. The man sat on the floor against a booth and gave Lyons a double thumbs-up. Lyons offered him a wicked grin as he flipped back the lid with a metallic zing and fired up the napkins. He closed the lighter and tossed it back to the man with a nod.

“Airborne,” Lyons said.

“All the way!” the man declared.

Lyons stepped through door and into the courtyard. Blancanales had just opened up with a fresh volley, while Schwarz was slamming home his last cartridge. He noticed Lyons approach and said, “Well, it’s about time. You stop for a potty break or something?”

“Figured we could use a little help,” Lyons replied as he tossed the Sterno cans at his friend.

Lyons then stepped into the clear and tossed the Molotov cocktail. Even as the bottle sailed toward the pair of gunners, they had noticed him and were fixing to turn their weapons in his direction.

That single mistake cost them the end game.

As Lyons dived for cover, the bottle clipped the edge of the SUV and broke open. Flaming liquor doused the two men and immediately ignited their facial hair. They stepped from cover, dropping their weapons as they tried to beat out the flames, but there would be no reprieve. Lyons turned to see Blancanales and Schwarz had the Sterno cans open and ready. Simultaneously, the pair rose and tossed their homemade grenades with unerring accuracy.

The gel substance clung to the pair of terrorists like goo and in moments their clothes had ignited. While it didn’t really burn their skin, the highly flammable gel acting as a mild ignition point, the distraction proved fatal. No longer in danger of taking fire from the SMGs, Able Team doled out justice in a variety of calibers. Their two opponents fell under the heavy fire, and when the smoke cleared there were only two bloodied bodies remaining, the clothes still smoldering from the remnants of the liquor and chafing gel.

“Well, that’s going to make identification a problem,” Blancanales pointed out as sirens wailed in the distance. “You suppose we should stick around?”

“No, we better get scarce,” Lyons said. He looked at Schwarz and said, “Still feel like a vacation to you?”

Schwarz shrugged. “At least we got nachos.”

CHAPTER THREE

Tehran, Iran

Farzad Hemmati made his way through the alleys and back streets of his hometown with practiced ease.

It wasn’t difficult given the fact the route tended toward desertion this time of morning—the Tehran police didn’t feel any particular inclination to enforce the curfew unless someone appeared suspicious. A few of the citizens had work visas to be out during these hours, and Hemmati’s forged papers were enough to pass all but forensic scrutiny.

That’s if anyone bothered to check.

Hemmati had a cover story and had been schooled thoroughly in deception, first by the American CIA and then by his cleric masters. In fact, the head of the Pasdaran had ordered this meeting, summoning him to attend them at their hideaway nestled in the heart of the city’s worst ghetto—as if there could be a worst ghetto. Hemmati didn’t want to break it to his masters, but the fact remained this part of town didn’t exactly have the market cornered on poverty. To call it a ghetto could’ve described about three-quarters of Tehran.

Still, this had been Hemmati’s home for the past thirty years and it had seem him through the toughest times. It had also cost him the lives of his parents when he was ten, turning Hemmati into an orphan since none of his living relatives had either the interest or the money to take care of a growing boy. Hemmati might have ended up another street urchin or dead or even slaving away for the glory of the regime’s war machine. The Pasdaran had spared him that fate, taken him under its wing.

They’d fed him, clothed him, educated and trained him.

And then they’d turned him loose on society and made him earn his way, gaining him the experience he would need to survive. Now he knew in his heart and mind that it was time to repay all he owed them. Hemmati welcomed whatever tasks might befall him with all of the obedience and respect due his masters.

Hemmati reached the rendezvous point and made his way along a very narrow alley that stank of urine and garbage mixed with the occasional whiff of hashish on the air. In the predawn gloom he could make out the hump of a displaced person—there were many throughout the capital—hunkered down and wrapped in whatever tattered cloth they could find to keep warm against the icy nights the prevailed that time of year.

Hemmati reached what appeared to be a wooden door, although it was lined with two inches of lead. He rapped twice—a simple knock, so simple that few would think to duplicate it. A moment later a plate slid aside, a pair of white eyes peered out and then the see-through slammed closed with a thud. The door opened a minute later just enough to allow Hemmati to slide past.

The man attending the door said, “Go right in, Master Hemmati. They await you.”

Hemmati nodded and proceeded down a hallway about half the width of the alley. Only candles provided light. The place had no electricity and for very many good reasons that Hemmati opted not to consider at that moment. There’d be time for daydreaming later. Right now he would need his every wit about him for the task ahead. Hemmati continued to the end of the hallway and then turned to his left. He rapped once on the door before opening it and stepping into a room that was so familiar to him he almost felt as if he were a youth again, kneeling at his master’s knees, studying the Koran and memorizing the fatwas, principles of the jihad.

“Come, Farzad,” a voice called from the shadows on the far side of the room. “You are most welcome.”

“It is good to see you again, Mullah,” Hemmati said as he crossed the room and took a seat on the pillow at the edge of an ornate scarlet carpet covering the wooden floor.