Maelstrom

“I won’t expect any medals,” Blancanales replied, waving the compliment away and grinning his usual, disarming grin. “But thanks for noticing.”

Lyons sighed deeply. “Okay, so if these weren’t Jewish terrorists, who were they?”

“I’m not saying they weren’t Jewish terrorists,” Blancanales reminded him. “I’m just saying that there must be a reason they made it so obvious. I think if we figure that out, we’ll also figure out who’s behind it and—”

“Excuse me. Deputy Irons?”

The threesome turned to see Nuri standing in the doorway of the shop.

“What is it?” Lyons asked.

“A report just came over the radio. Apparently that bus was sighted and there’s a chase on.”

“Where’s it headed?” Gadgets asked.

“Uptown Manhattan.”

The trio exchanged looks and each could tell he’d reached the same conclusion as the others.

“Let’s move!” Lyons ordered.

Able Team left the shop and sprinted for their government SUV. Blancanales got behind the wheel, Lyons took shotgun and Schwarz jumped into the back seat. Seconds later they were speeding away from the crime scene and headed for the posh, uptown section of one of New York City’s nicest districts.

Schwarz reached behind the back seat and retrieved a bag of toys that Stony Man had arranged to be waiting at JFK when they landed. They were already wearing shoulder holsters with pistols—Blancanales a Glock Model 19, Lyons a .357 Magnum Colt Python Elite and Schwarz a silenced Beretta 93-R—but those would hardly be enough against a dozen or more terrorists armed with assault rifles and machine pistols. It was time for heavier hardware.

Schwarz loaded a 10-shell box magazine into the well of an S&W Assault Shotgun and passed it to Lyons. It was an AS-3, an automatic shotgun originally developed for the U.S. military’s Joint Service Small Arms Program. Similar to the Atchisson, the more modern AS-3 could easily fire 3-inch Magnum 12-gauge shells of Lyons’s favorite combo of No. 2 and double-aught shot in single, 3-round burst, or full-auto modes. Its cyclic rate of fire was about 375 rounds per minute at an effective range of nearly a hundred meters, and it was a room broom in the hands of an experienced user.

Schwarz next turned his attention to an MP-5 A-3, a variant of one of the most efficient and widely used submachine guns in the world. Manufactured by Heckler & Koch, the MP-5 A-3 had an extending metal stock that could reduce or increase the overall length of the weapon in a heartbeat. It was chambered for 9 mm Parabellum rounds and considered one of the most precise weapons of its kind.

After passing the MP-5 A-3 to Blancanales, Schwarz procured his own weapon of choice, a 5.56 mm FNC manufactured by Fabrique Nationale Herstal SA. He had grown fond of it for its durability and versatility. While classified as an assault rifle, the FNC was a compact and powerful weapon, built on the popular rotating-bolt standards of its H&K competitor. It had a folding stock, a 30-round detachable box magazine, and fired about 700 rounds per minute, but it was still as light and manageable as nearly any submachine gun.

Schwarz reached into the bag and withdrew a police scanner equipped with an earpiece. He turned it on, punched in the UHF channel range of the New York City police department’s bandwidth and then donned the ultrasensitive earpiece. He reported the situation to his comrades as they raced toward uptown Manhattan.

“Doesn’t sound like the situation’s all that good,” Schwarz said. “The bus was spotted by a police chopper. Apparently the cops thought it suspicious that a bus that should be taking children home from school was instead sitting in a forest preserve on the edge of the city.”

Lyons couldn’t argue with that, and he hoped that NYC would see to it the cops in that chopper were decorated for being so sharp and alert. Having been a cop in Los Angeles for many years before joining Stony Man, Lyons had nothing but respect for the men and women in blue. They had a tough job, and most of them performed admirably in the line of duty—especially those serving in this city.

“What’s happening now?” Blancanales asked.

“They apparently converged on the bus, the driver panicked, and they’re chasing him through Manhattan. In fact, right now they’re trying to clear the road ahead. I guess the driver’s not being too careful about what he hits and doesn’t hit, and there are already half a dozen injured bystanders. I’m also hearing there’s a foot pursuit and sporadic shootouts between the cops and those that managed to get off the bus before it split.”

“Okay,” Lyons said, “I think what’s going down in Manhattan should take the priority.”

“Agreed,” Blancanales said, keeping his eyes on the road. “More bystanders.”

“And more potential for it to get out of hand.”

“May have already,” Schwarz replied. “Just got word the chase has stopped and they’ve got the bus trapped between their squads and a street closure.”

“Sounds like our terrorist friends are planning to make their last stand right there,” Blancanales said, casting a sideways glance at Lyons.

“Sounds like your ‘sounds like’ is right,” the Able Team leader quipped.

“How far away are we?” Blancanales asked, his gaze flicking to Schwarz’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“I’d say another five or ten minutes unless traffic gets backed up,” Schwarz replied.

Minutes later the trio emerged from the SUV and double-timed it in the direction of the standoff.

WHEN ABLE TEAM finally arrived, they found the police had the entire block cordoned off, and a wall of blue was the only thing keeping back a pressing crowd of curious onlookers.

“Come on, folks,” one cop was telling them. “Just move along. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Lyons could tell the cop was about to lose his cool and he decided to redirect the man’s attention by shoving his forged Homeland Security credentials under the man’s nose.

“Irons, U.S. Marshals Service.”

“Should I be impressed?”

“No, but you should watch your mouth,” Lyons growled. “What’s going on down there?”

The cop eyed Lyons suspiciously for a moment, but the ice-cold blue eyes, grim stare and amount of heavy-duty hardware seemed to put him in a suddenly more cooperative and respectful mood.

“We’ve got about eight or nine terrorists pinned down on a bus. We think a few of them have managed to get off. It had been a vehicle pursuit, but I guess the bus took a turn a bit too wide and flipped onto its side. Beyond that, I don’t know much, sir.”

Lyons nodded, then jerked his thumb in the direction of the line of flashing lights where the police had parked their cruisers nose-to-tail to block access to that part of the city. “Who’s in charge down there?”

“That would be Captain Roberson, sir,” the cop replied.

The policemen let Able Team past the barricade and then went on about his business of keeping back the growing crowd.

The trio was jogging down the center of the street when the sound of automatic weapons fire suddenly erupted. The cordon of police vehicles shielded the SWAT team and patrol officers as they returned the fire with a volley of their own. Able Team reduced its exposure to possible stray fire by moving to the sidewalk under Lyons’s lead, and continuing toward the police line. They were within about ten yards of where a group of officers were cloistered behind one of the SWAT vehicles when someone noticed them and raised a shout.

Lyons managed to produce his badge just as a half dozen of the rear security members from the SWAT team trained AR-15s on the Able Team warriors.

“U.S. Marshals!” Lyons replied.

A tall, dark-haired N.Y.P.D. policeman wearing the rank insignia of a captain raised his arms and called, “Stand down!”

Once Lyons had verified it was safe to approach, Able Team joined the small crew huddled around a makeshift field table set up behind the SWAT truck. The officer who had called off the SWAT team wore a nametag that read I. Roberson. Decorations and meritorious service ribbons galore donned the left breast of the uniform, including the Medal for Valor, one of the highest awards rendered in the department. Lyons offered his hand and the Roberson took it.

“Now what the hell brings the U.S. Marshals Service to the Big Apple?” Roberson asked.

“We’re a special detachment from the Office of Homeland Security,” Lyons recited. “We’re here to assist you.”

“No offense, Deputy—?”

“Irons.”