Into the Maze at-14 Read online

  Lyons kept his Atchisson below the level of the windows.

  “They were most definitely monitoring,” Gadgets told his partners. “This morning, too, I’ll bet.”

  “No more calls home.” Lyons changed Atchisson mags. He propped the selective-fire assault against the door and unholstered his silenced Colt. He cleared the chamber, then jammed in another standard-issue 7-round magazine.

  “And that means they know what we know,” Blancanales added. “They’ll know exactly what we got from Gunther and what we didn’t. If there’s an address on the tape, they’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  Lyons looked at his watch. “Tomorrow’s four hours away.”

  “It’ll take me that long to go through these tapes!” Gadgets protested. “I can’t decode it in a flash, you know.”

  “Then get with it now,” Lyons said.

  Gadgets snapped a salute. “Yes, sir. Immediately. Switching into target-acquisition mode.”

  As Vato drove back to the warehouse, Gadgets put on miniature headphones and skipped through the tapes. “Wow, man, this Gunther dude gets around. Chile, Argentina, El Salvador, Guatemala. Everywhere the Nazis hang out.”

  “Where’s he now?” Lyons demanded. “Forget the travelogue.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Ironman! Working on it.”

  Vato swerved through the narrow streets, speeding through the boulevard traffic, Jacom a car length behind him. Lyons watched for pursuit units. It looked as if they had lost the International.

  In the industrial section, the compacts sped past factories and diesel trucks. Vato announced that they neared their rented warehouse. Lyons leaned forward.

  “Don’t go the front way. Circle around the block and then go in by the back alley.”

  Vato nodded. He drove for a minute more, then turned into an alley. As he sped through the narrow lane, Vato hit the high beams. Lyons saw a shape dart into the shadows.

  Throwing open the door, Lyons stepped out running. The black-clad form reached for a holstered pistol. Lyons dived. Breath exploded from a man’s lungs as Lyons hit him, then locked a left arm around the man’s throat. Lyons took the automatic from his prisoner’s holster and put the muzzle against the man’s head. He thumbed back the hammer and flicked up the safety.

  Voices shouted. Forms blocked the alley. Flashlight beams found Lyons where he struggled with the soldier. Vato switched off the headlights as Blancanales ran to Lyons and crouched beside the prisoner.

  “We’re surrounded!” Blancanales yelled.

  Forcing his prisoner flat on the concrete, Lyons pressed the muzzle of the battered Colt Government Model against the head of the soldier. “Who are you?”

  “I am Lieutenant Soto of the army of the Republic of Mexico. You are under arrest. Surrender now, or you die.”

  “Cut the talk, Mexican. I got you.”

  “And he’s got us,” Blancanales added.

  “You work for the International?” Lyons demanded.

  “What?” the lieutenant asked.

  “The Reich. The Nazis. The International Group. The Guerreros Blancos. Who are you with?”

  “What do you talk about?”

  Vato and Gadgets crouched behind the compact, their weapons ready. But they held their fire.

  Two soldiers stopped Jacom, putting the muzzles of their M-16 rifles through the car’s window. The Yaqui kept his hands on the steering wheel as one of the soldiers reached in and switched off the engine.

  Gadgets called out to his partners. “It’s a Mexican standoff!”

  “Surrender or we kill you,” the lieutenant threatened.

  “Tough talk, Lieutenant,” Lyons warned. “Any of your men shoot and you’ re gone.”

  “May I attempt to negotiate this problem?” Blancanales suggested.

  “You are my prisoners,” the lieutenant stated. “My sergeant has another twenty men watching the streets.”

  “Lieutenant,” Blancanales said calmly, “there is a conspiracy operating within the Mexican army and various offices of the regional governments. This conspiracy also employs agents within the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. We are special antiterrorist operatives. We came to your country to participate in a bilateral investigation, and it’s been one long fight. We fought a battalion of the Mexican army called the International Group. We fought Federates. We fought drug-syndicate gunmen. We’ll cooperate with any legitimate Mexican authority, but you must recognize our problem. We’ve been tricked and betrayed by everyone, in your government and in ours. Is it possible you could call your commanding officer? I’m sure if we discuss this, we can resolve the situation.”

  “American antiterrorist operatives?”

  “We came to investigate links between an international death squad, Los Guerreros Blancos, and the international drug syndicates.”

  “Did you have a helicopter?”

  “We captured it from the Mexican army unit called the International Group.”

  The Lieutenant shouted out to his soldiers. “No dispare! Esperan. Me dijeron que son agentos de anti-terrissimo de los Estados Unidos.” He turned to Blancanales. “Release me. We will talk. Remember, escape is not possible.”

  “Not for you!” Lyons countered.

  “Release him,” Blancanales instructed his partner. “But remember this,” he said to the lieutenant, his voice rising. “We have been tricked by your government and ours. Betrayal is everywhere. Seriously, how do you expect us to take such insanity? You think we should just take this shit?” His eyes glared with fury and determination.

  Lyons broke his lock around the lieutenant’s throat. But he kept the man’s automatic.

  Lieutenant Soto spoke into his walkie-talkie. A voice answered. As the lieutenant whispered into the radio secured to his chest strap, the scene remained otherwise motionless.

  The soldiers watched Able Team, Able Team watched the soldiers. No one risked a sudden move.

  Finally, the lieutenant spoke to the foreigners again. “He will come.”

  Then he called to his soldiers. The two men pointing rifles at Jacom stepped away from the rental car. They took positions watching the foreigners. Soldiers blocked the other exit at the far end of the alley.

  Lyons and Blancanales sat with Lieutenant Soto on the truck ramp. The headlights of the rented cars lit the scene. Blancanales used the wait to question the lieutenant.

  “Your commander is a patriotic soldier?”

  “Claro que si! Why do you ask such a question?”

  “And as a senior officer, he earns a good salary, yes?”

  “He is comfortable. Why do you…”

  “Lieutenant, I do not mean to insult your commander. But I must ask. Has he become inexplicably more comfortable, even wealthy in the past year?”

  “He says he has been successful in his investments.”

  “He says?”

  “I do not interrogate my commander.”

  “And your sergeant. Is he a successful investor also?”

  “No,” the lieutenant laughed. “For a gift for his grandchild’s baptism, he borrowed the money from me.”

  “Could you perhaps ask the sergeant to watch the street? If anyone other than your commander appears, if the sergeant sees cars or trucks he does not recognize, could you ask him to notify you immediately? Please do not misunderstand me. But it is possible that anything is possible.”

  The lieutenant nodded and spoke quickly into his walkie-talkie. A voice answered immediately. The lieutenant relayed the message to his captors.

  “He sees many headlights.”

  Lyons yelled, “Wizard! Jacom! Off the lights! Right now!”

  Moving slowly, Gadgets set down his Uzi, then leaned into the car to switch off the headlight. The lights of the second car went black an instant later.

  They heard engines. Tires squealed around corners. Blancanales spoke quickly to the lieutenant.

  “Tell your soldiers to take cover! The International…”

  “You are my prisoners, you
don’t give me commands!”

  “Lieutenant! They are the enemies of your nation and ours! Your men will die if…”

  Tires screeched to a halt. Autofire shattered the night. Bullets shrieked the length of the alley. A soldier screamed with pain.

  Soldiers returned the fire. Other soldiers shouted to their lieutenant for instructions.

  “We’re on your side, Lieutenant,” Lyons told the Mexican officer.

  “Return my pistol!”

  Lyons eased down the old Colt’s hammer and passed it to the lieutenant.

  Snapping back the hammer, Lieutenant Soto aimed at Lyons’s face.

  13

  Autoweapons flashed, lighting the alley like strobes. A single tracer streaked across the darkness, sparked against a wall, spun wildly into the night.

  Gadgets stayed flat on the asphalt. He heard a wounded man screaming. Slugs hammered the rented car, glass shattered and fell. Voices shouted Spanish. The wounded man called for his friends to help him, his words going from sobs to moans to cries for help again. Gadgets reached out and grabbed Vato’s arm.

  “What’re they saying? What’s going on?”

  “The soldiers call the lieutenant. For instructions. The lieutenant calls for soldiers to take the prisoners. The gang tells them to run away, to leave the North Americans.”

  Gadgets shouted toward the warehouse ramp. “Pol! Ironman! Let the lieutenant go.”

  “I did! He’s pointing a pistol at me.”

  “Silence!” Lieutenant Soto ordered.

  Slinging his captured Uzi over his shoulder, Gadgets slipped out his Beretta 93-R. He touched the extractor to confirm a round in the chamber. Then he whispered to Vato.

  “Count to ten, then switch on the car lights for an instant. Just an instant. On and off. Think you can do that without getting shot?”

  “When the gang sees the lights…”

  “I know, I can dig it. Instant target. Just on and off. I only need a millisecond of light.”

  “To free the others, yes?”

  “That’s the scam.”

  “Go.”

  “Just do it and get down. One!”

  Counting to himself, Gadgets crept across the asphalt to the ramp. Before the firefight, he had seen Lyons and Blancanales with the Mexican lieutenant in the corner of the freight dock. Now he navigated by memory through the darkness. The shouts and shooting covered his steps.

  His fingers found the concrete ramp. Paralleling the ramp, he continued to the spot where the ramp met the elevated loading dock. Kicking through litter, he heard Blancanales arguing with the lieutenant in an urgent whisper. Gadgets pointed the Beretta into the black.

  The lights came on, Gadgets lining up the sights on the Mexican officer, the lieutenant turning, the muzzle of the Colt swinging around, Lyons moving, Blancanales shouting, “Don’t kill him.”

  Darkness again. Then the Colt flashed, lighting the image of Lyons pushing the Colt up to the sky with his left hand as his right fist hit the lieutenant’s jaw. Gadgets held the Beretta ready as he listened to Lyons disarm the Mexican.

  “You punk,” Lyons cursed. “You bozo excuse for soldier. Your men are getting killed and you won’t talk sense. You just lost your command. Pol, tell those soldiers out there what to do.”

  “Can’t do it. They wouldn’t listen to me. He’s their officer. Lieutenant, may I suggest that you take us prisoner later?”

  “You surrender?”

  Lyons refused. “Noway!”

  Blancanales negotiated. “We’ll continue talking after…”

  Gadgets solved it. “Hey, Lieutenant. Our cars are shot to shit, we’re on foot, we’re in a strange city — how’re we going to get away? Talking about surrender don’t mean a thing. Because you got us.”

  “True,” the lieutenant said. “And perhaps the other things you said are true. But there will be many questions. For you and whoever sent you into my country. Stay here.”

  They heard his boots hit asphalt. He called to a soldier. At the other end of the alley, weapons flashed, the gunmen firing when they heard the lieutenant’s voice. Trash scattered, cans rolled.

  “Whose side is he on?” Gadgets asked.

  “He doesn’t understand the situation,” Blancanales answered.

  “I do.” Lyons dropped off the loading dock. Crabbing across the asphalt, slugs zipping through the night above him, he blundered into someone and banged into the car.

  “Who is…”

  “That you, Vato?”

  “Si. Qutes…. What is the problem?”

  “Problem’s over. Where’s Jacom? Anything from Ixto or Davis or Kino?”

  “Nothing from the others. Jacom is there.” Vato pointed somewhere in the darkness. Lyons could not see his hand.

  Then the night went white. The alley became a black-and-white scene of shifting forms and lines touched by bursts of red. The warehouses, the loading doors, a gunman running in the center of the alley — the scene and moving images oscillated as a searing white point of light above the alley swung on a tiny parachute.

  In the flare light, the soldiers sprayed full-auto 5.56mm bullets at the running gunman. The cloth of his suit shook and rippled with the impacts of high-velocity slugs. A mist sprayed behind him, thousands of tiny drops glittering with magnesium white light. Dead in the air, the gunman never completed his stride.

  “Los otrosl”The lieutenant shouted again and again.

  Soldiers aimed their weapons at the gunmen at the far end of the alley, where several sedans and pickups blocked the exit. The white glare exposed three gunmen in the open. Rifle fire from the platoon threw one man against a truck, spun another. The third man went flat behind a mound of trash. Bullets tossed bits of garbage into the air. Cans clanked and jumped.

  Lyons took his Atchisson from the car. He took two full Atchisson mags from the floor and shook off the broken glass. The mags went in the left-hand pockets of his pants. Snapping back the cocking lever to chamber a round from the magazine in the weapon, he waited.

  Tires skidded, headlights appeared at the other end of the alley as the International cut off any escape.

  Lyons closed his eyes against the flare light and waited. The firing continued, the squads of gunmen targeting the soldiers.

  Lyons waited with his eyes closed, breathing steadily, preparing himself for the sprint. He calmed himself despite the firing of the autoweapons and the screams and the shouting.

  The alley went dark. Lyons dashed across the alley. He had almost no vision in the dark, but he heard other shoes running, then saw two shapes with Uzis. Lyons threw himself against a wall, stumbled through trash, found a doorway. The Uzis fired. The platoon replied with one long ragged burst, high-velocity slugs singing past the doorway, ricocheting from concrete and steel, a man grunting with the shock of a wound. Then the alley went white again.

  A Mexican in a sports coat stood beside Lyons. As the Mexican brought up an Uzi, Lyons slammed him with the butt of the Atchisson. Stunned, the gunman fell back against a steel door. Lyons kicked the Mexican, driving a full-power karate front kick into the man’s crotch. Gasping, falling forward, the gunman took another kick in the face.

  Slugs tore past the doorway. Lyons untangled the Uzi from the semiconscious man’s hands.

  Hands grabbed him from the back. Lyons whipped around, swinging the Uzi in his left hand like a hammer.

  A dying gunman, his clothes soaked in his blood, his nose and one eye gone, fell on Lyons. Lyons threw the blind man aside, then kicked him in the throat. The blind man clutched at Lyons’s foot.

  Scanning the alley for other fascists, Lyons smashed his shoe down on the gunman’s throat, crushing his larynx. He died choking as Lyons stripped off his belt and used it to tie the hands of the first gunman.

  Searching their pockets, Lyons found a revolver and spare Uzi mags. The revolver went in his coat pocket. He put a full mag in an Uzi. The Uzi in his left hand, his Atchisson in his right, Lyons crouched in the doorway, wa
iting as the flare swung lower and lower in the sky.

  The alley went black. The fascists threw grenades into the darkness, the blasts coming in one ragged explosion. The fire from the soldiers stopped. A group of gunmen rushed past Lyons, their Uzis and sawed-off shotguns flashing. Lyons sprinted from the doorway.

  A gunman crouching behind a sedan saw Lyons, but didn’t fire. Like the fascists, Lyons wore slacks and a sports coat. The moment of hesitation cost the fascist his life. Point-blank, Lyons triggered a one-handed burst of 9mm bullets into the gunman’s face.

  As Lyons wove through the cars, another gunman turned toward him, with a bloody bandage on one arm, the other hand holding a pistol. A single blast from the Atchisson threw him back.

  A bullet ripped past Lyons’s head. He dropped and spun, his left hand spraying slugs.

  Full-jacketed 9mm parabellums gouged car steel, broke glass, tore through the legs of a charging fascist. A slug shattered a femur, the leg bowing outward. The man went down screaming, clutching his twisted leg. Lyons put a 2-shot burst through the top of the fascist’s head, and the Uzi’s bolt slammed down on the empty chamber.

  Another flare popped. Lyons crouched between the cars. He heard firing coming from the street. The cars and trucks blocked his view. He scanned the area around him, saw two gunmen with M-16 rifles climbing stairs to a warehouse roof. Lyons dropped out the spent Uzi mag, then jammed another into the Israeli machine pistol. He slung the weapon, letting it hang on his left side.

  Putting the Atchisson to his shoulder, he sighted on the fascists going to the roof. A blast of double-ought and number-two steel shot threw one man against the concrete wall. The other man turned, took a storm of steel balls in the chest and face. Screaming, blood spraying from his torn lungs and throat, he fell back against the wall, lurched forward and finally fell over the railing. He screamed some more as he dropped to the street.

  Footsteps pounded between the cars. Lyons heard the gunmen shouting to one another. He understood some of the panicked words.