“Now, Ironman,” Blancanales chided him, “you know better than to believe everything you read in a person’s psych profile. I mean, we never believed any of the stuff the shrinks at Stony Man Farm have said about you.”
“Ah, yes, that did make for some fun reading, didn’t it?” Schwarz quipped. “Besides the fact, they said they thought Delmico was more of a paranoid-delusional.”
Lyons threw up his hands with a scoffing laugh. “Now you’d think the guys in the government who know this kind of stuff would lock up somebody like that instead of letting him run around on the streets. And with college students, no less.”
“They probably didn’t think a guy with one foot could be much of a threat,” Schwarz said.
“There are a lot of dead terrorists I know who thought the same thing about a sixty-something Israeli with one arm,” Lyons countered.
The other men fell silent for a time, more out of respect than anything else. The Ironman’s reference to the former leader of Phoenix Force had hit close to the mark. Katz had lost his life battling the heinous Abu Nidal Organization. Although he’d gone like a true warrior, the loss of such a man was still felt.
“Whatever’s going on here,” Blancanales said after a time of silence, “I’d have to agree with Carl. It seems highly probable Simon Delmico’s involved in this somehow. It begs the question of why, though. What’s the motive?”
“Maybe Phoenix Force’s mission into Germany will uncover some answers,” Schwarz replied.
He brought the vehicle to a halt in the parking lot adjacent to the Natural Sciences building on the campus of Washington U. It had started to sprinkle minutes before they arrived, which would make it more difficult to spot Delmico when he came out of the building. Lyons checked his watch as he removed a piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and spread it across his left leg with a noisy crinkle.
Schwarz looked at it. “What’s that?”
“Class schedule. I had Bear hack it out of the school’s computer mainframe. Looks like there’s still about ten minutes to go in Delmico’s last class.”
“Hey, um, fellas?” Blancanales said from the back seat.
The pair turned to see their friend staring through the right rear window. “I make about six guys in a Lincoln SUV parked over there near the fire lane. You see them?”
Lyons turned and cracked his window enough to see over the top. “I got them, too. What do you make of it?”
“They’re a bit old to be local fraternity just looking for a place to happen on Friday afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Schwarz agreed. “Something about the headpiece that driver’s wearing just doesn’t add up.”
Lyons reached beneath his windbreaker and withdrew a stainless-steel .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda. He flipped out the cylinder and checked the action, then locked it in place and holstered the weapon. Blancanales and Schwarz performed similar action checks on their SIG P-239 and Beretta 92-F semiautomatic pistols. And they waited.
CHAPTER SIX
They didn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later Simon Delmico emerged from the building, and the SUV left the curb at a crawl.
“It’s going down,” Schwarz said slowly and evenly.
“Stay sharp!” Lyons told him. “Pol, with me!”
Lyons and Blancanales bailed from their vehicle and sprinted toward Delmico. At the same moment, the Lincoln increased speed and reached the scientist first. Students were crossing the walkway, chatting and laughing, or hanging around shelters to avoid the risk of getting drenched in another sudden torrent of showers. Lyons shouted for everyone to find cover as he withdrew his Colt Anaconda on the run.
Blancanales saw the barrel of an SMG protrude abruptly from a slit in the rear passenger window, Lyons apparently oblivious in his focus on Delmico. Blancanales shouted a warning and pushed his friend out of the line of fire as flame spit from the muzzle. A Kalash-nikov cut loose, one of the rounds intended for Lyons ripping through Blancanales’s forearm.
The former Black Beret went low and rolled to avoid certain death. Lyons staggered but kept his feet, then raised the Anaconda. He snap-aimed just above the muzzle of the barking assault rifle and squeezed the trigger twice. A pair of 300-grain slugs punched through the glass of the window. A head exploded as the slug rounds punched through the gunner’s skull in a spray of blood and brain matter.
The tail door swung upward and two men in turbans, blue jeans and black leather jackets jumped from the back. They swung their vehicles toward Lyons and Blancanales, but then something roared between them in a blur of smoking rubber and dust. The front of Able Team’s Ford SUV T-boned the Lincoln, effectively pinning it to the curb. Autofire resounded through the air as the driver’s door shot open and appeared to vomit Hermann Schwarz. The lithe warrior landed on his hands and knees as glass shards, vinyl and cushion filling sliced through the air like ticker tape at a Macy’s parade.
“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