CHAPTER THREE

      Kneeling behind the front bumper of a maroon Ford Taurus, Schwarz ground his teeth and rode out a blistering fusillade of gunfire as two hardmen emptied automatic weapons into his cover. Bullets pounded through the vehicle, flattening tires, rending upholstery, shattering glass. An occasional round pierced the car’s sloped hood, exiting within inches of Schwarz’s crouched form. Lead pounded the engine block, pinging like metallic rain as the block stopped the rounds from ripping Schwarz apart.

      Only moments earlier, the Able Team commando had started around the edge of the sedan, his micro-Uzi carving a path for him while he looked for the black-clad killer. When a flash of motion had registered in his peripheral vision, he had dived behind the Ford, his combat-honed reflexes taking him off the firing line a heartbeat before death found him.

      A momentary break in the gunfire provided Schwarz a chance to raise his head slightly over the hood to scan the scene, but he saw no one. His opponents apparently had gone undercover while reloading their weapons.

      Moving in a crouch, Schwarz rounded the car’s front end, now with his M-4 assault rifle leading the way. Climbing onto the sidewalk, he moved along the edge of the line of vehicles, his senses alert for any sign of trouble.

      The sudden slap of feet against concrete drew his attention. He wheeled toward the sound, scanning for a target, his finger tightening ever so slightly on the trigger. A heavyset woman, apparently considering the silence a chance for escape, darted out from inside a drugstore, her worn leather purse clutched tightly to her chest. Seeing the commando, his weapon pointed at her, the woman froze and screamed.

      Shit!

      Schwarz pointed the rifle barrel skyward and waved her on with his free hand. Eyes bulging, the woman stood there rooted to the spot, her lips working wordlessly as her overloaded mind tried to process the events unfolding around her. Realizing the numbers were falling too fast for such a distraction, Schwarz felt his own anxiety creep up a notch.

      “Move!” he yelled, hoping that the sound, if not the word, might jar her into action.

      His command startled her, but she stood still.

      Damn it! Left with no other choice, Schwarz surged forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. The instant his hand gripped her bicep, the fingers sinking into the cushy flesh, the woman screamed and threw a haymaker at Schwarz’s jaw.

      The punch connected, jarring his teeth. He’d experienced a lot worse, of course, but the sudden sensation of pain emanating from his jaw diverted his attention for an instant. Almost long enough for him to miss the furtive figure rising from behind a nearby parked car.

      Almost.

      With a shove he bulled the woman out of the way and brought up his assault rifle. The weapon spit a line of 5.56 mm rounds that pounded into his opponent’s head, reducing it to a fine red mist. His attacker’s smoking weapon slipped from dead fingers as the partially decapitated corpse folded into a boneless heap, disappearing between two parked cars. Seeing the violence, the bystander screamed again and darted back toward the drugstore. Schwarz felt a rush of relief when the electric door slid closed behind her.

      Moving with slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the space between himself and the felled shooter, figuring he ought do a visual check to make sure he’d cleared the nest. He found the man’s crumpled form where it had fallen. He made a mental note to search the guy later, even as he acknowledged that such an effort likely wouldn’t yield much. These guys obviously were pros and if they carried any identification at all, it likely would be fake. But they’d run the traps nonetheless.

      The crackle of gunfire died down for a few moments. Schwarz heard a terse exchange between Lyons and Grimaldi. Moments later the helicopter’s engine grew louder and the craft rose from the street, cresting the rooftops as the pilot executed a starboard turn.

      Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Schwarz noticed his combat senses kicking into overdrive, the small hairs at his nape brushing against his shirt collar, a cold sensation rushing down his spine.

      Turn! his mind screamed.

      He spun. Even before his mind registered the threat, Schwarz knew he was going to take a bullet. The guy with the black coat was poised on a second-floor balcony, his weapon aimed dead-center on Schwarz’s chest.

      Move!

      The Able Team warrior shot up.

      Flames lanced from the other man’s weapon. Almost the same instant Schwarz felt something smack hard into him, the force robbing him of his footing, sending him tumbling to the ground. The shot, sounding oddly far away, registered with him even as his mind struggled to grasp the sudden trauma seizing his body.

      Fire tore through his shoulder. Through blurred vision, he saw the other man adjust his aim, saw more flames leap from the gun’s barrel. White-hot pain lanced through his abdomen and he cried out in spite of himself.

      He tried to raise his own gun hand but found it unresponsive.

      I’m going to die.

      He’d imagined it a thousand times, and here it was. If he was going to go, he’d make some damn noise.

      Cocking his knee, his working hand stabbed down to his ankle, groping for the Colt Detective’s Special holstered there. Fire ripped through his bent calf, causing him to grunt in surprise and pain, making him forget about the weapon. His leg went limp. When he dropped to the ground, he glimpsed the shooter, poised and grinning, surveying his shattered form with satisfaction.

      Schwarz struggled to remain conscious but found himself slipping away. The popping of gunfire, the wail of sirens, grew faint, distant.…

      A TAUT VOICE EXPLODED in Blancanales’s earpiece.

      “Man down!” Kurtzman said. “Gadgets is injured and taking fire.”

      The commando keyed his headset. “Location?”

      Kurtzman told him. Blancanales turned and began retracing his steps, moving at a dead run to reach his fallen comrade.

      “Ironman?” he said into his throat microphone.

      “Go.”

      “You’re on your own.”

      “Right. Take the bastards down.”

      “Clear.”

      Blancanales surged into the street, his eyes scouring the area for the shooter. He spotted the black-coated man, his lips twisted in an ugly grin, drawing down on an unseen target. Blancanales assumed his friend was on the ground somewhere beyond the string of parked cars lining the street.

      From behind him, he heard the police cars closing in, a cacophony of blaring sirens and squealing tires. He did his best to ignore their approach, knowing he had