Maelstrom. Don Pendleton
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half coughed, half snorted. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Look, Detective, I don’t have any time for games,” Lyons replied with a scowl. “So let’s cut this small-talk shit and stick to facts.”
“Yes, sir…sorry, sir. Mostly, it’s a pretty mixed neighborhood. This part of the Heights is older and we’ve got a pretty good mix. There’s a section of Russians, French and even Hispanics, but it’s primarily Arabic.”
“Any Jewish population?”
“You bet,” he replied with a nod. “In fact, the population concentration in this part is Middle Eastern. I’m talking Iraqis, Iranians, Pakistanis, Jews, Indians. Hell, there’s practically every known representation of the Fertile Crescent here. And for the most part, everyone’s always gotten along. Brooklyn Heights just isn’t known for these kinds of hate crimes. I mean, this was some serious shit.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around lately, guy,” Lyons told him. “Thanks for your help. I’m going to go take a look-see with my partners now. I may have some more questions, so don’t get lost.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nuri replied. “I’ve got the feeling I’m going to be around here for quite a while.”
Lyons nodded and then turned on his heel and went off in search of his comrades. The Able Team warrior found “Gadgets” Schwarz first inside one of the small Mediterranean restaurants. He was kneeling over the body of a little, dark-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than six or seven. There was a large, gaping wound in her forehead, and the prone corpse of woman—the back of her bloody coat shredded—covered the better part of the girl’s frail form.
“Probably her mother,” Lyons said quietly. “Looks like she was running for cover with the girl when the shooting started. She bought it, girl got pinned beneath her and then one of the bastards came in and finished the job.” Lyons pointed to his forehead for emphasis.
Schwarz looked at him with a gaunt expression and Lyons saw something dangerous in the man’s brown eyes.
“Easy there, pal. You look like maybe you want to lose control.”
Schwarz stood and took one lasting look at the girl. “I’m cool, Ironman. We need to find these bastards—and quick.”
“Okay,” Lyons said, stepping forward and clapping a firm hand on his warrior friend’s shoulder. “But let’s find Pol first.”
They found Blancanales in a nearby clothing shop, where there was more glass on the threadbare carpet than blood. Most of the blood spatter had soaked into the many garments hanging on the crowded racks, some of which were now in cockeyed positions. Obviously the place had been flooded with autofire, just as the other shops and eateries. The decimation and horror of it was almost surreal.
Rosario Blancanales, known as the “Politician” for his amazing ability to remain suave, cool and diplomatic under even the worst conditions, put his hands on hips and shook his head.
“I don’t know about you guys, but this was no ordinary terrorist attack.”
“Since when is any terrorist attack ordinary?” Schwarz asked.
“That’s not what I meant,” Blancanales replied quietly, fixing his teammate with a level but questioning gaze. He then looked at Lyons and continued. “Look, there was something much more behind this. Call it another purpose, an ulterior motive, or whatever, but I’m telling you there’s something real funky going on here.”
“Explain,” Lyons said, stepping closer to his friend.
“Well, for one thing, it seems strange that all of the players in this were wearing Jewish symbols. I mean, come on, the usual mode of operation for most terrorist groups is to claim credit after the fact, and Jewish terrorists are no exception. If this were the Kach-Kahane Chai or a violent offshoot of the Anti-Defamation League, we’d be standing here with our thumbs up our collective asses, wondering who the actual perpetrators were.”
“And we’d finally hear two or three days from now who was actually responsible,” Schwarz interjected.
Lyons nodded in agreement. “That never occurred to me. That’s insightful thinking, Pol.”
“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