Ramrod intercept, p.6
Ramrod Intercept, page 6
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
They reached the DYSAT gates to the inner sanctum. Lyons was about to bang on the door when a chuckle that sounded as if it came from the bowels of hell filtered out the small intercom beside the doors.
“It’s open, ‘Agents’ Lemmon and Bocales. Please, enter. Please, fear not.”
Lyons considered going through the door with his Colt Python out so they could get quickly beyond any friendly preamble. He opted to leave the big piece where it was for the moment, until he got a firm read on what was what. He led Blancanales through the door and found himself moving into a sprawling suite fit for a king. Big leather couches. Wet bar, giant-screen TV. Two inches of white carpet, wall to wall. Long black marble conference table. Soft white light fell from the ceiling, framing a handsome face he recognized from the Farm’s intel pac on Jim Lake. As he moved deeper into the suite, he was somewhat curious why a former Air Force colonel would wear his jet-black hair down to his shoulders, like some wanna-be hippie or biker. Go figure how the mind of a traitor, or an insane demon worked, he thought.
He took a measure of the two other men standing off to the side of the desk. One was a Van Gogh–type gunslinger, goatee, but no hair on his head, the face gaunt and weathered, the eyes sunken black pieces of coal. The other guy was a buzz-cut issue like the men he’d gunned down in the alley. The eyes of both men warned Lyons they had itchy trigger fingers.
Lyons took up turf in front of the desk, hauled out his Justice credentials. And Lake gave him that deep chuckle, in his face.
“Please, don’t insult me.”
“How’s that?” Lyons growled.
“Okay, we’ll play it your way for the moment. What can I do for you, Agent Lemmon and Agent Bocales?”
JIM LAKE KNEW a bulldog when he saw one. In fact, wildmen were the only kind he wanted to hire on as security. Guys, yes, who could go through a door loud or quiet, in search of blood and wearing somebody’s guts for a necklace, either way they charged in. No fear, just do it. To even consider losing made a man a loser before the proverbial feces even hit the fan.
The one called Lemmon wasn’t the kind to tap dance or dream of losing. “Here it is, Colonel,” the big guy said, with a contemptuous note dropped on “Colonel.” “Three of your buzz-cut Dirty Harrys were eighty-sixed. They tend to want to shoot people on sight to make their day. They tend to seem to not care if they’re civilian or like us, with the Justice Department, which already dumps you in a world of feces. This is what we know, and this is what we’re going to do. We know you’re running a scam to unload high-tech weapons and technology overseas somewhere. We know you were using your executives and think tankers to draw out the wolves, my guess is so they could be scapegoats when you left Dodge. You’ve gone for broke, and you lost. Now we have two of your employees who want to turn songbird under our care and protection.”
Lake knew what had to be done. He steepled his fingers, rubbed his eyes and blew out a long breath.
“What? Am I boring you assholes?”
“Uh, Agent Lemmon, let me speak frankly, so we can get past all this macho posturing and palavering.”
LYONS SENSED the whole mood change around him. It was as if a dark veil had dropped over Mr. Chuckles, some rage clamped down on before then, churning over now, building heat, the pot of his black soul simmering. Van Gogh and Buzz-cut Issue had to have been clued in to the sudden shift in Lake’s demeanor, and Lyons read the squaring of the shoulders for what it meant.
It was set to blow, loud and hot. It was going to get messy, and the mere fact Lake was prepared to go for it told Lyons the guy had backup somewhere, ready to bolt town to pick up the pace on whatever his dark agenda.
“Well, Agent Lemmon, I guess there’s not much left to say, except I can’t recall the last time I saw a G-man walking around in rubber-soled combat boots. I didn’t know government issues, the official kind, trooped around with compact submachine guns in special swivel rigging beneath oversize windbreakers. To answer your suspicions, yes, I have a deal, a major deal in the works that could change the entire destiny of the world. Yes, my employees were nothing more than human chess pieces to be moved around at my wish, to take the fall, as you put it, while I fly off into the sunset. You know what my problem is—”
“I’m not your shrink, Colonel. I didn’t come here to listen to how you were an abused child and all you need is a little love.”
The big chuckle again. “My problem is I don’t like wrinkles in my plans, large or small. My problem is, when I don’t get my way or what I want, I become extremely agitated.”
And Lyons was already searching out some immediate cover, aware he and Pol were caught in the coming cross fire. It was something in Lake’s look and voice, a new darkness sinking to still lower depths, that warned Lyons to make a scramble to save his skin.
The Able Team leader was in the air, flying over a couch as the Uzi appeared, like some sorcerer’s trick, in Lake’s hands.
CHAPTER SIX
The Uzi subgun was out and flaming 9 mm parabellum rounds before either Blancanales or Lyons could free his own hardware. Lake beat them to the punch. Instead of standing his ground in some grandstand suicide play, pulling iron and blasting back at the face of death where he stood his ground, he opted to take a running dive over the conference table. The sprint and flight stole him a few precious moments. Only pistols were barking now, chiming in the deafening symphony of weapons fire, hot lead scorching the air, seeking out his scalp like angry hornets.
“You’re fucking with the wrong air commandos, ladies!”
Lake, bellowing like some fire-and-brimstone preacher hungover on Sunday morning, the long-haired crazy man pounding out the lead, marking his turf behind the desk, defying to be shot. Blancanales skidded off the table, hot slipstreams of lead tearing past his scalp, tugging at his shoulders. On the way down he unleathered both the Beretta 92-F and the stubby Ingram machine pistol, and got busy dishing it back before all was lost. A shaved head with goatee came shooting around the corner of the table when Blancanales cut loose with a double burst. The Van Gogh shooter was capping off rounds from his own Beretta when Blancanales was rewarded by a scream of pain. Van Gogh lurched back, out of sight, grabbing at the red smear on his upper thigh, cursing up a storm.
“If you’re Feds, I’m the prince of darkness!”
The way the madman was pumping out the lead, screaming in berserker fury, Blancanales didn’t find the statement a stretch.
Lake was stone-cold insane.
A swivel chair was absorbing a flurry of 9 mm rounds when he popped up, and let it once more rip with twin lead barrages. It was luck, more than skill, winging the rounds out when he tagged the buzz-cut gunner, sent him crashing down on Lake’s desk, bleeding and flopping all over polished teakwood surface like some giant gutted salmon.
“Nice shot, son!”
And Lake seemed to slap home a fresh clip in a nanosecond, not missing a beat.
“You want the best, you’ve got the best! The hottest Colonel in the land. Jim Lake!”
THE GUY WAS hung out there but good, off in some land of insanity that even caused Lyons to balk for a full second or two. He was shooting up his own office, which told Lyons he didn’t plan on coming back here. Whatever Lake’s personal vision of greener pastures, Lyons didn’t intend to let it become reality.
Not on his watch.
Not this night.
The mini-Uzi and Colt Python out, Lyons skirted on a hunch away from the tracking line of autofire that was eating up the couch, a storm of insatiable lead locusts buzzing in his ears. He came up, just in time to find Blancanales nailing the buzz-cut gunner and cut free with hand cannon and subgun to give his friend a much needed helping hand. The mini-Uzi hosed the desk, but Lake was already ducking, the curtained window behind him, drawn to block out some bird’s eye view of the city skyline, taking a few hits. It fluttered a little as holes were punched through the window to let some traffic noise filter in from far below.
On his two o’clock Lyons found Van Gogh was shooting on the move for the wet bar when he assisted Blancanales in waxing the guy off his feet. Four converging points of fire turned Van Gogh into a bursting sieve, painting him crimson from the neck down to his crotch. He was airborne next, snarling out the pain and rage, before he sailed over the wet bar and brought down the top-shelf booze.
Lake jumped back into the game, back on the trigger, screaming out something about abortion pills marking the end of civilization, how civilians were all too willing to serve bastards and whores.
What the hell? Lyons thought.
The Able Team leader was going down behind the couch when the ex-colonel fired another long burst his way, then shifted his aim and drove Blancanales down behind the conference table.
Then a shadow with a massive autoshotgun whirled around the corner where some slat appeared in the wall near Lake’s desk.
The cavalry, riding onto the scene, out of nowhere.
The curse was choked off in Lyons’s throat as he flung himself away from the couch on the peal of thunder. Lake’s subgun spray came back and helped chase Lyons to cover behind a wooden cabinet, the expensive teak scarred as tracking rounds began eating up the facing. A roaring boom and half of the cabinet vanished in Ironman’s face in razoring wood splinters.
“See you around, ladies!”
The dark hole swallowed up Lake and Mr. Autoshotgun as Lyons broke cover. The slat was closing and Lyons, jacked up on adrenaline, hit the area with a .357 round and a half-dozen 9 mm projectiles from his mini-Uzi.
Wasted effort and ammo.
Lake was gone.
Lyons was feeling the wall for some button or latch that would open the slat. Nothing. There was no space either where he could dig his fingers in to force the slat open.
“Time to boogie, Ironman. Something tells me the cavalry’s going to be waiting when we hit the hall.”
Lyons grabbed up his handheld radio and patched through to Schwarz.
“WHAT MORE CAN we tell you? We’ve given you directions to where Godwin is holed up. I put the call through, like you asked. You know he’s there, and he has the package you want.”
They were sweating out the unknown, worried about little more than saving whatever might be left of their dicey futures, wanting nothing else but for their party to go on. Schwarz didn’t have the time or the inclination to put their fears to rest, nor did he much care about their desire to keep the good times rolling. The more they found out about DYSAT and the goons who ran it, the more he felt the killing heat was only just getting turned up.
And DYSAT needed to go down the toilet.
“Hey, come on, mister. Cut us some slack here. We’re cooperating. We didn’t know what we’re getting involved in. Hey, we came to you people. That should count for something.”
Schwarz was watching the lot through the windshield and the monitor. He heard Lyons coming on his handheld radio, as gruff as usual, but now there was a definite edge of urgency in his voice.
“Gadgets!”
“Yeah.”
“Round two’s just started. Lake tried to turn me and Pol into human sushi with an Uzi he had stashed under his desktop. Two more of his shooters are down for the count. Lake and another goon with a SPAS-12 are probably headed your way. Maybe he’ll pick up reinforcements on the way down. We’re on the way. Look alive.”
“I copy.”
And Lyons was gone off the air, in pursuit.
Schwarz scrambled for the weapons bin, hauled out a Colt Commando assault rifle. One clip of 5.56 mm rounds up the snout and he took three more, jammed them in his waistband.
“Which one is Lake’s car?”
“It’s a black Towncar.”
Schwarz searched the monitor, worked the stick to move the mounted minicam around. At that hour there weren’t many vehicles left in the garage, but he was irritated it took him ten seconds before he spotted the vehicle belonging to the president of DYSAT. It was parked at the deep north end, sandwiched between a white van and Cadillac. Okay, he decided, move in on foot, take up position behind a concrete pillar down that way.
Lay in wait and ambush the bastards. Sounded like a plan.
“Stay put, no matter what,” Schwarz growled at Grogan and Caldwell. “Try and run on me…”
“We understand.”
Schwarz malingered, not certain they did. Something was turning over in their eyes, but he didn’t have a second to spare.
A couple of mad-dog shooters, or more, were on the way.
Schwarz was out the door, the assault rifle up and ready. He was almost clearing the van when a leggy blonde came through the doorway leading to the stairwell. Mouthing an oath, he was forced to wait until she vacated the combat zone he was sure was only moments away from erupting.
LAKE WAS LIVID as he stormed into the security room. He was raising Burrows, part of his security detachment from the next floor down, when Giddell hit the button on his private elevator. Lake scanned the bank of cameras, watched as the two human freight trains rolled for the doors.
“Burrows, you and Jackson hit the main hall. Our friends are right now coming out. Do not worry about noise or making a mess. Just get it done.”
“Aye, aye.”
Just get it done, he thought. Seething, as the door to the car opened, he couldn’t understand where it had gone wrong in the office. He was certain he’d gotten the draw on them, but they moved in an eye blink, as if they’d anticipated his killing play or could read his mind, which was impossible.
No, it was something else that had saved their skin. Experience, he decided. Those guys were pros of some kind. But what? And from what agency?
There would be a few moments to kill before the elevator reached the garage. In that span he needed to raise the reinforcements, get his thoughts together about their next stop. Malibu. Godwin and girl. He owned a private hangar in an airfield south of L.A. proper that was used exclusively for ferrying military brass, and DYSAT people. Once he had the data manual and the Ramrod Intercept microchips…
First he needed to clear the premises. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think Burrows and Jackson had what it took to take out the freight trains. If nothing else, they might slow them, long enough for him to make his Towncar and ride on.
He checked the Uzi’s load, half-empty, then gave himself a mental pat on the back for having the foresight to take two spare clips from his desk. It occurred to him next the freight trains might have backup, even a small army waiting for them when they hit the garage. No problem, he decided. He was shooting first anyway, so why change the program now?
THE LADY DAWDLED in her Mercedes, lighting a cigarette, sitting there, dreaming. She looked pensive, for damn sure, as if the smoke was helping to get her nerves under control after a long day at the office.
“Come on, come on.”
He knew he couldn’t very well just roll out into the great wide open, assault rifle in full view, the lady probably armed with a cell phone. Panic would take root, and she’d be on the blower, dialing up 911.
L.A.’s finest was the last thing Able Team needed to see, he knew.
Finally, she was backing out, dropping the expensive sports car into gear. Schwarz hugged the far side of the van, dropped back a couple of paces as she motored by, rounded the corner of the ramp.
Another search of the garage, and he found he was clear.
Schwarz was breaking into a run when the door to the stairwell burst open. Whether it was combat instinct or plain old paranoia jacking them up, Schwarz couldn’t say. But they homed in on his dash, two steps out the door, and opened up with weapons fire.
TWO MORE PROBLEMS cropped up just as Lyons and Blancanales were marching past the receptionist’s bay, but the Able Team commandos were geared up for any surprises once they hit the hall.
The human trains kept on rolling.
A black guy in flattop and a muscled hulk the size of the Titanic were already capping off with their Berettas. Lyons and Blancanales returned fire, twin-fisted style, heads lowering, but surging ahead. The mirrored wall cracked, then came apart in raining shards behind the Able Team commandos. Call it luck of the freight trains, but Lyons and Blancanales scored out of the gate. Lyons gave them credit for holding their ground, just the same, as they brazened it out.
Straight to the grave.
Two pistols against four weapons didn’t stand much of a chance, not when the commandos of Able Team were stoked on full heads of steam and hearts pumping with righteous anger and adrenaline. Flattop got the mother of all haircuts, his skull vanishing in a scarlet halo before he plunged to the carpet. The Titanic went down harder, listing to the side, triggering off wild rounds as his chest and face bore the brunt of four punishing impacts.
“The stairwell,” Lyons said, leading Blancanales down the hall.
They ran on, whirling, covering their own six.
“I don’t know, Carl, but something’s telling me Gadgets isn’t real happy to be on his own right about now.”
SCHWARZ HAD TO WONDER when the hell his comrades would show up and lend a helping hand. He nearly didn’t make the concrete pillar, as they let rip in unison. The SPAS-12 was all flame and thunder, driving a crashing roar through Schwarz’s eardrums like hot needles. The Uzi subgun sounded merely a bleat, as the one he recognized from the Farm’s intel as Lake tried to tag him on the run. The concrete pillar was assaulted by screaming ricochets, lead and 12-gauge rounds creating a blanket of potential man-eaters around Schwarz, forcing him to cover. He went low, came around the corner and held back on the trigger of the assault rifle. Lake was already behind the wheel of the Towncar, turning over the engine on an angry rumble. The SPAS-12 hardman had to have been ordered, Schwarz decided, to lag behind, cover the boss man’s retreat.
Good enough. Schwarz intended to see him land on permanent vacation, but if Lake fled the premises…
A quick burst from his Colt Commando and Schwarz blew out the luxury vehicle’s back windshield. Lake was gone to his sight, hunched low behind the wheel, fueled, no doubt, by a crazed desire to get the hell out of there.
