"It could have been her. It could have been her."

"Mrs. Monroe? Why would she pull a trick like..."

"Because that woman is sick. She's twisted in the head. Tonight she was so doped she couldn't stand straight. It could have been an accident, she could have done it for a thrill..."

"That doesn't explain the dead man. And when the men reported to me, they didn't mention anything about the woman being anywhere near there."

Furst stopped the car in front of the barracks where Pardee and the other officers had private rooms. Furst, as Force Commander, rated a prefab cottage with an office as well.

"Did they say how the man died? A knife? Wire or what?"

"Before I got out there, the garage exploded. They didn't..."

"Tomorrow, we question the man that lived. We might not have a spy. It might be that crazy Availa Monroe."

* * *

Still wearing his uniform and boots, Lyons sprawled on his bunk, his Colt Python near his hand. The M-16 lay on the floor, cocked and locked. He stared into the dark, every minute an eternity, waiting for Pardee to return with a group of soldiers.

He had gambled and lost. Pardee spotted him on the truck. And in the bright-as-day glare of the headlights, Furst surely recognized him as the LAPD detective who had sent the failed bank robber to prison.

But then why was he still free? Why hadn't they taken him on the spot? Did they know he would have gone down shooting rather than face torture and certain death later?

Were they watching the barrack now, waiting to grab him at an off-guard moment?

Lyons relived the scene outside the gate over and over again. A hundred yards from the gate, he had jumped on the troop truck. He was sure neither the driver nor the sentries had seen him. And the Mercedes had been on the far side of a hill. Furst and Pardee could not have seen him dash from the roadside to the bumper.

Thirty seconds after the truck stopped at the camp gate, the headlights of the Mercedes had appeared behind him. Pardee's first reaction was suspicion. Leaning out the car window, pistol in hand, he'd demanded that Lyons identify himself. But when Pardee saw it was "Morgan," Pardee joked with him, then slid back into the Mercedes and started to roll up the window.

A moment later, Pardee had jumped from the car, aiming his Colt at Lyons' chest, calling him a federal agent.

What had Furst said? One moment, Pardee joked with Lyons. The next, Pardee threatened to kill him.

The questions became a puzzle without a solution. For another hour, he replayed the scene in his mind over and over again, considering Pardee's actions and Furst's words, then straining to remember every detail of his experiences with Furst years before, in Los. Angeles. He knew Furst's biography: military schools as a child and teenager; honors from an exclusive Eastern university; officer training in the army, followed by commendations and decorations in Vietnam. But then Furst had fallen apart: a bad marriage to a debutante, a boring corporate career; squandering family money to invest in a movie starring himself; then the fast lane life with the beautiful people of Beverly Hills, including the mandatory Porsche and cocaine habit, all financed with credit and family money; finally organizing a team of drug-ruined veterans to operate internationally, but ending with a bungled bank robbery in Culver City.

Lyons laughed out loud. How could he make sense of the man's actions? Nothing Furst did made sense. Born to a good family, Furst threw it away to be a jet-set phony. Leaving prison as an ex-con with only his good looks and Vietnam record to recommend him, he became the commander of a crazy billionaire's private army.

A jeep! Voices! Lyons rolled from the bunk, grabbing the M-16. Holding the gun tight against his leg, he crept toward the rear of the barrack.

He heard the jeep accelerate away, then Blancanales' voice call out: "Thanks for the ride." Lyons reversed direction and rushed — silently — for the front entry. He stopped Blancanales and Gadgets on the front steps, without himself stepping past the doorway.

"Don't come in," he hissed.

"What?"

"Check the street for surveillance. Look around, I have to know if..."

"We already looked," Blancanales whispered. "We thought we might have people waiting for us."

"What for?"

Gadgets laughed quietly. "You don't know what we've been doing."

Lyons sighed at that. "Wait till I brief you on my adventures."

"We know all about it," Blancanales told him.

"Not the half of it you don't."

They dodged between the barracks to get to the back of a warehouse. The three of them squatted in a shadow while they exchanged stories. Lyons told them of the conference he had overheard, then the confrontation at the camp's gate. Blancanales and Gadgets told of bugging the mansion. Gadgets told them of the new assignment Furst gave him.

"Busy night," Lyons commented.

"Things are starting to pop," Gadgets added.

"Your trip to El Paso," Blancanales said, "will give us a chance to call in reinforcements."

"No chance," Lyons told him. "Mack — sorry, John Phoenix — is in the Middle East."

"Those guys in Phoenix Force mightbe available," Gadgets added. "But I don't think we need them. It's the three of us against only a hundred and fifty mercenaries... We got them outnumbered!"

"I was thinking of Grimaldi," Blancanales told them. "All these helicopters around..."

"Yeah!" Gadgets slapped his hands together. "But we gotta come up with a plan that uses him. Maybe..."

"How can we come up with a plan," Blancanales said, "when we don't even know what's happening here? We need more information first."

"Don't you two understand what I told you?" Lyons demanded of his friends, incredulous at their scheming. "Furst spotted me. No doubt about it. He's running some kind of scam on me. Maybe he's letting me stay free so he can watch you two. See if you're Feds."

"Makes sense," Blancanales agreed.

"Then why is he sending me to El Paso?" Gadgets insisted.

"That was before he spotted me. Maybe he'll cancel your trip. Maybe send someone else with a shopping list."

"Yeah, could be," Gadgets agreed. "So what do you want to do?"

Lyons grinned. "In the morning — which is two and a half hours from now — I'm waking up with a bad hangover. Too much booze. And the both of you and me are going to have a bad falling out..."

* * *

The next morning, Commander Furst made a call. He had the only direct telephone link from the base to the outside. Because there were no lines to this mountain base, a microwave system bridged the fifty mile gap to the nearest overland telephone lines. After he dialed the Los Angeles number, Furst gave his name to a 24-hour answering service, then spoke directly to his informant, the owner-president of a computer service company. The businessman said:

"My man Furst. Long time no talk. Is this a business or pleasure call?"

"Information."

"Business in other words. What is it you need to know?"

"Remember Detective Carl Lyons?"

The man laughed. "Bet youhaven't forgotten."

"Find out if he's still in L.A., with the LAPD or what. If he isn't, find out where he is."

"Pay back time. Pay first, a thousand dollars."

Shots popped somewhere in the camp. Then came a burst of auto-weapon fire. Furst jumped from his seat, still holding the receiver. The telephone fell from his desk.

"...what's the noise? Someone shooting?" asked the distant voice.

"I'll wire you the money today. Call you later."

Slamming down the phone, Furst grabbed his rifle from the corner and rushed out. A soldier sprinted across the asphalt to fly up the steps in one stride.

"Who's shooting?" Furst demanded.

"Morgan! He's gone berserk!"