"I wonder if they'll associate us with the bodies in their own office," Babette persisted.

Politician grinned. "I doubt it. It doesn't look like they'll discover the bodies themselves. What I wonder is how they'll explain those bodies, or if they'll even be given a chance to explain."

"How long are you going to be around?" Babette asked.

Gadgets sighed. "About another hour. We'll be leaving for the airport as soon as we have something to eat."

Babette still had questions. "What happens to the office?"

"The computer runs it," Ti explained. "I have it on a telephone modem. I can call it from anywhere. It will dump a high-speed report into another computer and carry out any monitoring or control of the WAR computer that I tell it to. We won't have to go near that office again. The only problem will be if the HIT people discover what's happening."

"Why don't I look in once a day to see if anything's been disturbed?" Babette suggested.

"What about your coaching?" Pol asked.

"I'm still on post-Olympic holidays. After all, even athletes relax for short periods."

Ti handed Babette the key to the office. "Best if you check during the day. That way you're unlikely to meet your boyfriends again. They're less apt to try anything if you do."

Babette took the key and nodded. Then she sighed.

"Well, if a girl has to settle for just food, it had better be a good meal."

9

July 12, 1530 hours, Atlanta, Georgia

Lyons had to credit Deborah Devine — she did not take forever to dress. He showered, shaved and put on jeans, a jean jacket and a plaid shirt in his customary twelve minutes. At that, she was waiting for him in the lobby of the building.

Her hair, still damp from the shower, was pulled into a long ponytail. She wore slacks, a silk blouse and sensible walking shoes.

As they left the building, Lyons noticed a man, still buttoning his shirt, come around from behind the building. He wondered how many other goons had been sent to keep an eye on him. It was a problem. He could do nothing to arouse their suspicion, but he would have to ditch them, so that he could warn Brognola about the impending attack. He was not worried about the blonde at his side. Brognola would find some way to separate them when they reached Elwood Electronics.

"Let's take a taxi," Lyons suggested.

He steered them toward Fulton Industrial Boulevard, hoping to flag a cab there. Deborah did not move particularly quickly. She decided it was time to check how she looked. Lyons swore as she pulled a mirror out of her handbag. Then he noticed that she was not really looking at herself — the mirror was doing a scan. He filed the information.

They had no luck finding a cab and soon found themselves walking to the nearest bus line. Lyons itched to look back, but he did not want to make his companion suspicious.

Half an hour later, they were in downtown Atlanta. Soon they would find a bus headed for Marietta, which would drop them in Smyrna, within walking distance of Elwood Electronic Industries.

"I wanna stop and eat," Deborah said.

Lyons thought about that. He had picked out only one tail, sitting three seats behind them on the bus. Lyons could not crane his neck trying to spot the car he was sure would be following them without giving himself away. Stopping to eat would give him a chance to spot and ditch whoever was following them.

"Sure," he agreed. "Let's get off here."

"There's no restaurant around here," she complained as he led the way to the door.

"We'll find one."

The tail walked to the front of the bus in order to keep his back to them. His technique was so clumsy that Lyons was sure he was there simply to be ditched.

They got off at a corner and started walking down the longest block he could find. Their tail wagged himself after them.

"You sure picked a tough part of town to take a stroll in," Deborah complained.

Lyons was looking for a way through to the next block. In the middle of the next block, he found exactly what he was looking for. A narrow gap between two buildings served as a walkway from the parking lot behind to the front of the building. Beyond the parking lot was the entrance from the next street. A car would have to go around the block to pick them up and Lyons could spot whoever followed them on foot.

"Through here," he grunted, picking up the pace.

He turned his head as he spoke. A man was hesitating at the mouth of the walkway. Lyons could not see enough from the corner of his eye to make an identification. He then caught sight of Deborah's face. She was eyeing him.

The parking lot was sheltered by buildings on four sides with just two lanes for entry and exit. In its secluded confines they ran into trouble. Six punks were stripping two cars and stowing the loot in the back of a van. Two other punks held switchblades on the elderly parking attendant.

Lyons's Colt Python rode a pancake holster in the small of his back, but drawing it would probably get the old attendant sliced. He turned his steps toward the attendant's booth, pretending not to notice the gang stripping the two cars.

"Get out of the way," he commanded Devine in a voice that would not carry.

She nodded and drifted off between the cars.

Lyons approached the booth as if he was oblivious to everything but his own thoughts. He rummaged around in his pockets, searching.

"I have my monthly pass here, somewhere," he muttered to the attendant.

The street gang was one of the few that had achieved integration. One of the attendant's tormentors was a blond fair-skinned youth, the other looked as if he was of Puerto Rican origin.

The blond youth snickered. "Yeah, sucker. Your ticket's just been canceled." His knife came away from the old man's throat and pointed at Lyons.

Lyons looked at the speaker as if seeing him for the first time. He was about twenty, thin, but tough looking. He then looked at the Puerto Rican punk. With a growl the goon slashed at Lyons's face.

The Able Team member's left hand clamped on the Puerto Rican's knife wrist, his right hand came up behind the elbow, forcing it straight. He used the punk's stiff arm to lever him into his buddy, who was knocked back three paces before he knew what was happening.

A sudden amount of extra pressure on the wrist snapped it like a dry twig. The knife fell to the asphalt. Lyons pushed back on the arm and let go. The punk staggered back a step. Lyons executed a snap kick to the crotch that introduced his opponent to a new world, one where nothing existed except pain.

The blond hood came in fast, his knife low and weaving. A grin of cruel satisfaction decorated his face.

"You gonna die slow," he told Lyons.

Lyons turned. The knife-wielder charged, straight into a back kick that broke his forearm and dumped him on his ass. Before he could figure what had hit him, a roundhouse kick to the temple relieved him of the necessity of ever figuring anything out again.

One of the youths who had been stripping a car stepped out from between the parked cars. He held a Saturday night special in a professional-looking two-handed grip.

"See how good you are at kicking bullets," the gunman sneered.

Lyons was in the open, too far from the gunman to reach him. Deborah Devine materialized between the cars, behind the gunman.

She grabbed his right shoulder with her left hand and pulled. At the same time she stomped hard into the back of the thug's right knee. The knee buckled and the gun was jerked to the side, its bullet flattening a tire on the car beside Deborah and her prey.

As the man turned, Deborah grabbed his gun wrist. With leverage on both his shoulder and his wrist, the would-be killer was easy prey to the curvy blonde. She twisted him around until his head met the corner of the car windshield with a solid whack. The gunman screamed in agony. The gun fell from his fingers. She shifted her left hand from his shoulder to his greasy hair. The head was smashed into the corner post once more. Devine let go of the unconscious form, picked up the gun and ran over to Lyons.