"I can't seem to raise them, sir. They're not responding."

As the radio man watched the red creep into Follet's neck and face, he was glad of the hours he had spent practicing darts. He was the second best dart thrower on the base and at this moment he felt it was the only thing that stood between himself and a dishonorable discharge. Most of all, he was glad he had had the sense that had told him to throw his last match with Colonel Follet.

"Keep trying and let me know the moment you've ordered them back."

"Yes, sir."

Follet stormed out of communications.

"Whew," exclaimed one operator. "Wonder what that Lyons did?"

"Whatever he did in the past," the dart chucker replied, "it ain't nothing compared to spoiling old Follet's victory. Whoever this Lyons is, I hope he's got the sense to disappear."

Bill Frazer never had a chance to fire a fourth shot at the sprawling Lyons. Klansman Baker and Sam Jackson erupted from the tent like two human cannonballs. Baker hit the guy's ankles while Jackson hit him high and hard. As the man was going down, Jackson punched him in the face.

Lyons got up, worked the slide on the Beretta. The stovepiped shell flew clear, but he would not be confident of the weapon until he could strip and relube it.

Kelly, Mustav and another Klansman came scrambling out of the tent. Baker and Jackson got up off the ground. Baker went and looked at one of the silenced bodies. He waved his hand to the athletes and Lyons.

"Fade," he spat, "out of sight before there's a bloodbath."

KKK forces were already streaming toward the place where the shots had sounded. The foursome dropped and crawled away as quickly as possible. They moved until they were away from the tent, then turned to watch what was happening.

"Quiet down," Baker hollered over the babble of questions being thrown at him. "I'm not sure what the hell happened. Me and Terry were in the tent when Bill Frazer came and shouted for us to come out. He said he had the tent surrounded and would shoot if we didn't."

"I heard that part," a voice chimed in.

"I told Bill to come in and that nothing was wrong," Baker continued. "But he wouldn't. Me and Terry were coming out when somebody shot these poor bastards. Bill was shooting away like a madman so we tackled him and knocked him out."

One of the guards was inspecting the hit gunmen.

"Jonesy. He's dead," he said. The other two men were identified and confirmed dead. Baker and Terry both offered their guns for inspection. It was agreed — the only gun that had been fired was Bill Frazer's.

A voice lifted above the others. "I don't buy none of this shit. It's all fishy as hell."

The man on the ground moaned. "He's coming around," Baker said. "Why don't you ask him?"

Everyone gathered around the fallen man. Jackson and Kelly took the opportunity to crawl back to the tent and grab the guns off the dead men.

"What happened, Bill?" someone asked.

The reply was mumbled and incomprehensible. The fallen man shook his head, tried to clear the cobwebs.

Suddenly he looked up. "Where's the nigger who hit me?"

"What nigger?" Terry asked. The question was fired too quickly.

"I heard talking in the tent. Baker and Terry were inside. Claimed they were questioning niggers. I told them to come out with their hands up."

He paused to take a few deep breaths. The men began to mutter among themselves. Suspicion hung onto their voices.

While the KGB hardman, posing as a Klansman, continued to speak, Jackson and Kelly crawled back to Lyons and Mustav. They carried the guns taken from the dead men. Once back they found positions five feet to either side of Lyons. The three kept their weapons trained on the gathering.

Lyons pulled back to Mustav. "Get everyone out of that tent. Fast," he whispered. Mustav nodded.

A voice cut the night air.

"Somebody's got Jonesy's Colt!"

The man who had not been buying Baker's story from the beginning grabbed the former lawman's shirt. He put a handgun to Baker's chin.

"You're lying," the hardman spat. "You've got a second to come up with the truth, assho...''

His words were chewed by the bullet fired by Carl Lyons. The Able Team sharpshooter had hoped like hell that his gun would be able to give him an accurate shot. He had hoped like hell and then he had acted. He'd had to try, it was their only hope. The Beretta's bullet pounded the man's face to a bloody pulp. He dropped in an instant. Baker had bought a little bit of life.

Lyons lifted, eyes searching for the KGB mole, searching for Bill Frazer. He was the chief danger. The scene was highly explosive, and Frazer was the fuse.

A bullet from a perimeter guard tugged at his ear-lobe.

He cursed the bastard, then killed him with a burst to the chest.

"Machine-gun the niggers before they overrun us." Frazer's voice boomed over the chaos. "Machine-gun the niggers.''

Lyons sprinted to intercept the KGB killer. His cut thigh fired shots of pain through his entire lower body. He ignored the pain and pressed on. His battle senses working overtime, he heard, between violent tugs of breath, a slow-flying twin-prop plane going overhead.

There was sporadic firing from the perimeter. Lyons was close enough to see muzzle flashes coming from the gate and the west side of the prisoners' tent. Athletes, knowing it was a matter of kill or be killed, were picking off anyone who was prepared to carry out Frazer's orders.

Just ahead of him, Lyons saw the KGB goon raise his automatic to bear on the tent. Lyons fired on the run. The shot took the mole from behind, entering at the base of the skull and driving, plowing its way through the brain. Bill Frazer, once a KGB mole, dropped to the ground, now dead. His blood and brains mixed in a gory concoction on the battleground.

Lyons stopped and reversed his ground. He headed back toward the tent where Jackson, Mustav and Kelly had been held. Behind the tent, Baker was shouting to make himself heard over the yapping and confusion.

"There's some sort of crack response team inside our camp right now. They're after the hostages and the goddamn Commies."

"As long as we've got the hostages, we're okay," another Klan member yelled.

"Bullshit," Baker said. "As long as we've got the hostages we're at war."

"I say we kill the Commies that conned us," another said.

"Most are dead," Baker said, nodding at the dead men on the ground.

Lyons heard the chopping-air sound of a copter landing. He figured it was about a half-mile off.

"Listen," Baker reasoned, "I've been told if we release the hostages, we'll be disarmed and sent back to L.A. with the athletes. They want the KGB ringleaders, not us. We're small potatoes."

A bullet snapped at Lyons, barely missing. He turned to shoot, but automatic fire from outside the perimeter cut the gunner to shreds.

The rest of Able Team had arrived.

The KKK members continued arguing. The shooting had nearly stopped, save for the odd person acting on a nervous impulse. Lyons stood covering the scene with a Beretta. Anyone made a wrong move, he would personally make them pay.

The argument seemed to be going nowhere. Most believed they had been conned by KGB moles, but a course of action could not be decided upon. They knew a small but powerful team was in the camp, and they knew many athletes had acquired guns and were ready to fight. The death toll would be high, but... could anybody be trusted to set them free? If not, they would fight.

"Jesus," a voice said. Lyons looked to his left. Lightning Sam Jackson was striking. Slowly he moved toward the mob of Klansmen. He tossed his captured handgun to Lyons and walked on with his hands in the air. "People gonna die if you don't quit pissin' around," he said to the Klansmen. Lyons couldn't believe his eyes. In all his years of wars, never... The big boxer strode right into the pack and started playing arbitrator. With his quick tongue he was negotiating for his side, their side, Able Team's side — for peace.