Lyons knelt and watched Jackson. He had the boxer's Browning Hi-Power. He placed it between his knees, ready to grab it in an instant. Then, he field stripped the Beretta, his fingers carefully checking each part. He removed grains of sand with his fingernails as he put the parts back together. It wasn't the sort of strip down the gun really needed, but it would have to do.

Lyons kept the reassembled Beretta in his fist, but tucked away the silencer. The time for delicacy had long passed. Dawn was slowly creeping onto the horizon.

"Lyons," a woman whispered.

Babette jogged over to him, keeping low. She was laden with most of his gear. Lyons stood and quickly donned his web belt and two bandoliers. The M-16/M-79 felt reassuring in his hands. The Able Team member's eyes never left the group that now surrounded Sam Jackson. Whatever it was the boxer was selling, the Klansmen seemed to be buying. Lyons listened while trying to locate Pol and Gadgets outside the perimeter.

Suddenly an automatic rifle opened up from just outside the compound, raking the group around Jackson. Lyons swung toward the muzzle flash. Another gun spoke. In the split second that followed, Lyons could hear the bullets impact on a human body. He searched for the source. The second gun carried the slower, more deliberate voice of a Stony Man modified automatic. An unknown had fired into the compound and an Able Team member had instantly answered.

Standing next to the compound, Blancanales shouted. "Enemy forces closing in. Everyone out this way. It's a trap."

The Ingram spoke again. From the same spot, Gadgets let out another word. "Hurry!''

The encampment was thrown into a state of confusion.

Lyons sprinted toward the group sprawled in the sand around the mouth of the tent. Two KKK members were dead, both having taken bullets to the chest.

"Prop up that wire and get out that way," he yelled, pointing in the direction where he had heard Schwarz and Blancanales calling from.

Lyons handed the Browning back to Jackson. Jackson summoned Mustav. "Get your buddies moving this way," he instructed. "Let's go."

Another automatic weapon began emptying into the compound. Answering fire blasted from several places, but it was the authoritative boom of a twelve-gauge that silenced the killer automatic.

"It's your goddamn men firing at us," an angry Klansman shouted as he attacked Lyons. The Able Team member feinted a move to the right then quickly countered with a kick at the man's testicles. He connected and the man went down in a heap of agony.

"Listen, asshole," Lyons said, grabbing the fallen goon by the shirt. "If my men were firing this way — with me standing here — I'd personally cut their hands off." Lyons pushed the man's head back to the pillow of sand.

The display had been both impressive and convincing. Lyons's quick action and the immediate response from the athletes had given the Klansmen a course to follow. Their only other option was to die in a state of confusion. Both blacks and whites threw themselves on their stomachs and crawled under the wires. Pol stood at the opening, giving instructions to each person who crawled through. Gadgets led the column toward the helicopters.

Babette moved up beside Lyons.

"Search this area quickly, then get out," Lyons said. "I'd never want to have to defend this place. I swear it was set up not to be defended."

Lyons glanced up to the horizon. Dawn was coloring the landscape. The first light of morning silhouetted the dunes to the east.

"We'll be sitting ducks in five, ten minutes. Get four people to help you. Make that search as fast as possible."

An enemy voice shouted in alarm. "They're escaping..."

It was cut off by a single shot.

Lyons ran to the area where everyone was escaping. Baker stood over the body of another dead Klansman. "They got another," he said. "Everyone else's accounted for. Doubt we'll ever make it out though."

"Paratroopers haven't had a chance to get organized," Lyons said. "We'll..."

A sudden burst of fire dug sand beside them. One member of the enemy had come close enough to kill. Lyons pointed the combo weapon at the muzzle flash and sent a stream of tumblers in a four-leaf-clover pattern. The next sound from the desert was that of death. The enemy's vocal cords struggled with the fact that half his chest had been blown away.

Lyons heard a mild groan even closer to home. He looked down at the ex-cop, the KKK man who led the revolt against the KGB moles. Baker had stopped a bullet. He was dying slowly. Lyons moved over to the Klansman. Blood was trickling out the side of his mouth, down his chin. He gazed up at Lyons, a glazed look in his eyes.

"Forgive..." he said, and then death snatched the sentence from his mouth.

Dawn had opened up a small patch of sky, but the dunes surrounding the encampment and the camouflage netting held the dark. Lyons scoured the perimeter, looking for those paratroopers who had managed to make it that far, that fast.

Gadgets Schwarz crawled over the last sand dune between the line of retreat and the helicopters. There was enough light to outline each person scrambling after him over the sand. They would be ideal targets for anyone coming across their flank.

Years of being on constant alert had conditioned the warrior in Gadgets. He knew time had sided with the unknown enemy, but he did not run and hail the copters. Instead, he approached cautiously.

The two Sikorsky H-76s were sitting side by side. Gadgets signaled for those behind him to wait. He skirted the choppers; in the small space between them he saw the two pilots being interrogated at gunpoint by four rough-looking gunmen.

Gadgets hurried back to the line of Klansmen and athletes. He whispered terse instructions. Armed men disappeared right and left, circling the choppers. Gadgets approached the enemy from the side, keeping the nearest Sikorsky between himself and the enemy. Ten feet from the large helicopter he went to his stomach and crawled under the low belly of the machine.

Mustav's booming voice filled the air. "Drop the guns or die!"

Reacting with a speed that spelled long training, two of the enemy seized the pilots and held .45s to their heads. The other two dropped into battle crouches, ready to return enemy fire. The quickness of reaction, the lack of spoken commands — it all added up to mercenary.

Gadgets, still under the belly of the copter, still out of view, pulled the silenced Beretta from its holster. He took a two-handed prone position, lined the sights on a head and waited.

Carl Lyons could now see the barbed wire across the prison camp. Except for those searching the inside of the camp, everyone had departed. He could make out Pol, waiting by the wire, facing out, scanning the horizon. On either side of him stood Zambian athletes, alert, looking for the enemy.

Seconds dragged through Lyons's body like barbed wire dragged over flesh. Time was running out. He looked at a blood-red desert.

"Everyone's left but us." The voice startled him. He turned to see Babette approaching him. "So far none of the athletes have been killed. Some Klansmen, but no athletes."

"Let's keep it that way," Lyons muttered.

Kelly, Babette and Sam Jackson slid under the razor wire while Pol and Lyons covered their escape. Pol was the next to drop to the ground and put himself under the flesh-shredders. Lyons was the last to go. He was up to his chest in the dirt and wire when the area lit up like noon.