Skidding broadside in the street, the mangled Ford stopped. Lyons looked out the window to see the muzzle of a shotgun aimed at his face. The shotgun withdrew and the window of the Lincoln rolled down. A young man of indeterminate race — his face the color of mahogany — shouted out the window.

"Straight up the hill! We'll pass you..."

Lyons threw the shift into drive to accelerate past the smashed van. The Lincoln, then Gadgets's Ford followed a second later. After two blocks, Lyons pulled over to the side and let the Lincoln take the lead.

Looking over to his partner, Lyons saw Blancanales holding the Beretta beneath the window with one hand while he brushed broken glass out of his hair with the other. When the Lincoln and the second Ford sped past, Lyons followed.

Blancanales surveyed the interior of the rented car, the shattered windshield, the smashed rear windows, the twisted trunk. He looked down at the upholstery. A slug had punched through the seat, a protruding tangle of foam and vinyl indicating what the slug would have done to his gut. The Puerto Rican veteran of twenty years of war closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm getting too old for this."

Speeding another five blocks through the narrow, winding streets, Lyons saw the Lincoln ease through the gate of a house screened from view by a wall overgrown with ivy. Gadgets's Ford followed. A few seconds later, Lyons parked his Ford on a brick driveway.

As Able Team got out of their cars, the dark young man — his sawed-off shotgun in one hand — ran to the gate and pushed it closed. Wood slats and interwoven ivy provided privacy from neighbors. The young man ran back to Able Team. With the wide eyes and manic grin of adrenaline, he shook hands with Lyons, Blancanales and Gadgets.

"I don't know who you guys are, but you are my friends forever."

15

Pacing through the black-and-white decor of the room, Jefferson told Able Team his account of the preceding three days. Though he had heard the story before, Congressman Buckley listened to it again as his aide, Bob Prescott, tape recorded Jefferson's words and took notes.

Able Team absorbed the story without comment, Blancanales also taking notes, Gadgets taping Jefferson's monologue on his pocket recorder. Lyons studied the interior of the aide's home.

Decorated with the stark design of Northern European high-tech, the room seemed to be a showroom of "minimalist chic": white vinyl couches, black plastic coffee table, gray industrial carpet over a floor finished in white plastic. Slender white enamel lamps focused light on African masks carved of ebony. On one wall, Lyons saw framed awards and photographs of Prescott with politicians and community leaders. One award commended the aide for work with the American Civil Liberties Union. But though his eyes wandered, Lyons did not miss a word Jefferson said.

The exhilaration and bravado of the street firefight faded from the young reporter's voice as he spoke. Panic returned as he described his meeting with the Riveras and their children, the disappearance of David Holt, then the attempt to kidnap him.

"They took Mr. Holt, they took those people from El Salvador, and they tried to take me. I don't know what I'm on to, but they sure want to get me off it. You saw. Right there on the street, pistols and machine guns. They want me."

"To be exact," Congressman Buckley interrupted, "they want the photos. Those photos could establish an international conspiracy..."

"Linking Quesada to the murder of the reporter?"

Buckley explained. "The newspaper has photos Ricardo Marquez took of the men following him in San Salvador. Floyd has photos of Salvadorans — soldiers, he believes — meeting Colonel Quesada in Miami. And now the police have four dead men. If the men photographed in San Salvador went to Miami and then came here, the photos establish there is in fact a conspiracy. Of course, Quesada is implicated."

Blancanales shook his head. "Only indirectly."

"Any lawyer with a loud mouth," Lyons added, "could beat that charge. 'Constitutional right to free association, blah, blah, blah.' "

"Sir!" the congressman protested. "I am an attorney, I have been an attorney for twenty-five years, and I assure you the practice of law requires more than a loudmouth."

"Oh, yeah. Right. A lawyer needs a typewriter and a Cadillac, then he's all set."

"If you continue to disparage my profession," Buckley warned, "you can expect a discussion of the morality of your profession."

"Sure, let's talk about it." Lyons looked to Prescott. "You an attorney, too?"

The congressman's aide nodded.

"I notice you got six-foot walls, the legal limit. And a security system. And that sign for the private patrol. When you work for the ACLU, do you ever think about the people who can't afford to wall themselves off from the scum you set free?"

Gadgets laughed. He kicked Lyons in the shin. "Be cool. They're on our side."

"Not my side."

Speaking through a sneer, Buckley asked Lyons, "Tell me, Mr. Specialist. What are the qualifications to join a death squad? Perhaps you can help us understand these Salvadorans we confront. Did they find you in a prison? Or a metal institution?"

"Yeah, that's it. I'm a psychopath. I think children should have the freedom to walk to school. I think old people should have the freedom to leave their windows open. A society without fear. I got these totally crazy ideas in my..."

Blancanales interrupted Lyons. "Will you stop? We have a mission to complete. If you disagree with Mr. Buckley's politics, write him a letter. Floyd, those two men in the van weren't Salvadorans. You have any idea who they were, or how they may have come into this?"

"Yeah… maybe. When I was out in front of Quesada's place, when the Miami police put me down on the sidewalk, I looked over and I saw two who weren't Hispanics. One was blond and had fair skin showing through his hair on top. The other one had black hair speckled with gray. Both were heavies, big shoulders, thick necks."

"But not the two who died today?"

Jefferson shook his head. "Never saw those two before."

"Never see them again, either." Lyons laughed.

Jefferson laughed with him. "Would've been in real trouble if you guys weren't behind us. Bob there..." Jefferson grinned to his friend "...he sees that machine gun pointed at his face and he freezes. I go ka-boom with my shorty and everything happens at once. Mr. Buckley hits the gearshift and Bob finally gets with it."

"Sorry," Prescott apologized. "My law school didn't teach counterterrorist tactics."

The telephone rang. Prescott left the living room.

Blancanales glanced at his notes, then asked Jefferson. "Did you recognize the two Salvadorans who came to your apartment house? Were they in the group you photographed in Miami?"

"I don't really know. It was dark and I was afraid and nervous and I didn't really look at their faces. It just happened too fast."

"Oh, my God!" Prescott gasped in the other room.

Jefferson turned. He opened his mouth to call out to Prescott. Lyons grabbed his arm to silence him. In a whisper, he warned the young man. "Police are looking for you, right? If that's a detective on the phone, he's listening for background voices."

"Oh, yeah, right."

They waited in silence as Prescott spoke. "Has Mr. Buckley been notified? No, he's not with me. Floyd Jefferson? Yes, I know him. How could he be involved with that? Oh, of course. Thank you, officer. This is terrible. Thank you, of course I'll call if… Goodbye."

He returned to the others, his face blank with shock. "The police found David Holt's body. He was tortured and murdered and then dumped in the bay."

Congressman Buckley groaned. Jefferson started to speak, his mouth moved, but no sound came out. Lyons spoke first.