"You're staying here, Floyd."

"What? You'll need me. There'll be an army of goons waiting for you."

"No."

"Ask the other guys. They know I'm qualified."

"I'm not saying you're not qualified. You proved yourself the first night. But you're staying here. Don't argue. No compromises. You stay."

"Sheeee — it, man! I'm the one they tried to kill. And Marquez was my friend. He got me started when I left college. I owe it to him..."

"And what if a bullet takes you? Mr. Holt wanted to have you testify to Congress, right? Now you've got something to talk about. You stay here, then you go to Congress, then you go to court when Prescott goes on trial. It's your duty. Let us do ours."

"Sheee — it…"

Senor Rivera spoke. "Floyd, I would feel much safer if you stay. We only have a knife. You have a gun. Please stay. You are brave, but I have only a knife to defend my wife and daughters. Por favor."

"Of course, sir. I will. I understand. Okay, Rosario? I stay."

Blancanales nodded, resumed his interrogation of Prescott by seizing the back of his shirt collar and pulling tight as he leaned forward to speak into Prescott's ear. "Now, how many men?"

"I saw… five or six or eight. Many men in a room. They had those machine guns made in Israel. Like the Secret Service carries."

"Good." Blancanales stood. He glared down at Prescott. "Up. We're going..."

"No! They'll torture me. They'll..."

"Forget what they'll do. Think about what we'lldo."

Gallucci cursed as he watched the broad-shouldered Hispanic escort Prescott from the hotel. The man took the car keys from Prescott and opened the driver's door. He checked the interior before shoving Prescott inside. Then the Hispanic went to the passenger side and opened the door.

The receiver in Gallucci's car blared out noise again, the slamming of the doors, the jingling of keys, voices.

"What's this radio for?" a deep voice demanded.

"Captain Madrano gave it to me. In case I got lost, I could contact them."

Squeaks. Then the rustling of papers. Then a slam as the "specialist" closed the glove-compartment door. The minimike transmitted only muffled sounds and the vibrations of the car's starter.

Almost two blocks away, Gallucci punched the dashboard in anger. He had no doubt Prescott had broken. He would lead the "specialists" directly to Captain Madrano. Gallucci had to set the contingency plans in motion. Warn Madrano. Get the standby hit team in motion. Then wipe out Prescott and the "specialists."

Prescott would cooperate with the Justice Department. He had to die. All of them had to die: Prescott, the "specialists," the Riveras, that high-yellow nigger Floyd Jefferson.

The situation had to be sterilized.

He pressed the transmit key of the walkie-talkie. "Calling my friend, this is the federali…"

Only static answered him. He repeated his transmission. "Calling my friend, this is the federali. Come in, important message about the girls…"

Out of range! The walkie-talkie's signal could not penetrate the steel and concrete of central Los Angeles and cross the ten or twelve miles to Captain Madrano's squad.

Starting the engine of his federal vehicle, Gallucci considered tailing Prescott and his captor. No. They might rendezvous with a squad of "specialists," or they might interrogate Prescott before attempting to arrest the Salvadorans. Gallucci's first move must be to warn Madrano and get the hit team in motion.

Gallucci waited until Prescott's Dodge pulled into the traffic of occasional cars and trucks speeding through skid row. Then he left his bureau Dodge and ran across a parking lot to a pay phone.

The Sheraton switchboard answered.

"Good morning, Sheraton Hotel."

"Room 615, please." Gallucci told the operator. He listened as the phone rang eight times.

The operator returned to the line. "There's no answer, sir. Would you like to leave a message?"

Gallucci dropped the phone and ran back to his car. Accelerating, he raced to the freeway. He had to get within the signal range of Captain Madrano's radio. Only then could Gallucci warn the Salvadoran.

Only then could they set the contingency plan of ambush and sterilization in motion.

Able Team sped south on the Harbor Freeway, Blancanales and Prescott in the first car, Gadgets and Lyons following in the second. Lyons radioed Blancanales.

"When we get off, we give that car a complete search, agreed?"

"I searched it," Blancanales's voice answered. "It's a rental. Found only Prescott's briefcase and the walkie-talkie."

"A complete search," Lyons stressed. "The trunk, under the hood, the underside..."

"Visual and electronic," Gadgets added.

"Looking at this map," Blancanales responded, "we'll be there maybe four minutes after we leave the freeway. We're parking and then going in on foot, correct? Even if they have a D.F. on the car, they won't know it's us or even where we park. We might be late already. I don't know if we want to risk the extra ten or fifteen minutes."

"You want our arrival announced?" Lyons asked.

Gadgets took the hand-radio from Lyons. He spoke as he maintained a one-handed seventy miles per hour, steering smoothly to glide from one lane to another through the light traffic.

"Pol, dig it. Prescott said these Nazis pay in gold. We know they use good equipment. That trick with the shielded and pulse-switched D.F. on the motor home proved it. They could have anything on that car..."

Lyons leaned to the hand-radio and added, "What about a radio-triggered bomb as a backup? Prescott goes softhearted and tries to take the Riveras away — Bang. If we can use electronic force multiplication, why not them?"

"Maybe…" Blancanales admitted.

"You're in the car, Political." Gadgets laughed. "Give it some thought…"

Blancanales sighed through the encoding and decoding electronics of the hand-radio. "You talked me into it. We'll do a quick search."

Heading west on Century Boulevard, Gallucci pressed the transmit key of the walkie-talkie again. "This is el federal. Can you hear me?"

Words finally answered, static-blurred but audible. "Yes… we wait."

"They took Prescott."

"What?"

"They — took — Prescott."

"Who?"

"The 'specialists.' I watched them march him to the car. They may be coming."

"You said the 'specialists'? The ones who guard the Communist reporter?"

"They took Prescott. They know about you."

Static, then cursing in Spanish. "They come?"

"I don't know. If not now, soon. Time to send out your second squad. And you should get ready."

Static and laughter. "We will be ready."

In only a few minutes, Captain Madrano had reorganized his men into an ambush. He also dispatched four men to liquidate the Riveras.

Then the Salvadoran soldiers waited, concealed in the urban desolation of what had been a suburban neighborhood before bureaucrats and vandals ran wild.

Overgrown hedges and the blackened ruins of stucco houses concealed the soldiers. In the always-gray overcast of the Los Angeles night, they had both vision and concealment. Anyone arriving in an automobile would be an easy target.

The first car appeared. Captain Madrano recognized the rental Dodge Prescott had driven to the Sheraton. He shouted the command to his men: "Fire!"

Ten Uzi submachine guns ripped the Dodge in one long maelstrom of 9mm death.