Gadgets's silenced Colt sighed once and the .45 met a face at another window. The face disappeared in a pink mist.

More gunners trained onto the car from the first-floor windows. Phillips pulled back, but not fast enough. He grunted as a 7.62mm slug found his right shoulder. Gadgets moved to him as Phillips tore at his shirt to make a bandage. Schwarz finished the job and hurriedly tied the bandage into place.

Rounds from the house continued to puncture the side of the car. It would not be long before they found the gas tank.

"Can you move, Phillips?"

"Yeah — but where to, mate?"

Gadgets holstered the Colt and pulled out the Ingram. He helped Phillips holster the Beretta and remove the Uzi from the Desantis.

"We're retreating, to the front."

Gadgets poked his head up and sent a burst from the Ingram toward the front windows of the house. Phillips pulled himself up and started to run toward the front door. A burst from his Uzi kept their opponents' heads down. Three heartbeats later, he collapsed against the house, with Gadgets a heartbeat behind him.

An AK poked out over the window ledge, seeking the two men. Gadgets fired his M-10 straight up, slugs finding the man's hands. The assault rifle dropped as its former owner screamed in his retreat.

Gadgets looked at Phillips's expression of pain. "We'll rest here for a couple of minutes."

Phillips nodded, leaned back and adjusted his blood-soaked bandage.

Lyons rounded the corner of the house just in time to see the fat old cop called Stewart running toward the gate to the back lane. Three silent .45s splintered the wood of the gate, and Stewart rolled to the ground. When he turned from his roll, his fist held a Browning that spat flame at Lyons.

From the other side of the house, Blancanales saw the cop fire. He wanted Stewart alive. He took his Colt in a two-handed grip and squeezed off a .45. The slug tore into the meaty part of Stewart's left leg. He lost the Browning in his surprise.

Lyons ran to the downed cop. A spray of slugs from the house sought him and he had to dive for the cover of an oak tree. Stewart was not so fortunate. Bullets found several vital organs, ensuring his permanent silence.

Lyons pulled out the M-10 and sprayed .45s across the second story in three-round bursts. He quickly changed magazines and kept firing as he saw Pol working his way along the house toward the back door. A head briefly peered over one of the windowsills on the lower floor, only to disappear again as Lyons directed a blast of fire at it. Lyons ducked behind a tree, 7.62 missiles from the second story smacking into trees all around him.

Blancanales made the back door. Lyons jammed in a third magazine, fired two more bursts and left the cover of the tree to join his partner.

Blancanales fired into the latch and his partner hurled himself at the door, diving into the kitchen. To his right, a shotgun blasted. Lyons sent three rounds into the gunner, finding the man's belly.

A few of the shotgun pellets had burrowed into Lyons's side, but the full blast of pellets had found one of the other terrorists. Blood sprayed the kitchen walls.

Gadgets checked Phillips. The corporal was losing blood quickly. But the assault could not wait.

Gadgets aimed his M-10 at the door. Beside him, Phillips joined the blitz. The two men stormed the door simultaneously, firing at the lock and doorknob.

The door swayed inward. Gadgets pulled back quickly as bullets whistled past him. Staying low, he swung in front of the door, loosing a hail of .45s from his M-10.

The opponent within caught two bullets, one in his shoulder, the other in his right knee.

Gadgets and the corporal charged into the house. Only the groaning of the wounded man greeted them.

Catching movement, Gadgets spun and was about to pull the trigger. He saw Lyons and Blancanales emerging from the kitchen and lowered his weapon.

Lyons looked at the man on the floor. Knee-capping was a favorite method of terrorist torture. This was poetic justice.

"Let justice take its course," he muttered to himself as he stepped over the man and headed cautiously upstairs.

Blancanales and Schwarz joined him in the post-battle reconnoiter. Lyons poked his head above the landing. Finding the hallway empty, he continued to the top of the stairs.

Carefully the three men moved from room to room. Corpses lay in poses of death in different rooms.

The three men descended the stairs, Lyons trailing his two companions. The screams of the kneecapped terrorist had turned to low moans.

Lyons leaned down to speak to the injured man.

"I have some questions that you're going to answer."

He did not need to say any more, he simply moved his hand toward what was left of the man's knee.

"Ask, for Christ's sake, ask me anything," gasped the terrorist.

"Where's Shillelagh?"

"Went to the basement when the shooting started. Stairs are in the kitchen."

Lyons leaned on the right leg slightly as he straightened up. He looked at Corporal Phillips, who sat in a corner of the room, eyes closed.

"Just the three of us, then," he said. Blancanales and Gadgets joined him as he moved into the kitchen. They saw a partly open door.

Blancanales and Gadgets took up positions on either side of the door. Lyons swung it open. When no fire came up the stairs, he gingerly headed down, one step at a time.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. The basement was empty. He called to Gadgets and Blancanales. They leaned into the doorway and went down the stairs.

"Nothing here," Lyons said. "Let's get some help for Phillips, then check in with Leo back at the embassy. And I'll deal with our kneecapped friend upstairs myself ..."

16

Lyons brought the Granada to a stop in front of the hotel on Sussex Gardens. The hotel was an old house that had been converted into a hotel just after the Second World War. It was what the English called a "bed and breakfast" — cheap but clean accommodation. It was here that the American specialists would connect with vital information. Leo's contact, Lieutenant Colonel Carlton, had come up with the likely whereabouts of a certain lady, thanks to more loose talk caught by the bugs.

The three men of Able Team climbed the hotel's steps and rang the front door bell. A woman in her late sixties opened the door.

"May I help you, gentlemen?"

Blancanales spoke. "We're looking for Lieutenant Colonel Carlton."

"Ah, you must be George's American friends. Do come in."

She led them to a small living room on the first floor in what was obviously the owner's apartment. Carlton was seated in one of the overstuffed armchairs. He rose when the woman came in with the three visitors.

"My mother, gentlemen," he said as she left. To Blancanales's unspoken question, Carlton continued, "I bought this place for her a couple of years ago. It provides a small income, and she enjoys mixing with all the tourists. As it was convenient, I thought that we could meet here, keeping you off the streets and out of trouble — if that's possible."

The three men hovered uncomfortably in the room. They were in their blacksuits.

"We shouldn't have to wait," continued Carlton. "Several of my men are taking turns watching the place from a cafe across the street. Her hideout is located in a long stretch of Westbourne Terrace. The building is four stories and contains several apartments. The top two floors are luxury flats, and we have established that Lady Carole secretly owns one of these."

The colonel's radio, on a table next to his chair, crackled to life.

"Colonel, a lady matching the target just entered the building," a voice said. "You may want to come and check this out."