The DEA had had the Canal Queenunder surveillance from the moment she docked the previous afternoon. Now Able Team waited patiently as the cargo was cleared through customs and brought to the warehouse.
The small building was owned by Johnson & Associates — Importers. The company was a front operation for one Paul Scaramelli. A wholesale distributor of narcotics, Scaramelli had ambitions to be the major importer of narcotics into the New York area. This deal was a major stepping-stone in achieving those ambitions.
The fog had rolled into the Hudson River dockyards earlier in the evening, isolating the warehouse from its neighbors. Half an hour later, two limousines rolled up to the building, disgorging a hard patrol of hired protection. Most of the newcomers went inside, leaving sentries to guard the three entrances to the building.
The DEA agents had radioed this information to the agent in charge and pulled back on his instructions to let Able Team in.
Carl Lyons took a last look at Al Capri, then moved to the door to the building and entered. He hit his transmit button once.
His entrance did not go unnoticed, but as one of McElroy's hardmen reacted to the intruder, Lyons's silenced auto-pistol coughed once. The slug caught the man just below his nose. The faceless nonbeing let go of its AK-47. The weapon clattered to the floor. Lyons scooped it up.
Scaramelli and McElroy stood examining the goods stashed in two crates at the far end of the warehouse. Moments earlier, the Irishman had placed a call that confirmed the deposit of eight million American dollars in a Swiss numbered account. Paul felt good about the deal, very good, and prepared to set up a subsequent deal with the Irishman. The clatter of the assault rifle startled the two men.
Mafiosi and terrorists opened fire on the source of the sound. Lyons had found shelter among stacked crates, part of the cargo from the Canal Queen, as bullets tore into the position he had abandoned a heartbeat earlier.
Gadgets used the diversion to enter the warehouse through the rear side door. The inside sentry had no idea of the extent of the invader's shooting skill. His head exploded. Gadgets moved quickly to a gap between two stacks of crates and climbed till he could see his partners' positions.
The warehouse was about one hundred fifty feet long and thirty feet high. The owners and protectors of the white powder hid among the crates. Now the rolling booms of heavy shotguns punctuated the staccato of automatic-weapon fire and the sharper reports of small handguns. The fire was directed toward Lyons's position.
Gadgets unslung the Ingram from around his neck and brushed the trigger, sending a short burst into two men whose cover behind stacked crates he had exposed. Small puffs of white powder kicked up as the .45 whizzers perforated a load of crated plastic bags. The fire cut down one of the two men in a lethal stream of .45 tumblers as the second man spun away from the white puffs and scrambled for the left side of the warehouse — only to feel the 230-grain kickers find him and turn his scramble into a sprawl.
Gadgets had no trouble picking up McElroy. His shock of unruly blond hair was moving toward the main entrance of the warehouse, progressing crate by crate. Gadgets radioed the information to Blancanales.
Scaramelli, too, had spotted the target's retreat. Paul Scaramelli had worked his way up from a runner in the late Freddie Gambella's family. A lot of changes happened when Freddie fell to Mack Bolan. Paul had managed over the years to come up on the right side of the interfamily wars that had erupted, and he'd slowly built a solid power base in New York. One of the things he had learned was to protect his assets, which he was doing right now. No little shit of a foreigner was going to leave Paul holding the bag.
"You Irish son of a bitch. You take one more step and you're dead!" the Mafia slime-bucket hollered at the retreating terrorist. The reply to the challenge was a burst from McElroy's AK-47.
Scaramelli died protecting his assets. Gadgets watched from above, saw vital juices pump out onto the floor.
McElroy's victory was short-lived. A blast of shot from one of Scaramelli's tagmen found the Irishman's back near point-blank range. The dead terrorist folded quietly like a sail falling when the wind stops.
"The pigeon is dead," Gadgets told his partners. The signal removed any cautionary restraints on Able Team.
Lyons had been moving slowly away from his original cover, dashing across the small aisles between the stacks of crates, seeking a better firing line. Now he opened up with the appropriated AK-47, sending 7.62mm tumblers through a gap between crates. The gap was narrow, but the bullets negotiated it and shredded flesh as they plowed into the gunner beyond.
From his position among crates at the front of the building, Blancanales saw two men working their way beneath Gadgets's perch.
With his Colt in a two-handed grip, Blancanales terminated one-half of the threat, but bullets meant for the second man were still being absorbed by the first when the fleeing guy gained cover.
"Watch it, Gadgets, I only hit one of them," Blancanales relayed through his throat mike.
A head popped up over the crates in front of Gadgets. The Wizard sheared it off with a stream of bullets aimed at eye level. The anatomy that remained landed on the floor with the heavy crumple of wet laundry.
Retreating gunmen came to a stop as a barrage of bonecrushers hit them from three directions. They retreated into death.
Silence descended on the scene, and the smoke and smell of cordite slowly dissipated. Able Team worked its way out from cover, then searched the interior of the warehouse for survivors.
Finding none, the three assembled at the corpse of the man they had come to get. Blancanales searched McElroy's pockets, found a hotel key and a few scraps of paper.
The three men took a last look around at the carnage.
As they emerged, they were observed by Al Capri, a sentry Lyons had spared in determined defiance of his reputation as crowd killer. The cuffed and gagged Capri had heard the sounds of the raging battle. One glance at the grim faces of the three men down there told him that life was a sweet and precious thing. He thanked a few saints for the compassion of the tall one with blond hair.
2
Ripper Dan Aliotto pulled away from the curb at Terminal Three, Heathrow Airport, London. Resting beside him in the front seat of the ambassador's limousine were the three black leather cases that the new arrivals had brought with them from the States.
He checked his rearview mirror and made a mental note to keep an eye on the dark blue Jaguar sedan that pulled away at the same time. That car had not taken on any passengers, and Ripper was suspicious by nature.
Sir Jack Richardson, the government official seated next to Able Team in the rear, spoke in polished British tones. "Ripper, I want you to say hello to three gentlemen from America who are here to help us. Mr. Lyons, Mr. Blancanales and Mr. Schwarz have had the good fortune to procure through the auspices of a hotel key some information regarding the security of His Royal Highness, whose birthday is the day after tomorrow."
Richardson gave the men beside him a twinkling nod of appreciation. Able Team remained silent, looking ahead or at the scenes that passed the limousine's windows.
"It appears our friends here have gained access to the personal effects of the late John McElroy," the official continued. "Letters to Miss Kathleen McGowan, that blue-eyed bitch in NAL, indicate all is not well in our security. We have a continuing problem with Shillelagh. It's the sort of information, Ripper, that gets these American persons a special dispensation to bring ordnance into this country. Aren't you impressed?"