In the furious exchange of fire, the Soviet survivors organized a breakout.

At that moment the pickup carrying Lyons and Gadgets and the Mexican soldiers raced into the intersection, directly into the line of fire between the Mexican ambush unit and the Soviets. The driver attempted to steer around a Soviet car, but the rear end slide slipped, and the pickup slammed broadside into an abandoned car.

Gadgets went airborne. Lyons slammed into the side wall of the pickup and bounced back. He saw his partner rolling across the asphalt. The driver floored the accelerator, and the truck spun its tires, rubber smoke clouding around Lyons as he jumped from the back of the truck.

The abandoned car separated Lyons from Gadgets. Sprinting through the smoke, slugs zipped past Lyons as the Soviets tried to kill him. He threw himself to the asphalt and crabbed around the car, auto-fire banging the fenders and door panels. Glass showered him.

Gadgets sat against the car, blood streaming down his face, his eyes fluttering with shock. His CAR-15 lay on the asphalt near him. Lyons snatched up the weapon and slung the CAR around his partner's neck.

"Hey, Wizard, up!"

"Man, my head..."

"Don't give me any excuses. We got work to do."

The panel truck and the other car skidded through the intersection as Lyons urged Gadgets up, Blancanales and Powell spraying fire from the back doors. Tires squealed in protest as the drivers managed very tight right turns and accelerated away.

Pulling a grenade from Gadgets's bandolier, Lyons pulled pins and threw one after another — smoke, fragmentation, shock-stun. Then Lyons threw the last grenade from his own bandolier.

The flurry of popping grenades silenced the Soviet gunmen for a moment, and Lyons dragged Gadgets away, staggering like two drunks. The car and billowing smoke behind them provided a shield. They lurched for the safety of the far curb.

A Mexican commando broke cover. With grenades in each hand, he sprinted to the car and threw the grenades into the smoke. He pulled two more from his pockets and threw them as the others exploded. Hurrying back, he grabbed Gadgets's elbow. Running through autofire, Lyons and the Mexican carried Gadgets to the shelter of a doorway.

Bullets chipped the stone walls above them and ricochets whined into the distance as Lyons looked for Soto. A soldier with a medical kit tried to strip off Gadgets's weapons and gear, but Lyons pushed away the soldier's hands. "Forget it! Where's Captain Soto?"

"There. The Captain is there," said the man, pointing down the boulevard. "But your man is bleeding. We must help..."

"Let him bleed! We got to get out of here!" Lyons growled.

"Thanks a lot, Ironman," Gadgets said as he struggled to his feet. He leaned close to Lyons's face and blew blood off his lip, spraying a red mist into Lyons's face. "I like you, too!"

"Shut up and move — that car! Get in there."

A ricochet slashed Lyons's right shoulder and continued into the armhole of his Kevlar battle armor. His face contorting, he arched back with agony as the jagged metal slashed across his spine.

Gadgets reached out and steadied his friend. He forced a laugh. "Ironman gets his. Time to retreat."

Lyons twisted away from Gadgets's hands. "I didn't get shit! Shoot me nine zip all day long. Get in that car. In the car! Move! Move! Move!" Lyons raged, shoving Gadgets into the car. He pulled Mexican commandos from their cover and pointed to their cars.

"But American," one soldier protested. "The Russians, they come..."

A bandolier of FN FAL magazines and grenades crossed the Mexican's T-shirt. Lyons jerked a smoke grenade from the bandolier.

"I'm covering, go!" Lyons turned and threw the smoke grenade into the noise of Soviet submachine guns. He rushed along the sidewalk. "Soto! Everyone out. We got our people. Go! The Soviets don't matter now."

Soto shouted to his men. Young soldiers dodged from cover, working closer to their cars as the Soviets continued firing.

Grabbing grenades from a soldier, Lyons threw another canister of smoke at the Soviets. Then Lyons ran through the chaos with another grenade in his hand, his Konzak hanging from his shoulder by its sling as he searched for wounded. Soto shouted out.

"American! We go, we are ready!"

"No one missing?"

"All are here..."

As Lyons ran for the cars, a burst of fire whined off the stones. He felt a slug stop in his Kevlar. Spinning, his right arm cranking back with the grenade, Lyons faced a Soviet with an Uzi.

The heavy canister of explosive and steel slammed into the Soviet's chest, staggering him back. The Soviet reached for his Uzi.

Lyons had not pulled the pin of the grenade.

Crossing the distance in three running strides, Lyons kicked away the Uzi, then dropped down and smashed the Soviet in the face with the butt of his Konzak. He hammered the struggling gunman to death.

Rifles fired. Lyons looked up, saw a Soviet flipping back.

"American!" Soto shouted.

Blood and flesh covered the Konzak. He sprayed a 7-blast burst of full-auto 12-gauge, then jerked out the empty mag and reloaded on the run back to the waiting cars.

Lyons stopped with one foot in the car, the blood-slick Konzak pistol grip in his hand as his eyes scanned the street.

Nothing moved. He heard only his blood hammering in his ears. He flipped up the safety of his assault shotgun and fell into a seat as the driver accelerated away.

Sirens screamed.

16

"You cannot torture a Soviet diplomat."

"Why not?" Lyons asked.

Captain Soto watched as Blancanales poured rubbing alcohol over the blond North American's wounds. The alcohol splashed over the gouge in his shoulder and the long gash across his back. Then the medic wiped away the clotted gore. Soto watched for any change in the man's expression.

He saw the North American's eyes squint, his nostrils flare. Did he feel the searing pain?

"Why not? Tell you what. After we get the information we need, the dead meat gets disappeared."

"He is a diplomat, my friend."

"Politics?"

"International law. The customs of my country."

They sat in the office of an auto-repair garage. After the rescue and firefight, the North Americans of Able Team and the captain's disguised soldiers dispersed to avoid the police responding to the alarm. The carloads of fighters then assembled at this garage, a complex of offices, workshops and parking lots.

No one feared the curiosity of mechanics or customers. The facility served only the Condor Division, the elite battalion of the Mexican army dedicated to the extermination of foreign terrorism and the drug trade.

In Mexico, drugs and terrorism represented two faces of the same threat. Terrorists financed activities in Central and South America by the sales of drugs to the United States. Drug gangsters — dope warlords and Castillian bankers — ran the drugs north through Mexico, then smuggled weapons and dollars south through Mexico.

When an assignment required unmarked or special-purpose vehicles, mechanics provided the cars or trucks to the battalion units. The mechanics also performed the most detailed searches of seized vehicles. Though the employees worked in what appeared to be a commercial auto garage, the workers received checks from the Republic of Mexico.

This morning, after meeting Able Team at the international airport, Captain Soto gave the mechanics an afternoon's holiday. He knew the methods of Able Team. He knew his unit would see action.

Lyons considered his words, then spoke as Blancanales bandaged his wounds. "Captain, you're talking about a senior officer in the KGB. He is a cold killer. He thought nothing of joking with my friends as he took them to their execution. He's made a career of execution and torture. You heard the transmissions from that mansion. They tortured that Iranian until he broke. Then they probably put him in a hole and covered it up. We're not talking about a human being. We're talking about a torturing, murdering Soviet monster. There will be no political problems created. He will simply cease to exist when we learn..."