Triplecross

Behind the modular headquarters building was a mine structure of some kind. Enclosed shafts of wood radiated from the configuration. Lyons assumed there were conveyors inside. He knew little about the actual mechanics of a beryllium mining operation and, insofar as none of those specifics interfered with his mission, he didn’t care. But the shafts above were shifting now and he could hear footsteps on the wood.

“They’re on the roof line!” Lyons called. “They’re using those conveyors!”

Able Team scrambled to position themselves as much directly below the enclosed shafts above as they could. Gunfire began to rain down on them from the shooters on the roof. Lyons cursed under his breath. That was probably how they’d gotten into the drop ceiling in the first place. The firebomb entrance had driven the security forces to some roof access and they’d circled back around under cover of the building’s false ceiling.

All of that added up to something not on the level. Ignoring the fact that these guys were armed to screw all and completely okay with murdering a quantity of unknown law-enforcement agents, there was no way the sheer volume of security here was part of any legitimate operation. Lyons didn’t know how valuable beryllium was on the open market, but he had to assume you didn’t need a private army to protect it from all comers.

So what was going on here?

They were just scratching the surface of this mission and he didn’t like where they were going. He didn’t like it one bit.

It was time to take it to the bad guys. “Pol,” he said, “give me a rifle grenade into the center of the nearest walkway. My eleven o’clock.”

Schwarz reached into the duffel, found the rocket-shaped weapon and tossed it to Blancanales, who affixed the STANAG Type 22 mm rifle grenade to the flash-hider of his M-4. Then he brought the weapon up, aimed and pulled the trigger.

The grenade exploded on impact, shredding the wooden slats of the covered walkway, sending debris and dead men falling from the sky. Lyons barely moved out of the way fast enough. A corpse hit the dirt only feet from his previous position.

Renewed fire began from the remainder of the roof line. Lyons signaled his partners to follow him and then took up position behind a support leg that was nothing so much as a stacked wood-and-reinforced-concrete column. The column was just what the doctor ordered when it came to cover and concealment. The angle, for the roof gunners, was a poor one, while the concrete and wood absorbed bullets nicely.

“Cozy,” Blancanales said as the three men put their backs to the column. Gunfire ate away at the opposite side, but it was much wilder now, less focused and directed. There were shouts of outrage mixed in, too, which would be expected from any group of men, even paid mercenaries, who had lost so many comrades in so short a time.

“I swear that’s Chinese,” Blancanales said.

“There’s English mixed in, too,” Schwarz said. “One of those voices is as Southern as Southern gets. He sounds like an angry version of that big rooster from the cartoons.”

“I say, I say,” Blancanales said. “You-all are gonna pay for shootin’ my friends.”

“Yeah,” Schwarz said. “Just like that.”

“There are times when I hate both of you,” Lyons said.

“We know,” Schwarz said. “It’s part of your charm.”

The next voice they heard, however, was amplified by an electric bullhorn.

“You down there,” the bullhorn’s operator shouted. “Surrender and you will not be harmed.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Lyons said. “I guess they top out with warning shots around three or four thousand.”

“Some people hold on to resentment,” Schwarz said.

“So help me, if you’re quoting movies at me again,” Lyons said.

“No,” Schwarz said, managing to look unconvincing. “I really cherish these firefight moments we have.”

“Hate,” Lyons said. “Seething, white-hot hate.”

“You don’t mean that,” Schwarz said.

“Oh, yeah?” Lyons started. He stopped when the metal sphere of a grenade bounced to a stop a couple of feet from his right boot.

Schwarz shoved Lyons sideways, into the column. Lyons had time to look down and recognize the threat. Schwarz, meanwhile, had shoved Lyons to “clear the road” for a massive, swing-through kick. He nailed the grenade with his toe and sent it flying from their position. It exploded, throwing clods of soil everywhere, spraying dust on Able Team.

“Thanks, Gadgets,” Lyons started to say. “I take back everything bad I just said.”

“No, don’t!” Schwarz shouted.

“Huh?” Lyons had time to say before another grenade, then another, then a third, rolled to a stop by their feet.

This time it was Lyons’s turn to act. He grabbed both Schwarz and Blancanales by their collars and shoved them forward, around the other side of the column. This put them in the line of fire from the roof above. As Lyons propelled them, his partners took the cue and ran for their lives. Bullets were biting at their heels when the three grenades blew, tearing large chunks out of the support column with their trebled destructive power.

Something cracked high above.

Lyons looked up and back as they ran, trying to find an angle at the corner of the headquarters that would make it harder for the roof gunners to track Able Team. What he saw caused him to reach out and grab Schwarz and Blancanales again.

“It jinxes us when you’re nice to me!” Schwarz blurted.

“Shaddap, Gadgets!” Lyons yelled again. He dragged his teammates against the wall of the headquarters building as the shaft behind them snapped in two, falling toward them like a redwood before an army of lumberjacks. Concrete shrapnel flew everywhere. The crash of the column was followed by the staccato pings of nails from the walkway overhead. They were being wrenched out under tension as the walkway tore itself apart on the way down. Half the walkway struck the dirt below, bringing with it whatever machinery was being housed inside. This raised a sudden sandstorm of dust and grit and billowed over the Utah war zone and forced Able Team to crouch more tightly against the building.

“You there!” came the voice from the bullhorn.