Hell Dawn

A stout man clad in a black leather bomber jacket and jeans stepped into view, bringing a gun to bear on Fox. With less than ten yards separating them, Fox started to raise his own weapon when he suddenly heard tires screech in the alley, snagging the guy’s attention and causing him to snap his head toward the source of the noise.

Already committed, Fox continued running until he came right up on the man and threw himself into the guy, tackling him, both men crashing to the ground in a pile. Breath whooshed from between the man’s lips as he struck the ground. Fox pressed his advantage, lifting the Uzi, ready to crack the other man in the jaw with the submachine gun.

“Freeze!”

Fox complied, holding both hands aloft. He glanced briefly to his right and saw a police cruiser, a female officer crouched behind it. She gripped her weapon in both hands and laid her arms over the car’s hood, using it to steady her hands.

“Drop the guns!” she yelled. “Now! Both of you.”

Fox set the Uzi on the asphalt and, with a hard shove, sent it sliding toward the cruiser. The other man tossed aside his pistol. She ordered both men to their feet and Fox did as he was told. He hated taking orders, especially from a cop, but he didn’t mind grabbing some distance from the stocky bastard who a few moments earlier had been gunning for him. The woman rose, the weapon still held in front of her, and gestured toward a wall.

“Up against it,” she said.

“Look, Officer—” Fox began.

Her face reddened and her voice gained volume. “The wall. Now!”

He started for the wall, still keeping his distance from the other man. As he moved, he noticed the guy fumbling in his pocket for something while he used Fox’s body to shield his movements from the cop. Before Fox could say anything, the man’s hand came free and Fox caught the glint of something metallic, followed by a gunshot.

EMILIO CORTEZ WATCHED as his men fanned out over the small mountain town’s main drag, looking for Gabriel Fox. Two men disappeared inside the coffee shop across the street, while another slipped into a nearby bookstore. Three more began moving down his side of the street, peering through store windows. With a gesture, he sent the two SUVs inching down the street, the drivers ready to return should he summon them with a call through the throat microphone.

Despite the chill, he opened his knee-length black leather coat, putting his Ithaca 37 stakeout model shotgun within reach. The shotgun hung from his rangy frame in a custom-made rig, and he carried extra shells in his right coat pocket. A Browning Hi-Power handgun, a custom sound suppressor affixed to its barrel, rode in snap-out leather on his hip, opposite the shotgun. Laminated FBI credentials hung from his neck, and he carried a snap-out wallet containing a forged Bureau ID and badge in his coat pocket, in case he encountered the police.

Cortez scanned the street, listening to the radio traffic buzzing in his ear.

The helicopter zoomed by, the rotor wash tousling his black hair. His black eyes squinted even as he followed the craft as it passed him by.

A moment later one of the van drivers spoke. “Picking up a 911 dispatch. A guy matching our rabbit just bolted from inside the coffee shop using the back door. Apparently he got a visual on us.”

“We’ve got two in the coffee shop,” Cortez said.

A moment later the helicopter copilot spoke. “Clear. I’ve got a visual on our guy. He’s running down the alley behind the coffee shop. Ben, you and Alex got that?”

“Right,” said Ben Waters, one of the men searching the coffee shop, “we’re coming out the back now.”

“Clear,” the pilot responded.

Cortez adopted a grim smile as he listened to the chase unfold. He was ready to put this guy under wraps, forever and for good. They’d spent the past couple of days scouring Frisco, Breckenridge, Dillon, Leadville, and any other Rocky Mountain town within a fifty-mile radius, looking for some sign of him. They’d come up empty. Cortez had to admit that, for a computer geek, Fox had done a pretty fair job of covering his tracks. Fortunately for them, he’d gotten sloppy, overconfident and had made a rank amateur mistake, using his own credit card to access a public Internet terminal. The cyberteams in Mexico and Denver had caught the transaction and alerted Cortez. The contents of the e-mail had been encrypted so Cortez couldn’t be certain who the programmer had contacted. The uncertainty just added a measure of urgency to their chase, which the young Mexican didn’t mind at all.

A voice buzzed in his earpiece. “Cortez?”

“Go.”

“Got him in the alley,” Juan Vasconez said. “Tell the chopper to scoot. We don’t need the damn thing hovering overhead and drawing attention.”

“Clear. Warbird, you heard the man. Go!”

“Right.” An instant later the thrumming of helicopter rotors intensified and the craft headed west, likely circling outside the city limits, but staying within earshot of the fighting.

“He just cut between buildings,” Vasconez said. “The boot shop and the antique mall. Can we get a vehicle there to cut him off?”

“You heard the man,” Cortez said.

From a couple of blocks away, one of the SUVs screeched into a U-turn and made its way to the position. Cortez was in motion, closing in on Fox with long, quick strides, his hand inside his coat and yanking the Browning from its holster. Pressing the gun against his side, he let the folds of his coat swallow it.

“Shit, he’s turning back on me,” Vasconez said.

“Let him,” Cortez replied. “Don’t shoot. I repeat, do not shoot.”

“Right.” A pause. “He’s got a gun!”

The sounds of a scuffle filled his earpiece and he cursed under his breath as he crossed the street and came within twenty yards of the SUV, which had rolled to a stop. The driver’s-side door popped open and the guy stepped out. A siren blared from somewhere beyond view. Someone shouted something, and, though he couldn’t make out its content, Cortez knew it was a command of some sort.

“Shit,” Vasconez breathed. “Cop.”

Cortez’s heart pounded as he closed in on the scene. “Do not engage,” he said. “I repeat—”

The crack of a gunshot stopped him in midsentence. Damn, damn, damn.

Even as he continued toward his quarry, the beating of helicopter blades sounded from behind, growing louder, reverberating from the walls of the nearby storefronts, the noise drowning out all else. Rotor wash caught the tails of his coat, whipping them around his legs.

Whipping around, expecting to see his team’s helicopter, he caught sight of another craft, a black helicopter, touching down in the middle of the street. He stopped dead, and a moment later a side door slid open and a big, blond-haired guy stepped onto the pavement. A gray-haired man with the thick chest and shoulders of a bull and a smallish guy with brown hair and a mustache followed. The maelstrom whipped up by the helicopter parted their jackets and Cortez was sure he spotted at least one holstered weapon among the three of them. Apparently they’d missed the gunshot and had no idea they’d just touched down in a hot zone. Good, he thought. He knew how to play this one to his benefit.

He surveyed the craft and felt an unsettled feeling move into his gut. Other than a tail number, the craft carried no identifying markings, and the men wore no uniforms. His weapon still hidden, he spun on a heel and started for the group. Cortez fastened a single button on his coat to keep from revealing the Ithaca, and fumbled for the FBI credentials looped around his neck. Another of his men, the driver of the second SUV, a Chicago killer named Johnny Hung, fell into step behind him.

Cortez knew all his players, of course, meaning he had three interlopers stepping onto his territory. His mind working overtime, he decided on a plan. Take out these bastards, take their helicopter and go home with the big prize.

CARL LYONS HAD a bad feeling about the black-clad guy from the get-go. Forget the credentials hanging around his neck or the smile creasing his thin lips. It was the hand that remained at his side, lost in the folds of a black leather duster that spoke volumes to Lyons, telling him everything he needed to know. Instinct honed first as an L.A. detective and later as a covert commando screamed that the guy was looking for blood, even before Lyons’s eyes confirmed this.

The guy’s eyes narrowed, a harbinger of something bad, and Lyons felt himself tense. A glance left told him that Blancanales, though smiling, was also eyeing the guy warily. With the helicopter’s rotors thumping over-head, the two men couldn’t easily converse, and Lyons had made the mistake of not yet putting on his earpiece and throat microphone.

Three other men had fallen in with the approaching man, their presence only heightening Lyons’s cautiousness.

Schwarz was just behind the other two men, working to set down the wheelchair ramp for Kurtzman. Turning, Lyons motioned for Schwarz to stop and pay attention. Before he could turn back, he saw Kurtzman’s eyes widen and he raised his hand to point. Lyons whipped around, his hand already stabbing under his jacket for the Colt Python.

Things began to happen quickly.

The lead guy’s hand was coming up in a blur. He snapped off two shots in Lyons’s direction, immediately putting him on the move. The rounds burned through the air, missing the big commando by inches before smacking into the Chinook’s hull.

Lyons cleared leather. He brought the Python to bear on the guy, ready to line up a shot. He halted. A young man stood on the curb, frozen by the gunfire. The black-coated shooter squeezed off two more rounds at Lyons. The commando thrust himself to the asphalt. His elbow absorbed the impact, white-hot bolts of pain emanating from the joint. He ground his teeth and rode out the pain. He tried to line up another shot at the guy, but he’d stepped onto the curb. Turning to Lyons, he smiled, then grabbed a handful of the bystander’s jacket and shoved him into the street just as Lyons was trying to get in a shot.

The man disappeared through the front door of a nearby building.

Holstering the Colt, Lyons fisted the .357 Desert Eagle he carried on his right hip in a cross-draw position. He paused long enough to put his earpiece in place before crossing the street with long strides.

A voice buzzed in his ear. “Ace to Ironman.” It was Grimaldi.

“Go.”

“According to the scanner traffic, we’ve got shooters behind the line of buildings ahead of you.”

“Is our package back there?”

“Unknown. But these guys put down a cop.”

Lyons cursed under his breath, but kept moving. An instant later Blancanales fell into step with the Able Team leader and the two men moved onto the sidewalk. At the same time Lyons caught the sound of sirens closing in from the distance, the wail eliciting another oath. Adding more guns, even those wielded by good guys, introduced new variables into this volatile equation. And he knew, again from experience, that these officers would hit the scene with blood in their eyes, wanting to put down the shooters.

And since Able Team had the guns…

Lyons keyed his throat microphone and spoke. “Get the bird in the air. And call the Farm for a cleanup crew on this. Tell Hal, or Barb, or whomever, to start greasing the wheels. Otherwise we’ll be stuck here.”

“Roger that, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

From behind, Blancanales had stepped in close to a nearby building, raising his weapon to cover Lyons while he edged along the line of stores, occasionally ducking below the length of a window. Covering another building length, Lyons found an alley opening to his left. Halting, he craned his neck to peer around the corner. Even as he did, another shot rang out, followed by a strangled cry.

CHAPTER THREE

Kneeling behind the front bumper of a maroon Ford Taurus, Schwarz ground his teeth and rode out a blistering fusillade of gunfire as two hardmen emptied automatic weapons into his cover. Bullets pounded through the vehicle, flattening tires, rending upholstery, shattering glass. An occasional round pierced the car’s sloped hood, exiting within inches of Schwarz’s crouched form. Lead pounded the engine block, pinging like metallic rain as the block stopped the rounds from ripping Schwarz apart.

Only moments earlier, the Able Team commando had started around the edge of the sedan, his micro-Uzi carving a path for him while he looked for the black-clad killer. When a flash of motion had registered in his peripheral vision, he had dived behind the Ford, his combat-honed reflexes taking him off the firing line a heartbeat before death found him.

A momentary break in the gunfire provided Schwarz a chance to raise his head slightly over the hood to scan the scene, but he saw no one. His opponents apparently had gone undercover while reloading their weapons.

Moving in a crouch, Schwarz rounded the car’s front end, now with his M-4 assault rifle leading the way. Climbing onto the sidewalk, he moved along the edge of the line of vehicles, his senses alert for any sign of trouble.

The sudden slap of feet against concrete drew his attention. He wheeled toward the sound, scanning for a target, his finger tightening ever so slightly on the trigger. A heavyset woman, apparently considering the silence a chance for escape, darted out from inside a drugstore, her worn leather purse clutched tightly to her chest. Seeing the commando, his weapon pointed at her, the woman froze and screamed.

Shit!

Schwarz pointed the rifle barrel skyward and waved her on with his free hand. Eyes bulging, the woman stood there rooted to the spot, her lips working wordlessly as her overloaded mind tried to process the events unfolding around her. Realizing the numbers were falling too fast for such a distraction, Schwarz felt his own anxiety creep up a notch.

“Move!” he yelled, hoping that the sound, if not the word, might jar her into action.

His command startled her, but she stood still.

Damn it! Left with no other choice, Schwarz surged forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. The instant his hand gripped her bicep, the fingers sinking into the cushy flesh, the woman screamed and threw a haymaker at Schwarz’s jaw.

The punch connected, jarring his teeth. He’d experienced a lot worse, of course, but the sudden sensation of pain emanating from his jaw diverted his attention for an instant. Almost long enough for him to miss the furtive figure rising from behind a nearby parked car.

Almost.

With a shove he bulled the woman out of the way and brought up his assault rifle. The weapon spit a line of 5.56 mm rounds that pounded into his opponent’s head, reducing it to a fine red mist. His attacker’s smoking weapon slipped from dead fingers as the partially decapitated corpse folded into a boneless heap, disappearing between two parked cars. Seeing the violence, the bystander screamed again and darted back toward the drugstore. Schwarz felt a rush of relief when the electric door slid closed behind her.

Moving with slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the space between himself and the felled shooter, figuring he ought do a visual check to make sure he’d cleared the nest. He found the man’s crumpled form where it had fallen. He made a mental note to search the guy later, even as he acknowledged that such an effort likely wouldn’t yield much. These guys obviously were pros and if they carried any identification at all, it likely would be fake. But they’d run the traps nonetheless.

The crackle of gunfire died down for a few moments. Schwarz heard a terse exchange between Lyons and Grimaldi. Moments later the helicopter’s engine grew louder and the craft rose from the street, cresting the rooftops as the pilot executed a starboard turn.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Schwarz noticed his combat senses kicking into overdrive, the small hairs at his nape brushing against his shirt collar, a cold sensation rushing down his spine.

Turn! his mind screamed.

He spun. Even before his mind registered the threat, Schwarz knew he was going to take a bullet. The guy with the black coat was poised on a second-floor balcony, his weapon aimed dead-center on Schwarz’s chest.

Move!

The Able Team warrior shot up.

Flames lanced from the other man’s weapon. Almost the same instant Schwarz felt something smack hard into him, the force robbing him of his footing, sending him tumbling to the ground. The shot, sounding oddly far away, registered with him even as his mind struggled to grasp the sudden trauma seizing his body.

Fire tore through his shoulder. Through blurred vision, he saw the other man adjust his aim, saw more flames leap from the gun’s barrel. White-hot pain lanced through his abdomen and he cried out in spite of himself.

He tried to raise his own gun hand but found it unresponsive.

I’m going to die.

He’d imagined it a thousand times, and here it was. If he was going to go, he’d make some damn noise.

Cocking his knee, his working hand stabbed down to his ankle, groping for the Colt Detective’s Special holstered there. Fire ripped through his bent calf, causing him to grunt in surprise and pain, making him forget about the weapon. His leg went limp. When he dropped to the ground, he glimpsed the shooter, poised and grinning, surveying his shattered form with satisfaction.

Schwarz struggled to remain conscious but found himself slipping away. The popping of gunfire, the wail of sirens, grew faint, distant.…

A TAUT VOICE EXPLODED in Blancanales’s earpiece.

“Man down!” Kurtzman said. “Gadgets is injured and taking fire.”

The commando keyed his headset. “Location?”

Kurtzman told him. Blancanales turned and began retracing his steps, moving at a dead run to reach his fallen comrade.

“Ironman?” he said into his throat microphone.

“Go.”

“You’re on your own.”

“Right. Take the bastards down.”

“Clear.”

Blancanales surged into the street, his eyes scouring the area for the shooter. He spotted the black-coated man, his lips twisted in an ugly grin, drawing down on an unseen target. Blancanales assumed his friend was on the ground somewhere beyond the string of parked cars lining the street.

From behind him, he heard the police cars closing in, a cacophony of blaring sirens and squealing tires. He did his best to ignore their approach, knowing he had less than a second to save his friend.

Twin Berettas chugged 3-round bursts, the bullets cleaving through the air to reach the shooter. His aim thrown off by the jarring impact of his footsteps smacking against concrete, the first volley cleaved through the air and collided with a brick wall several feet to the shooter’s right. Shards of brick exploded from the wall, nicking the man’s face, causing him to screw up the right side of his face and bunch up his shoulder in a protective gesture.

Whipping around, the guy spotted Blancanales and his pistol flared to life. The Able Team commando surged left, his weapons spitting another blistering fusillade. As before, most of the shots drilled into nearby brickwork or tore through the man’s long coat, driving him back, but not biting into flesh.

Blancanales darted right, purposely moving away from what he believed to be Schwarz’s position. Stuck in the middle of a four-lane street with no protection, Blancanales knew he made too tempting a target to pass up and he wanted to draw fire away from his comrade.

As he ran, bullets kicked into the asphalt, snapping at his heels. Turning at the waist as he moved, he squeezed off matching tribursts from the Berettas. This time a 9 mm Parabellum round cleaved into the side of the man’s neck, apparently just nicking the skin. He slapped a hand over the wound as though striking a bug. The realization that he’d been wounded seemed to unnerve the guy a bit, prompting him to unleash a final barrage from his weapon, the flurry of lead forcing Blancanales to sprint for cover behind a parked car. Even as he did, his opponent backed away, disappearing through the balcony door.

Springing to his feet, Blancanales crossed the street, his eyes taking in the carnage as he did. He counted at least three fallen hardmen, though there could be more sandwiched between cars or slumped in recessed doorways. Dozens of pockmarks scarred the historic buildings, pierced car bodies and caused spiderweb cracks to form on the car windows.

Even as he closed in on his friend, the commando kept an eye trained on the front door of the building that only scant heartbeats ago had provided a perch for a killer, knowing the guy might burst through the front door, gunning for a rematch. However, Blancanales considered the chances remote. The shooter more likely would find a rear exit, get the hell out of there while he still could.

He knelt next to Gadgets and checked to see whether his old friend was breathing.

CARL LYONS SPED through the diner, winding his way between patrons sprawled facedown on the hardwood floors scuffed and scarred from more than a century of use.

Thrusting his full body weight against the swing doors, he surged into the kitchen, intent on reaching the rear exit. He found himself facing a young man, hair dyed green, standing there, his face etched in terror. The kid clutched a butcher knife in a white-knuckled grip. Lyons halted, eyeing him warily, unsure whether he planned to attack. The young man held the knife to his heaving chest, as though it were a shield.

The young man’s face was pale, making his green locks seem all the more garish.

“We got a problem here, kid?” Lyons asked.

The young man shook his head, squeezing the knife against his chest.

“How about you put down the knife?”

“Can’t.”

“Kid, I’m losing time here. Drop the damn knife.”

“My fingers. They won’t move.”

Impatience flared within him, but Lyons squashed it with a deep exhale. He needed to get through that door, but he didn’t want to charge a panicked kid with a knife. Under normal circumstances, the kid likely wouldn’t pose a threat. But he had the look of a cornered animal and Lyons didn’t want to push him.

He adopted what he called his “jumper” voice, a soothing, patient tone he’d learned to use as a cop.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m a federal agent. I need to get through that door. What say you drop the knife?”

“They shot her. I saw it.”

“Who?”

“The lady cop.”

“Kid, we’re burning daylight. I gotta go through that door. You’re in my way.”

Hesitating another heartbeat, the young man finally shuddered and dropped the knife.

“Good,” Lyons said. He gestured the kid away from the door, and this time he complied. “Hide somewhere until the cops come to get you,” Lyons said as he brushed past the young man.

Lyons stepped into the alley and immediately found the pungent smell of rotting food assailing his nostrils. A garbage Dumpster stood to his right. Police cars barreled into the alley from both ends, their sirens screaming.

The Python extended, Lyons skirted the garbage bin, his eyes searching either for Gabe Fox or for another killer. Footsteps slapped against concrete and a moment later Lyons caught sight of a stocky man with coffee-colored skin bearing down on him. He remembered the guy as one of the gunners who’d been with the black-coated shooter a few minutes earlier.

The guy spotted Lyons and began to raise his gun.

The gesture came a microsecond too slow. The Colt Python bucked twice in Lyons’s hand. The slugs hammered into the hardman’s stomach and he collapsed to the ground. Even though he was sure the guy was dead, Lyons kicked away the man’s gun as he moved past him.

“Ironman to Ace.”

“Go, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

“You have any contact with our runaway?”

“Negative.”

“Politician?”

“With me. We’re watching the paramedics treat Gadgets.”

“Give me a sitrep.”

“Give us five and I’ll let you know.”