Ramrod Intercept

“You’re fucking with the wrong air commandos, ladies!”

Lake, bellowing like some fire-and-brimstone preacher hungover on Sunday morning, the long-haired crazy man pounding out the lead, marking his turf behind the desk, defying to be shot. Blancanales skidded off the table, hot slipstreams of lead tearing past his scalp, tugging at his shoulders. On the way down he unleathered both the Beretta 92-F and the stubby Ingram machine pistol, and got busy dishing it back before all was lost. A shaved head with goatee came shooting around the corner of the table when Blancanales cut loose with a double burst. The Van Gogh shooter was capping off rounds from his own Beretta when Blancanales was rewarded by a scream of pain. Van Gogh lurched back, out of sight, grabbing at the red smear on his upper thigh, cursing up a storm.

“If you’re Feds, I’m the prince of darkness!”

The way the madman was pumping out the lead, screaming in berserker fury, Blancanales didn’t find the statement a stretch.

Lake was stone-cold insane.

A swivel chair was absorbing a flurry of 9 mm rounds when he popped up, and let it once more rip with twin lead barrages. It was luck, more than skill, winging the rounds out when he tagged the buzz-cut gunner, sent him crashing down on Lake’s desk, bleeding and flopping all over polished teakwood surface like some giant gutted salmon.

“Nice shot, son!”

And Lake seemed to slap home a fresh clip in a nanosecond, not missing a beat.

“You want the best, you’ve got the best! The hottest Colonel in the land. Jim Lake!”

THE GUY WAS hung out there but good, off in some land of insanity that even caused Lyons to balk for a full second or two. He was shooting up his own office, which told Lyons he didn’t plan on coming back here. Whatever Lake’s personal vision of greener pastures, Lyons didn’t intend to let it become reality.

Not on his watch.

Not this night.

The mini-Uzi and Colt Python out, Lyons skirted on a hunch away from the tracking line of autofire that was eating up the couch, a storm of insatiable lead locusts buzzing in his ears. He came up, just in time to find Blancanales nailing the buzz-cut gunner and cut free with hand cannon and subgun to give his friend a much needed helping hand. The mini-Uzi hosed the desk, but Lake was already ducking, the curtained window behind him, drawn to block out some bird’s eye view of the city skyline, taking a few hits. It fluttered a little as holes were punched through the window to let some traffic noise filter in from far below.

On his two o’clock Lyons found Van Gogh was shooting on the move for the wet bar when he assisted Blancanales in waxing the guy off his feet. Four converging points of fire turned Van Gogh into a bursting sieve, painting him crimson from the neck down to his crotch. He was airborne next, snarling out the pain and rage, before he sailed over the wet bar and brought down the top-shelf booze.

Lake jumped back into the game, back on the trigger, screaming out something about abortion pills marking the end of civilization, how civilians were all too willing to serve bastards and whores.

What the hell? Lyons thought.

The Able Team leader was going down behind the couch when the ex-colonel fired another long burst his way, then shifted his aim and drove Blancanales down behind the conference table.

Then a shadow with a massive autoshotgun whirled around the corner where some slat appeared in the wall near Lake’s desk.

The cavalry, riding onto the scene, out of nowhere.

The curse was choked off in Lyons’s throat as he flung himself away from the couch on the peal of thunder. Lake’s subgun spray came back and helped chase Lyons to cover behind a wooden cabinet, the expensive teak scarred as tracking rounds began eating up the facing. A roaring boom and half of the cabinet vanished in Ironman’s face in razoring wood splinters.

“See you around, ladies!”

The dark hole swallowed up Lake and Mr. Autoshotgun as Lyons broke cover. The slat was closing and Lyons, jacked up on adrenaline, hit the area with a .357 round and a half-dozen 9 mm projectiles from his mini-Uzi.

Wasted effort and ammo.

Lake was gone.

Lyons was feeling the wall for some button or latch that would open the slat. Nothing. There was no space either where he could dig his fingers in to force the slat open.

“Time to boogie, Ironman. Something tells me the cavalry’s going to be waiting when we hit the hall.”

Lyons grabbed up his handheld radio and patched through to Schwarz.

“WHAT MORE CAN we tell you? We’ve given you directions to where Godwin is holed up. I put the call through, like you asked. You know he’s there, and he has the package you want.”

They were sweating out the unknown, worried about little more than saving whatever might be left of their dicey futures, wanting nothing else but for their party to go on. Schwarz didn’t have the time or the inclination to put their fears to rest, nor did he much care about their desire to keep the good times rolling. The more they found out about DYSAT and the goons who ran it, the more he felt the killing heat was only just getting turned up.

And DYSAT needed to go down the toilet.

“Hey, come on, mister. Cut us some slack here. We’re cooperating. We didn’t know what we’re getting involved in. Hey, we came to you people. That should count for something.”

Schwarz was watching the lot through the windshield and the monitor. He heard Lyons coming on his handheld radio, as gruff as usual, but now there was a definite edge of urgency in his voice.

“Gadgets!”

“Yeah.”

“Round two’s just started. Lake tried to turn me and Pol into human sushi with an Uzi he had stashed under his desktop. Two more of his shooters are down for the count. Lake and another goon with a SPAS-12 are probably headed your way. Maybe he’ll pick up reinforcements on the way down. We’re on the way. Look alive.”

“I copy.”

And Lyons was gone off the air, in pursuit.

Schwarz scrambled for the weapons bin, hauled out a Colt Commando assault rifle. One clip of 5.56 mm rounds up the snout and he took three more, jammed them in his waistband.

“Which one is Lake’s car?”

“It’s a black Towncar.”

Schwarz searched the monitor, worked the stick to move the mounted minicam around. At that hour there weren’t many vehicles left in the garage, but he was irritated it took him ten seconds before he spotted the vehicle belonging to the president of DYSAT. It was parked at the deep north end, sandwiched between a white van and Cadillac. Okay, he decided, move in on foot, take up position behind a concrete pillar down that way.

Lay in wait and ambush the bastards. Sounded like a plan.

“Stay put, no matter what,” Schwarz growled at Grogan and Caldwell. “Try and run on me…”

“We understand.”

Schwarz malingered, not certain they did. Something was turning over in their eyes, but he didn’t have a second to spare.

A couple of mad-dog shooters, or more, were on the way.

Schwarz was out the door, the assault rifle up and ready. He was almost clearing the van when a leggy blonde came through the doorway leading to the stairwell. Mouthing an oath, he was forced to wait until she vacated the combat zone he was sure was only moments away from erupting.

LAKE WAS LIVID as he stormed into the security room. He was raising Burrows, part of his security detachment from the next floor down, when Giddell hit the button on his private elevator. Lake scanned the bank of cameras, watched as the two human freight trains rolled for the doors.

“Burrows, you and Jackson hit the main hall. Our friends are right now coming out. Do not worry about noise or making a mess. Just get it done.”

“Aye, aye.”

Just get it done, he thought. Seething, as the door to the car opened, he couldn’t understand where it had gone wrong in the office. He was certain he’d gotten the draw on them, but they moved in an eye blink, as if they’d anticipated his killing play or could read his mind, which was impossible.

No, it was something else that had saved their skin. Experience, he decided. Those guys were pros of some kind. But what? And from what agency?

There would be a few moments to kill before the elevator reached the garage. In that span he needed to raise the reinforcements, get his thoughts together about their next stop. Malibu. Godwin and girl. He owned a private hangar in an airfield south of L.A. proper that was used exclusively for ferrying military brass, and DYSAT people. Once he had the data manual and the Ramrod Intercept microchips…

First he needed to clear the premises. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think Burrows and Jackson had what it took to take out the freight trains. If nothing else, they might slow them, long enough for him to make his Towncar and ride on.

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