'How do you say it in Spanish?'
'Don't try to fake it, you might say something weird. English is good enough.'
'Most of these people are speaking French,' Lyons commented.
'And Castilian,' Blancanales added.
'Who are all the Europeans?' Lyons asked, looking at a tall blond woman in a sequined red gown. 'I thought this was a Salvadoran party.'
'Rich Salvadorans. They want us to think they're Europeans, but they're not.'
The blond woman — lithe, perhaps twenty-five years old, her face a perfect oval of finely sculpted features touched with powder and rich red lipstick — laughed with a group of men. Two stocky men, one blond and balding, the other with crew-cut salt-and-pepper gray hair, spoke loud in English. The blond woman turned to her escort, whispered to him. The middle-aged Latin, his hair glistening with pomade, smiled. The blond saw Lyons watching her.
Her lips froze in midword as her eyes examined the stranger. The Latin man waited for her to complete her whispered confidence. Then he looked from her face to Lyons. The Latin scowled.
Lyons laughed at the middle-aged man's jealousy. A hand jerked Lyons aside.
'Be cool, Ironman,' Blancanales hissed. 'That's the general.'
'Who's the beauty?'
'How should I know?' Blancanales pushed Lyons through the crowd. 'One thing I do know, it's less than diplomatic to make eyes at the main man's girl friend.'
At the buffet table, Lyons grabbed a handful of sliced roast beef. He took a plate and held it under his chin to catch the blood dripping from the rare-cooked beef.
'Pardon me for living,' Lyons said with his mouth full of meat and blood. 'I'm just an animal on the prowl.'
Blancanales took a plate. A Latin waiter served him slices of beef and turkey. Blancanales held up a fork and spoke to Lyons.
'Now that you're moving in high society… this is a fork. Watch, I will demonstrate how to use it.'
'You!' a Spanish-accented voice demanded. 'Who are you?'
The Americans turned — Blancanales with a speared slab of white turkey meat in his mouth, Lyons holding a hunk of beef dripping blood — to see two young Latins confronting them.
Except for their expensive suits and gold wrist-watches, the Latins looked like soldiers. Their backs ramrod-straight, they wore their hair military-short. Their wide shoulders and barrel chests stretched the fabric of their expensive Italian suits. As the two members of Able Team studied the men who demanded their identities, one of the Salvadorans raised a hand to point at Lyons's chest.
'I said, who...'
Lyons grasped the young soldier's immaculate hand, shook it like a long-lost friend. He talked through a mouthful of beef. 'I'm Mike! I'm pleased to meet you. Who are you?'
The Salvadoran tore his hand free. He grabbed a napkin from the caterer's table and wiped the smeared blood and gravy from his hand and shirt cuff. The elegant diplomats and women around them stared.
'You come with us. We are security.'
Blancanales turned to Lyons. 'See what happens when you flirt with a general's girl friend?'
'I didn't even talk to her.'
'Come!' the other soldier demanded.
'Sure, where you want to go?' Lyons grinned. He reached toward the rows of wine bottles. He saw a waiter stripping a champagne bottle of its foil and wire. 'Let me get a drink...'
As Lyons's hand closed around the neck of the unopened bottle, the first soldier seized Lyons's left arm, his fingers digging into the healing wound under the coat sleeve. Lyons's face went white with pain and a guttural roar rose in his throat as he reflexively smashed the soldier on the side of the head with the champagne bottle.
The cork shot across the room. An explosion of champagne foam sprayed Lyons and the onlookers. Stunned, the soldier dropped. Women shrieked as their escorts pulled them back from the violence. Men pushed through the crowd. Blancanales scanned the ballroom, saw the general and three other Salvadorans approaching.
Champagne ran off Lyons's rented tuxedo. The bottle in his hand dripped foam. He looked around him at the faces of the staring men and women. Lyons laughed, then drank from the foaming bottle.
The second soldier jerked a 9mm auto-pistol from his belt. Blancanales kicked him in the crotch, the force of the kick lifting the young man off the floor. The pistol flashed, a slug punching into the parquet floor.
In the screaming and panic, shoulder to shoulder with satins and diamonds and bow ties, Lyons and Blancanales ran for the door. A Salvadoran stood at the door, his eyes searching the crowd, his right hand under his coat.
As the two men of Able Team shoved through the elegant guests, the Salvadoran saw them. His right hand closed around a shoulder-holstered pistol, but the pistol never cleared his coat.
Lyons drove a full power front kick into the Salvadoran's solar plexus. In the crowding and confusion, the kick hit an instant late, just as the Salvadoran's forearm crossed his body.
Bones snapped. Screaming, the Salvadoran fell back, his auto-pistol clattering to the floor, lost among the feet of the guests rushing out the door. Smashing the champagne bottle down on the Salvadoran's head, Lyons followed Blancanales and the crowd into the hotel corridor.
They jogged into the lobby. Shoving through the plate-glass doors, they ran past the taxis and limousines lining the hotel's driveway. Their breath clouded in the cool spring night. Blancanales looked at Lyons, noting the champagne soaked tuxedo, the bits of glass sparkling on the sleeves and lapels. The Puerto Rican laughed, put his arm around his partner's shoulders as they ran.
'Lyons, you're my friend, but this is the last time I take you to a party.'
7
Passengers bound for Washington, D.C., crowded from the lounge to board the jet. Floyd Jefferson ran to a pay phone. He punched the number of David Holt's Mill Valley home. After a few rings, he heard the voice of Mrs. Holt.
'Good morning.'
'Good morning, ma'am. This is Floyd Jefferson. The plane's leaving and Mr. Holt isn't here yet. Did he...'
'He left an hour ago. Could there be a traffic problem?'
'I don't know… I'll call the office.'
'And I'll call the office if he calls here.'
'Goodbye, Mrs. Holt.'
The young journalist punched another number. The law-office receptionist answered.
'Holt, Lindsey, and Stein…'
'This is Floyd Jefferson. I'm calling from the airport. Mr. Holt and I are supposed to fly east this morning, but he hasn't shown up. In fact, he just missed the plane. Did he call? Leave a message?'
'No, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Holt hasn't called. Perhaps a jam delayed him. Why don't you give me your number? I'll call you when he calls.'
He read the number to her. 'It's a pay phone but I'll be here. I'll get seats on the next flight east and wait by the phone.'
Four hours later, he called the office for the tenth time. He heard the alarm in the receptionist's voice before she told him.
'The police just called! They found Mr. Holt's car in Oakland.'
Jefferson felt his body go cold. 'What about him?'
'They don't know. There was no… no blood, no sign of a struggle in the car, they said, but…'
'I'll call back in an hour.'
