Lyons pushed the weapon aside. 'Let it go. Maybe that noise will motivate these other crazies to come out.'
Abdul went to the next office and shouted inside.
A voice answered in Arabic. As the screaming continued, Abdul spoke with the terrorist inside. He turned to Lyons. 'He says he'll surrender. Will you kill him?'
'Not if he tells us what we need to know.'
Abdul negotiated with the man inside. The door opened and a Kalashnikov clattered onto the tiles. A young man came out, his hands high. Lyons grabbed him by the collar and slammed him down to the tiles. With one foot on the boy's back, Lyons held the Atchisson against the boy's head as Blancanales searched him. Blancanales found two grenades, which he passed to Gadgets. He pocketed a knife.
'Is there anyone else in there? If he lies, I kill him.'
The boy shook his head to Abdul's questions.
'Now ask him where the American is.'
Again the boy shook his head, pleaded with his captors. 'He says he doesn't know anything about him.'
'Is the American still alive?'
Abdul questioned the boy, then translated the answers. 'He saw the American. The others brought the American from the city. He doesn't know anything about him. He's only a recruit. With the National Front a month.'
'And there's no one else inside there?'
'He said no.'
'We'll find out.' Lyons jerked the boy to his feet and shoved him into the office doorway. Crying and pleading, the boy twisted to face Lyons. Holding his prisoner in front of him, Lyons stepped into the room. Blancanales waved a flashlight over the interior.
A dead soldier sprawled on a table, his stiffening hand holding a wadded rag against a chest wound. Blood soaked his uniform, puddled on the table and floor. Using the boy as a shield, Lyons searched the room. He hooked a closet door open with his boot, stepped back. Blancanales shone the flashlight inside. They saw stacks of papers and books.
Stripping a grenade from the dead terrorist, they went to the next office. Abdul called out for surrender. He received no answer. Lyons shoved the boy in front of the window. No shots came.
Lyons kicked open the door, then took cover against the thick clay wall. But no terrorists fired. Lyons pushed the boy through the door. Then he rushed inside, his Atchisson ready. Blancanales followed an instant later.
An RPG had punched through the wall, shredding books and filing cabinets. Grabbing the boy, keeping him in front of them, Lyons and Blancanales searched the demolished room. They found no one.
As they left the office, the boy spoke quickly with Abdul. 'He says he will take us to the commander's office. The commander will know.'
'Great. Our punk just might live through this…'
Shoving the boy along, crouchwalking beneath windows, dodging past doors, they went directly to the main offices. Again, Abdul called out for surrender.
A voice answered. 'I give up. I am only a technician. I can help. I am not a fighter…'
'Come out! Hands up if you want to live.'
The Libyan radio operator walked from the offices of the commander. 'I am only a technician, only a technician…'
Sweeping the Libyan's feet from under him, Lyons spread him flat on the tiles. He searched him, found a .25-caliber Beretta in his boot top.
'You're not a fighter? What's this for?'
'It is the only gun I have.'
'Shut up.' Lyons kicked him over onto his back and searched him some more. 'Where's the American prisoner? Tell us and we'll let you live.'
'Prisoner? I do not know. I only operate radio.'
'Oh, yeah?' Gadgets asked. 'Where is your equipment?'
'In there. I can tell you where Commander Omar hides. He knows where prisoner is.'
'Show me.'
The radio operator got to his feet. Lyons grabbed the guy's collar and shoved the man ahead of him.
'Any tricks and I will kill you.'
'Not me — I only technician.'
They went through the outer offices. The Libyan pointed to a door. 'He is in there.'
'Open it.'
'No! He will shoot.'
'Tough.'
Shouting in Arabic, the Libyan opened the office door. Lyons heard the word Americans.
Blancanales shone the flashlight into the office. They saw Persian rugs, hand-carved furniture, but no officer. Lyons jabbed the Libyan with the Atchisson. 'Tell him to come out if he wants to live.'
The words had no effect. Lyons grabbed the Libyan by the collar again and forced him to another door.
'Open it.'
They saw a white-tiled bathroom with modern European fixtures. 'Now that other door.'
As the closet door opened, Lyons heard an elbow strike the door, smelled excrement. A piece of metal flipped free. Lyons saw it was a grenade lever.
Slamming the radio operator against the door, Lyons jammed it closed. A scream came from inside the closet. Hands grabbed the doorknob, shook it. The Libyan struggled against Lyons's grip, finally twisted away.
Bits of steel wire punched a hundred holes in the closet door. The man inside screamed, fell out of the shattered door, rolled across the floor, his body in shreds, the front of it punctured.
He still lived only because the grenade had exploded below waist level.
Blancanales whipped cords from his pocket and looped fast tourniquets around the Egyptian's legs at the crotch. He reached into the tangle of shredded clothes and shoes inside the closet to find a wooden clothes hanger. He snapped the hanger apart and used two lengths to twist the cord loops tight. The blood flow from the commander's legs slowed.
'Where's the American?' Lyons shouted into the moaning man's face.
Commander Omar shook his head. Lyons shouted again, 'Tell us and you live.'
Ashen with shock, the commander looked up at the black-clad Americans who questioned him and tended his wounds. Finally he answered.
'He is alive. Alive. In the small room… below the stairs…'
'Who else is there? Any of your soldiers?'
'No one… he is alive… have mercy on me.'
Blancanales looked up to Lyons. 'The Agency will want this one.'
'Then keep him alive.'
Shoving the Libyan ahead of him, Lyons went back to the smoky walkway in front of the offices. The sky was light with day.
'Keep this one, Wizard. Talk tech with him. Abdul, come. Where are Mohammed and Zaki?'
'There… and there.' Abdul pointed to opposite sides of the courtyard. The other two taxi drivers were crouched low, watching the walls and courtyards for movement.
'Good. Come on.'
Lyons moved fast, crabbing under windows, sprinting past doors, down stone steps. He saw nothing down there. Holding the Atchisson ready, he followed the stairs around into a room.
Twisted bodies sprawled everywhere on the bricks of the floor. One clutched an AK as Lyons approached, struggled to lift the muzzle. A shot from the Atchisson destroyed the terrorist's throat and turned him into a dead man. Continuing, Lyons searched for the door. An autoburst from Abdul killed a wounded Arab.
Fearing a booby trap, Lyons jerked the door open and dashed to one side. He waited to the count of ten,
