machine. He swung the wheel farther left until he was rushing to meet the enemy, aiming to pass between the goons and the camp's razor wire. As he sped past, he fired bursts until the clip was empty. As he passed them, he was ducking low.
Blancanales's shots, in spite of the jouncing, pegged one driver who lost control. The driver, clutching a torn chest, got his passenger hung up in the razor wire. The buggy came to rest in the compound, its engine stalled, its driver dead.
The return shots fired at Pol's speeding form zipped wide and high.
As the enemy battled the sandstorm, and Pol's firestorm, Babette and Gadgets swooped in from the other side. It was a quick sweep — the pair keeping as low as possible, Gadgets remaining in a firing position throughout the pass. Gadgets's Ingram leveled two gunners and spilled the blood of another driver.
By the time the three remaining vehicles — five remaining enemies — recovered from Able Team's one-two punch, they had passed Lyons. The big blond gunner had hit the sand. When the goons passed, he was kneeling, spraying shots as another clip expired.
Lyons didn't wait to see the results. He got back on his feet and took off again, changing clips on the run.
When Pol passed the enemy vehicles, he took his foot off the gas and jammed his thigh against the steering wheel. His other foot disengaged the clutch. The dune buggy quickly lost speed in the sand. By the time it could come to a complete stop, he had changed clips and was resting the Ingram on his lap. He grabbed the wheel in one hand and the shift lever in the other and used the slow speed to make a tight curve. In a quick maneuver, he was speeding after the remaining mobile enemies.
Babette put the machine she was driving into a tight turn that threatened to dump Gadgets onto the sand. He hung on and changed clips only after the course was straightened out. When the gun was ready, he pulled a grenade from his jacket.
'Back to the group on foot,' he hollered to Babette.
She corrected their course. Gadgets pulled the pin from the grenade, but did not release the spoon.
The enemy had turned and were now closing in on Lyons from two sides. A single vehicle was closing on his left, two on his right. The tent over the wire was only five feet in front of him. He dived under the nearest part of the tent and brought the M-203 up to face the enemy.
From his low, almost totally hidden position, Lyons could see little of the enemy. But he wasn't shooting for flesh, he was aiming at tires. He sent a careful burst of 5.56mm wreckers through a tire on each of the three buggies.
Pol, who had turned to attack as Lyons hit the turf, could see no sign of Lyons. He headed for the middle vehicle, prepared to battle in a high-speed game of desert chicken.
Suddenly the three vehicles swerved crazily as drivers fought to prevent the buggies from rolling. Blancanales slipped through the ranks without being shot at. The enemy were limping toward the desert, each vehicle minus a tire.
Lyons scrambled out from his hiding place, changing clips on the run. He had only two clips left. They would have to do.
The three enemy vehicles were out of sight. Pol's machine could be spotted in the distance as the Able Team member stood on the brake. The wheels locked and dug into loose sand. Blancanales slammed the shift lever into reverse and started churning back the way he had come. The wheels clutched sand, shot sand, spun free. The engine whined its complaints as Pol kept the pedal to the floorboard. The little bomb shot back over the dune in reverse.
Pol skidded to a dramatic halt in front of Lyons.
'Well, if it ain't the cavalry,' Lyons said with a laugh. He vaulted into the passenger's seat.
The sound of a grenade exploding came from the desert.
Pol took off toward the sound.
When the dune buggy driven by Babette crested a dune and swooped down on the remaining foot soldiers, each side was braced for battle. Babette and Gadgets sank low in their seats as the gymnastics coach aimed the machine straight at the seven survivors. Bullets disintegrated the windshield. Others thudded into body metal. One tire blew and Babette had to fight to keep the buggy from rolling on them. The gunfire quickly thinned out as gunners scrambled out of the path of the racing machine.
When they had just passed the line of thugs, Gadgets dropped the grenade. As the enemy turned to lay fire at the retreating pair, the blast tore two of the gunners to bloody pieces and scattered the others.
Babette fought the buggy to a stop just over the crest of a dune. She and Gadgets jumped out and ran back up to the crest. They split, topping the crest about fifteen feet apart. Quickly they laid deadly fire onto the disorganized enemy. Quickly they killed the five remaining guncocks. The bastards had nowhere to hide. They fell under a hail of bullets.
Gadgets sank back into the sand, exhaustion having wrenched nearly every ounce of strength from his body. Babette, looking tired, haggard, flopped down beside him.
After a second of silence, Gadgets swore.
'I was hoping to get one of the goons alive. Wanted to find out what the hell they did with Dix.'
'We'll find her,' Babette said with a sigh.
'We'd better. She's our ride.'
The sudden sound of an approaching buggy brought both of them back on alert. They crept up to peek over the dune. It was Politician and Lyons, scouring the endless dryness for scum.
The duo stopped the buggy.
For a moment no one spoke. Each person was looking at the face of another warrior. They saw the scars of battle, topped with a fine layer of sand. And they saw the worn look of war. None of them liked what they saw. All were grateful they could not see themselves.
Blancanales spoke up.
'Couple carloads with flat tires around here somewhere waiting for the Motor League. Got to find them.'
'Anybody seen Dix?' Lyons asked.
No one had.
'Guess we've got some hunting to do,' Lyons said.
It didn't take long to find the place where Dix had separated from the party. They proceeded cautiously, Gadgets and Babette on foot, the dune buggy creeping behind them. Lyons stood precariously behind the passenger seat, holding on to the roll bar. All four scanned the dune line for signs of the enemy.
They found Petra Dix and the four remaining paratroopers at the same time, at the same place.
The paratroopers were expecting them.
Captain Young held a Makarov to Dix's head.
'Looking for her?' he spat.
Dix stood beside the man, her exposed upper body raw from its time in the sun and from being forced to lie on the hot desert sand.
The other paratroopers held guns, but no one made a move to shoot. They had seen what Able Team, plus its female gunner, could do. In Dix they had superb bargaining power. They would take the easy way out, with a gun at Dix's head.
'I want one thing,' Young said, contempt for the American sharpshooters rich in his voice. 'Just give us the buggy.'
'What if we don't,' Lyons snapped. 'What if we take our chances on a shoot-out — a shoot-out we know we'd win.'
'Then you'd lose the bitch,' Young snarled. And as the word bitch fired from his mouth, he made his fatal mistake. For emphasis, he took the Makarov away from Dix's head — just long enough to snap the muzzle into her breast. And when he was returning the muzzle to her head...
Dix grabbed the goon's arm and with all her strength she pushed the gun away from herself. Turning, she gave the man a solid shot to the testicles, a shot that swiped the air from his lungs, folded him up.
Lyons's lightning-quick reflexes took over. He squeezed the trigger, putting a burst through the skull of the bent-over KGB killer.
