By this time another car from the sheriffs department had managed to make it through the crowd and the traffic. The deputies slowly cleared the area of protesting reporters and curious onlookers.
From his seat on the road, the cop finished reading the letter of authority signed by the President.
'Now,' Lyons said, speaking softly so that he could not be overheard, 'maybe you'll get that all-points out. Athletes have been kidnapped and you're sitting on your ass.'
The man ran for his car. He had an urgent message to deliver.
The members of Able Team climbed back into the station wagon and waited for Archer to drive them away. Gadgets dug into the wooden case for spare shells. Blancanales dressed the slight bullet crease on Carl's arm. Lyons opened the letter addressed to the Olympic Committee that he had found on the dead man. He read it and whistled.
'What now?' Archer asked as he started to pull away from the scene.
'Drop us off at UCLA,' Lyons said. He passed the note to Pol. It read:
We are holding the black Zambian athletes until your committee officially recognizes South Africa. We are sick of your discrimination against the White Race. If our demand is not met, the athletes will die.
By order of The Grand Dragon of the Invisible Empire
'Damn,' Pol said. 'Not only the KGB, but now the Ku Klux Klan has entered the picture.' He handed the note to Gadgets.
'Some picture,' Lyons commented.
4
'It's about time you got here, Fed,' the detective said to Sheldon Archer when the car arrived at the UCLA women's gymnasium. He spat the word 'Fed' like he was choking on shit.
Archer looked at the square-jawed man. He was tall, lean and wore a white shirt, no tie and a brown suit off the racks of high society. He stood beside a body covered by a sheet.
As Able Team approached, the abrasive man continued, 'It's damn hot and I can't do a thing — not even move this stinkin' corpse — until I get permission from some hotshot you're supposed to have with you.'
Archer grinned and turned to Carl. 'Hotshot, meet Bill Tilden from L.A. homicide.'
Tilden looked at Lyons, obvious disdain in his eyes.
Neither man offered to shake the other's hand.
'We've met,' Lyons told the FBI man.
'This is one of the gun punks,' Tilden said. 'Had his head kicked in by some little kid gymnast. The other one, the dead girl, has been removed.'
He reached down and peeled back the sheet far enough to show the unnatural angle in which the man's head was twisted. He jerked the sheet back up, then straightened and delivered a report in rapid-fire monotone. He sounded like a teletype run amok.
'He's Samuel Spanier, known as Sleepy to other bikers. He rode with the Riding Devils. We've suspected for some time that the Devils have stopped pushing drugs and are into the muscle-and-contract game.'
Tilden produced a gym bag. He opened it and showed Able Team the weapon.
'It's been dusted?' Schwarz asked.
Tilden nodded.
Schwarz reached for the gun. He did a quick field strip and continued to examine the piece.
Pol picked up the questioning. 'How do you put this case together?'
'Pretty straightforward,' Tilden said, shrugging. 'Three bikers dressed like students came here. One stayed in the hall to cover their retreat, the other two went into the gym and fired at the coach. A kid got in the way, took a bullet.
'The coach, a woman, had enough brains to go out the other door and let the touch-men follow her. We've got no idea if they got her or not. We've got a pickup out on the entire gang.'
He paused and nudged the corpse with his toe. 'This one had his neck broken by a little kid. She came charging out of the gym and damn near kicked his head off.'
'A girl did that?' Gadgets exclaimed.
Tilden nodded.
'Good for her,' Lyons said.
Lyons began to walk away from Tilden, the other members of Able Team following him.
'What about the body, hotshot?' Tilden said, more than a little annoyed at having to follow orders from Lyons, a man he had run into and been shown up by a number of times.
'Move it. Worship it. Stick it for all I care.'
As Archer made a move to follow Able Team into the gym, Tilden grabbed his arm.
'What's that son of a bitch got to do with this case?'
'He's direct from the President. He's the boss.'
Tilden groaned.
The group entered a room adjoining the gym. Pol turned to Lyons and said, 'We've got to decide what to tell the press. Any major leak of this and we could blow everything. Any suggestions?'
'This part is easy,' Gadgets said. 'It's the kidnapping that's going to be hard.'
'For this action here,' Pol said, 'we just won't mention the type of gun and we won't speculate on the motives. We'll just say members of a motorcycle gang came in here and shot the place up. One of the gymnasts caught a bullet.'
'That should do it,' Lyons intoned. 'The press will eat it up, though. Kid gymnast murdered. In cold blood. Film at eleven.'
'We'll get everyone to go along with that,' Pol said. 'But we have to get the police on the abducted Zambians. If the kidnapping hits the papers, the shit hits the fan.'
'And we get most of it blown in our faces,' Lyons said.
'I can take care of that for now,' Archer volunteered. 'We have ways of keeping kidnappings quiet for a while.'
With strategy mapped out, Able Team was ready to roll; Lyons was itching for action.
'What the hell are we waiting for then?' he said. 'Let's get moving. Let's nail this place down tight.'
The men moved back into the gymnasium. Tilden had had the body bagged and removed while the foursome discussed the press situation. The FBI had posted new guards to protect the gymnasts, who insisted on practicing despite the fireworks that had erupted earlier.
The four men did a slow survey of the gymnasium and surrounding area, hoping to put an impenetrable lock of security on the campus.
It was Politician who made the recommendations to the Fed in charge of security.
'First, get Ingrams or Uzis in here for everyone on duty. Get extra clips. This short-barreled-revolver crap has gotta go. Second, spread your men around the room some more. If anyone crashes through the doors, these kids are sitting ducks.'
Able Team left them to their business. As the men were leaving, a young gymnast, her golden hair fitted into pigtails, came up to Rosario Blancanales, the most fatherly-looking man on the team, and pulled at his shirt.
'You know she'll be back,' the petite gymnast said.
'What?' Pol questioned, turning to face the girl. 'Who'll be back?'
'Babette. She'll get away from those men and she'll come back here. I know it. She loves us and she worries about us. She's like an old mother hen. She'll be back.'
Politician gazed down at the young informant. 'You know her that well? You think she'll come back here even though she knows people will be watching for her?'
'She'll be back,' the girl said with unbreaking authority.
'Thanks for the tip,' Pol said, grinning down at her.
Halfway between the athletes and the door, the four men braked again.
