As Blancanales piloted the borrowed motor home south from San Francisco, Jefferson spun through the AM and FM radio stations. He paused to listen to news programs. Finally, he heard a report on the four killings:
'…investigators report the two men carried false identification. They had given an airport car-rental agency false names and identification. In what may be a related crime, two other men died this morning in a horrifying incident in the Twin Peaks area. Witnesses reported a number of gunmen firing weapons. Police refuse to link the killings last night and this morning, but they also refuse to comment on witnesses' statements indicating sawed-off shotguns were used in both shoot-outs…'
'You hear that?' Jefferson asked Lyons.
'You're famous.' Lyons did not pause as he searched the interior of the motor home.
'I hope not…'
Standing feet apart to brace himself against the sway of the moving vehicle, Lyons had begun his search with the drawers of a kitchen cabinet converted to a desk. The furnishings and decor of the coach indicated Prescott used the thirty-foot-long vehicle not for vacations but for precinct work. The sink and enclosed toilet and the rear bedroom remained, but the aide had remodeled the motor home to reflect his European taste in design. Gray industrial linoleum covered the floor. Curtains had been replaced with pull-down shades. White sheet plastic covered the walls. Steel and cloth folding chairs replaced all the couches and bucket seats. Wall-mounted telephones lacked only connecting lines to create a self-contained political office. With the breakfast table and couches gone, the interior became almost spacious.
Lyons pulled out the first drawer. It contained pens, pencils, felt markers, and the congressman's letterhead stationery and envelopes. Lyons examined every pen and eraser, then looked at the underside of the drawer.
'What you doing, Ironman?' Gadgets called out from the bedroom. The Stony Man electronics specialist had spread out all of his equipment on the fold-out double bed. 'You think those liberals put a bomb on board?'
'No. Maybe a microphone. Maybe a cassette recorder.'
Jefferson swiveled around. He sat in the second bucket seat immediately next to Blancanales, who was driving. 'Bob wouldn't do that. He's a good guy. Ricardo, he and I were like brothers.'
'Marquez was a reporter, right?' Lyons asked. 'And you're a reporter?'
'When I can get the work.'
'Did Prescott give you stories?'
'Sure. The congressman's Mr. Conspiracy himself. Always investigating something.'
'Well, no one's going to be reading about
'But they're with us,' Jefferson protested. 'They won't go public on us.'
'They would if they got the chance. That's why I shot off my mouth like I did. They were so smooth, I just had to hear what they really thought. And the congressman told me.'
Blancanales glanced back to Lyons. 'Indeed. The man told you to 'do justice.' I think you made a convert to the cause.'
'Maybe. But while Buckley gave me his speech, that Prescott goof was outside. And I don't know what he was doing.'
'Is he ever paranoid!' Gadgets shouted forward to Blancanales. 'Now he thinks Congress is trying to get us?'
Disregarding his partner's joking, Lyons continued his search. He went through the other drawers, setting each aside after he checked the contents. Then he examined the interior of the cabinet, shining a flashlight inside. Where he could not see, he explored with his fingertips.
'If you wait a minute,' Gadgets told him, 'I'll do an electronic sweep.'
'That's not good enough. What if it's just a cassette recorder? What if it's one of those radio-switched units?'
'Go to it. Then I'll give it a sweep. We'll see what kind of equipment Congress has got.'
As they left San Francisco behind, the morning commuter traffic thinned. The urban and manufacturing areas gave way to the suburbs of San Mateo, San Carlos, Palo Alto, then the city of San Jose. Blancanales maintained a steady sixty miles per hour. Other motor homes passed, the travelers — families or retired people — waving. Blancanales and Jefferson returned the greetings. Lyons continued his search, tapping the walls, looking inside the burners of the stove. Gadgets glanced out the back window from time to time, watching for cars following the motor home.
Jefferson wandered back to the bedroom. He saw Able Team's equipment and weapons.
'Oh, my God. I thought you guys just had pistols, like normal people.' He pointed at the Atchisson full-auto shotgun. 'What in hell is that?'
'A shotgun,' Gadgets answered.
'Looks like a machine gun.'
'It's a selective-fire twelve-gauge shotgun,' Lyons told him. 'Semi-auto, three shot, and full-auto. Not exactly a pocket weapon, but where it goes, the bad guys die.'
'And those pistols. They have silencers.'
'You guessed it,' Gadgets said as he finally activated his counterelectronic unit. The hand-held device used magnetic Fields to detect transmitters. Gadgets worked his way through the motor home, waving the long oval antenna inside every cabinet and closet, over every surface and piece of furniture.
'Nothing.'
Lyons went forward to Blancanales. 'Next turnoff, we park for a while. I'd like to get under this barge. See if anything's on the undercarriage.'
'It'll cost us time.'
'This is not Team equipment. I won't go any further without completing the checkout.'
Two miles farther on, Blancanales pulled off at a roadside rest station. Three other motor homes and campers were parked near the picnic tables. A family from Ohio cooked breakfast under the canvas awning of their trailer, ignoring the freeway's noise and smog. Blancanales drove past them and parked at the far end of the area.
Stripping off his sport coat, Lyons unbuckled his shoulder holster and Colt Python. He took his flashlight and Gadgets's counterelectronic wand.
'Want to come supervise?' Lyons asked Gadgets.
'As long as I don't have to get dirty.'
'Specialist!' Lyons muttered sarcastically.
He started at the front bumper. Then on his back on the asphalt, he searched the interior of the stamped steel bumper with his fingers. He heard a tone coming from the counterelectronic wand. Gadgets dropped flat to peer under the motor home.
'What did you find?'
'Didn't find anything. It just buzzed.'
'You drop it?'
'I just laid it down while I crawled under here.'
Hammering slammed the motor home's aluminum siding. Both men recognized the zip-crack of high- velocity slugs. Glass shattered.
Their reflexes threw them into motion as Blancanales started the diesel engine again. Gadgets grabbed the door handle as the motor home lurched into motion.
Lyons trotted alongside as Blancanales maneuvered through the parking lot. A Piper Club circled above them at a few hundred feet. Squinting against the morning sun, Lyons saw the dark triangle of the plane's open side-door. A point of light flashed one-two-three, then three slugs punched into the motor home. The freeway noise drowned out the reports of the auto-rifle.
Lyons swung inside. 'There's a plane up above us. Rifleman firing from the passenger side.'
Bits of white plastic and urethane foam exploded from the ceiling. In the bedroom, Gadgets pressed tight the Velcro closures on his Kevlar and steel-plate battle armor. Lyons rushed to the equipment, and Gadgets handed him his battle armor.
