Justice by Fire

'The Riveras know,' Blancanales answered.

'True.' Lyons nodded as he assembled his equipment. He clipped his hand-radio to his belt. Dropping two speedloaders for his Colt Python into his jacket's left pocket, he took a second pistol from his suitcase.

Unlike his partners, he did not carry a Beretta 93-R. The silenced Italian pistol required a perfect head shot for an instant kill. Underpowered to avoid the crack of the bullets breaking the speed of sound, the slugs had many times failed to knock down the enraged, adrenaline-charged men Lyons had faced. Konzaki, the Stony Man weaponsmith, had hand-crafted a hybrid auto-pistol for Lyons, stealing the best features of the Berettas — the selective-fire auto-sear, the oversize trigger guard and fold-down left-hand lever that provided a two-handed grip. The bastardized Colt Government Model pistol had proved itself on two missions, the first in Cairo, the second in Guatemala.

'Colt Frankenstein,' Gadgets joked.

Lyons laughed as he shoved the silenced auto-pistol under his belt at the small of his back.

'You can tell he's serious,' Gadgets continued, ' 'cause that thing is dangerous.'

An extra ten-round magazine of .45 ACP hollow-points went in Lyons's wallet pocket. He gave his partners a wave as he left the car. 'See you guys later.'

As Lyons disappeared into the shadows of an alley, Gadgets made another right turn. Blancanales snapped back the slide on his Beretta 93-R. He eased down the hammer. The double-action pistol had a heavy trigger pull, but Blancanales did not believe the situation warranted carrying the pistol cocked and locked. He heard paper rustle as Jefferson concealed his shortened Smith & Wesson and a box of shells in a shopping bag.

'You got a round in the chamber?' he asked the young reporter.

Jefferson nodded. 'You better believe it.'

'It isn't safe. Unload.'

'We could be walking into a goon squad. It isn't safe not to be loaded.'

'You're going into a hotel crowded with people. Little kids. You want to chance an accident? That thing will take a child's legs off. You want to live with that? Dream about it the rest of your life?'

The young man looked down at the short-barreled weapon that had already saved his life twice. Blancanales saw indecision and fear on his face. Both men — the ex-Green Beret and the free-lance writer — knew what they faced if the Salvadorans took them alive. And what the Riveras faced if the Salvadorans took the family.

'Wait. I've got a compromise,' Blancanales told him. 'First, those shells, put them in your pockets. Then clear the chamber, reload, but don't close the bolt. Keep it slightly open. And when we walk in there, you keep your right hand in the bag, on the weapon. Something happens, snap the slide forward with your left hand and your right hand's already on the action. No feeling for the safety. It's called 'Unlocked Carry.''

'Yeah, makes sense.'

As Jefferson readied his weapon, Gadgets and Blancanales gave Main Street a last scan. Then Blancanales ducked his head low and spoke into his hand-radio.

'Ironman, where are you?'

'Looking down on you,' Lyons answered.

'That was quick.'

'When you going in?'

'Right now. Over and out.'

Parking illegally, Gadgets stopped the rented car. Blancanales and Jefferson crossed the sidewalk and pushed through the doors. Gadgets pulled away. He continued to the far end of the block and parked, the engine running.

The lobby stank of mildew and stale tobacco. Blancanales saw the clerk sleeping with his head on the desk. Three haggard residents shared a gallon bottle of wine. They watched the two visitors pass. Blancanales kept his face turned away.

At the stairway, Blancanales paused an instant. He listened. Then he jerked the fire door open but did not step into the stairwell. He snapped a glance into a brightly lit landing. No one. They went up the stairs quickly, almost silently, their soft-soled shoes making no sound. But the old stairs creaked.

They paused again at the second-floor stairwell. Blancanales motioned Jefferson to continue up the stairs, whispered: 'Make some noise…'

Jefferson's scuffs and footsteps broke the silence of the stairwell. Blancanales counted sixty and jerked the door open. Snapping his head out, then back, he saw no one in the corridor. He hissed for Jefferson to return.

In the corridor, they heard televisions and voices. A woman berated someone in Georgia-accented English. Jefferson glanced at a room number, then pointed to a door. The moldy carpeting silenced their steps.

Blancanales went flat against the wall as Jefferson knocked. 'Senor Rivera...estoy aqui... Floyd. Floyd Jefferson. Recuerdeme usted? El nino delarco iris.'

Silence for a moment, then laughter behind the door. It eased open. Senor Rivera called out, 'Is there anyone with you?'

'Yes, I have a friend with me. His name is Rosario.' Jefferson motioned for Blancanales to show himself.

'Bienviendo, amigos.' Senor Rivera opened the door wide for his visitors.

As he entered, Blancanales glanced behind the door out of force of habit. A middle-aged Salvadoran woman — Senora Rivera — stood there with a butcher knife, raised to stab. He slowly lifted his left hand, palm open. Rivera tut-tutted his wife. 'Todo es bueno ahora,' he told her. He apologized to Blancanales and Jefferson as he shook hands. 'One cannot be too careful in difficult times.'

'And these are very difficult times,' Blancanales agreed. 'Senor Rivera, allow me to express my sorrow for the death of your son.'

'Thank you for your compassion.'

Blancanales keyed his hand-radio. 'We're here. The family's okay. Wizard, how's the street look?'

'No Prescott yet.'

Lyons's voice answered also. 'He is one man I am watching for, no doubt about it.'

'Relax. We might be here until morning. Over.'

Senora Rivera motioned for them to sit. Only folding chairs and a mattress furnished the room. The three daughters watched the strangers from the mattress, a single blanket pulled around their shoulders. A portable television sat on the windowsill. A wooden packing crate served as both a table and a stand for an electric coil.

'Coffee?' the Senora offered.

'Gracias,' Blancanales accepted. 'It will be a long night.'

'We are ready to go to San Francisco.' Rivera gestured at the furnishings of the room and laughed. 'We can pack in two minutes.'

'Not tonight,' Blancanales said. 'Maybe tomorrow or the next day.'

'But Michael Holt, Mr. Holt's son, said he would send Mr. Robert Prescott to take us to San Francisco. He said perhaps tonight. Certainly tomorrow.'

Blancanales shook his head, no. Then he explained what must be done.

28

Only minutes after his arrival at Los Angeles International Airport, Robert Prescott parked in the garage of the Sheraton Hotel. As he locked the rented car, his eyes searched the shadows and unnatural fluorescent glare of the stark cavern of structural concrete and gleaming automobiles. He saw no one watching from the other vehicles. No one loitered near the elevators. He did see a panel van — like the vans favored by surveillance teams — but a concrete pillar blocked the view from its front windows. The back windows faced away from him.

As he headed for the elevators, the roar of a late-night flight drowned out the sound of his feet on the pavement. He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, to watch around him for surveillance only with his peripheral