Justice by Fire

yourselves to law enforcement personnel of any other agency, local or federal. There are several uncertainties that must be resolved before we can request liaison or technical services…'

Gadgets clicked off the replay. 'Comprendedat jivo?'

'You record everything?' Lyons asked.

'When I get a call from Washington, and the man's talking jive, I record it. It was recordings that got Tricky Dick in the shit. I'm hoping recordings might keep this Wizard clean.'

Blancanales shook his head. 'Hal wouldn't send us out without authorization.'

'He never sent us out with conditional authorization before,' Lyons countered.

'Conditional highest authority,' Gadgets laughed. 'I mean, that's jive.'

Rotor throb came from the east. Their heads turned simultaneously to the sound. Lyons laughed cynically. 'How about Conditionally Beyond Sanction? Conditionally Beyond the Law? No way. Mack Bolan acts beyond conditions, and so do we. Sometimes, my friends, the law's got nothing to do with it, and that's one condition I can understand.'

13

In the oily scum of a tidal flat in San Francisco Bay, a dog discovered a bundle wrapped in black plastic. The dog sniffed at a rip in the plastic bag. A man in a sweat suit and Windbreaker whistled, once, twice.

The man squinted through the gray dawn light. As he waited on the beach, he saw his dog tear at the glistening black object. Something gray appeared.

Backing away, the dog barked. It barked incessantly, circling the gray and black bundle. Impatient with the dog's exploring, the man whistled again before jogging away. He looked back and saw that his dog did not follow him.

'Aqui! Venga aqui perro loco!'

But the dog continued barking. Cursing in three languages, the dog's owner picked up a stick. He found a path through the muddy flotsam and driftwood of the tidal flat. Waving the stick, he shouted at the dog. ' Vengase, perro!'

The dog left the bundle. Splashing through shallow mud, the dog ran to its master and barked. Then it returned to the bundle, circling it and barking.

Dirtying his expensive jogging shoes, the man pursued the dog. He splashed past the bundle and swung the stick at the dog's hindquarters. Dodging away, the dog tore at the plastic of the bundle again.

An arm fell out. Gray against the black muck, the arm seemed to glow in the half-light.

Not believing what he saw, the jogger stepped closer. He saw the form of a torso inside the plastic. The arm, with the slight muscles of a man who had always worked in an office, showed the rust brown stains of crusted blood.

Flame had curled and blackened the fingers. Like a claw, the scorched hand reached mud.

As Able Team arrived at the office of United States Congressman Chris Buckley in the metropolitan center of the city, the San Francisco police and the men from the office of the coroner removed the mutilated corpse of David Holt from the mud flats of the bay.

14

Able Team cruised through the early-morning quiet of the San Francisco Civic Center. Though the light of dawn flashed from the plate-glass walls of the high-rise towers, darkness still held the streets and boulevards. Neon lights blinked. The blue white points of mercury arc streetlights seared the gray air.

Arriving by commercial transcontinental jet at the international airport, the team had rented two new Ford sedans. Gadgets drove alone in one, Lyons chauffeured Blancanales in the other. Because they would work without liaison or backup, they carried all their gear with them — weapons, radios, clean clothes, even two shopping bags full of canned drinks and food.

Only an hour after their landing, they followed the freeways to the end of the peninsula and the district offices of Congressman Chris Buckley.

They drove past the building without slowing. Lyons scanned his side of the boulevard, his eyes searching for anything extraordinary. Blancanales memorized every detail on the other side. In the seconds of their passing, they saw only an empty Volkswagen in a No Parking zone in front of the offices; a Dodge sedan parked in a Passenger Loading zone across the street, occupied by a Hispanic reading a newspaper; a truck driver wheeling a rack of bread into a restaurant. A street sweeper weaved along the boulevard, swinging wide around the illegally parked cars and delivery trucks, swerving to the curb to scour the gutters of filth and litter. Another Hispanic, his hands in the pockets of his suit, stood at the end of the block.

'No action on my side of the street,' Lyons commented. 'You see anything?'

'Talvez si, tal vez no,' Blancanales answered. The Puerto Rican ex-Green Beret leaned low in the seat as he keyed his hand-radio: 'Wizard, que pasa?'

'Nada.'

'You see the one at the corner?'

'Latin American? About five-ten, strong?'

'That's him.'

'Looked like the one in the car. Same build, same hair, same style coat.'

'A flashy dresser,' Blancanales added. 'But the one in the car looked like he'd sat in those clothes all night.'

'Oh yeah…'

Lyons heard the conversation through the earphone he wore. He needed no instructions from his partners. With the familiarity and routine learned in Able Team's dirty wars, he accelerated through the streets. After several smooth turns, he slowed and then parked on a street intersecting the boulevard. They now viewed the Dodge from the rear. The second Hispanic had gone to the parked Dodge. They saw the driver glance across the boulevard to the upper floors of the office building.

Gadgets drove past in his rented Ford. He crossed the boulevard and parked where he had an angle on the front of the congressman's office entry. He buzzed his partners on their radios.

'There's someone on the third floor,' Gadgets told them, 'looking down at the street.'

'Seems the two in the car are surveillance,' Blancanales answered.

Lyons joined the conversation. 'Unless maybe they've waited all night for the office to open… or for someone to come out.'

Able Team did not fear the interception of their radio transmissions. They used hand-radios designed and manufactured to National Security Agency specifications. Encoding circuits scrambled every transmission. Any technician scanning the bands would intercept only bursts of electronic noise.

Blancanales turned to Lyons. 'We go in through the parking lot entrance?'

'They could have a car down there.' Lyons looked to the daylight blazing from the glass of the towering buildings. 'I say no meeting here. There'd be people coming to work while we talked. Much too public.'

'Affirmative,' Blancanales agreed as he opened the passenger door. He stepped out to the chill, damp morning. 'Pay phone time.'

* * *

As Bob Prescott talked on the phone, Jefferson observed the Salvadorans on the boulevard watching the