Kill School

Slipping out his Beretta 93-R, Blancanales returned to Lyons at the cargo rail. He pointed to his Beretta. Lyons nodded and put away the auto-Colt. They waited. The voice called out again.

'Mario!'

Another pair of boots came up the ladder. Lyons waited until the militiaman started over the rail, then clutched him simultaneously at the collar and the belt. The death squadder knew only an instant's panic before Blancanales put the Beretta to the side of the man's head and punched a 9mm hole through his temple.

The militiaman, one of the assassins from the mountain ambush, wore a black raincoat and hat over his gray uniform. His boots fit Ricardo. Blancanales put on the black slicker and hat to cover his nightsuit and weapons.

'You take the yellow raincoat and hat,' Blancanales told Lyons.

A minute later, they climbed down the ladders to the blacktop. Across the service yard, the sentries stood with the mechanics in the shelter of the open-sided garage buildings.

An M-16 leaned against the bumper. Blancanales reached to the militia web-gear Ricardo now wore. The bandolier held M-16 magazines. He passed the rifle to the teenager.

With the hesitance and great care of someone recently trained, Ricardo double-checked the safety and the seating of the magazine, then eased back the bolt to peek at the round in the chamber. Lyons and Blancanales nodded their approval of this novice's good sense.

Lyons walked along the side of the bus, the yellow raincoat covering his slung Atchisson and gear. He also held the silenced auto-Colt under the raincoat. Glancing through the windows, he saw el jefeworking by a battery lantern's light.

Coiling a microphone cord, the death-squad leader returned the 'black box' radio to its aluminum-and-foam carrying case. Lyons saw no one else in the bus. Looking back, Lyons motioned to Blancanales.

'What?' Blancanales asked, joining him beside the passenger door of the bus.

'The number-one goon,' Lyons whispered. 'With the NSA radio.'

Blancanales snatched a look through the window. 'How convenient. We take him.'

'And he takes us to Quesada,' Lyons added.

Metal squeaked. Footsteps crossed the bus. Lyons and Blancanales pressed themselves against the side. Blancanales pointed to Lyons, closed his hand into a fist. He touched his chest, then pointed to the Beretta he held. Lyons nodded and holstered his auto-Colt.

Carrying the aluminum case, el jefestepped from the bus. Blancanales jammed the Parkerized black suppressor of the Beretta under his chin. As the death-squad leader jerked back reflexively, Lyons pinned the man's arms.

'Silencio,' Blancanales warned. He took the radio case out of their prisoner's hand. Lyons jerked his arms behind him and secured his wrists with plastic handcuffs.

Ricardo whistled. Headlights flashed through the tailing rain. They saw the Salvadoran army jeep speeding to the bus.

Blancanales spoke in quick Spanish to el jefe.

The death-squad leader clamped his jaw and said nothing. Blancanales emphasized his question by putting the Beretta to the man's beak nose. El jefespoke in German-accented English.

'What do you want?'

'Quesada.'

El jefe'slips drew back in a sardonic grin. 'How interesting.'

'You want to live?' Lyons demanded. 'You're taking us to Quesada.'

'Certainly.'

Glancing to the approaching headlights, Blancanales told the prisoner, 'You move, you try to warn them, you die.'

He left Lyons with the prisoner. Putting his auto-Colt to the back of el jefe'shead, Lyons grunted, 'Where you from?'

'From Salvador, americano.'

'Why do you have an accent?'

'I learned English at a German university. Why do you ask?'

As the jeep stopped behind the bus, the army officer called out to Blancanales in Spanish. Blancanales answered as he stepped toward the officer. The officer questioned Blancanales. Even as the officer spoke, he went for the holstered pistol under his raincoat.

Blancanales brought up the Beretta. Firing silent three-shot bursts, the slugs slapping into their chests and faces with a sound like quick fists, he killed the officer and two soldiers in the jeep before their hands closed on their weapons. He moved to the driver's seat.

Pushing the dead soldier aside, Blancanales got in and backed the jeep through a quarter turn. The headlights now pointed toward the prefabs two hundred meters away, the glare blocking the vision of the mechanics and sentries.

He motioned Ricardo forward. While Lyons held the prisoner, Blancanales and Ricardo jerked the corpses out of the jeep. They carried the bodies a few steps and shoved them under a truck.

Lyons shoved el jefeforward. Blancanales sent Ricardo back for the 'black box' radio. Then they took seats in the jeep, Blancanales driving, their prisoner in the front passenger seat. Lyons sat directly behind el jefe, the auto-Colt against the German-educated Salvadoran's back. Next to the second pedestal-mounted M-60, Ricardo now wore one of the Salvadoran army-issue camouflage green plastic ponchos.

Throwing the jeep into gear, Blancanales accelerated for the gate. He flashed the high beams. As before, the sentries opened the gates. Lyons leaned forward to the prisoner.

'Look straight ahead. Don't even think of making a noise. If you want to live, you're taking us to Quesada.'

'I understand,' their prisoner answered.

'Which way to Quesada?' Blancanales demanded.

The prisoner nodded to the right. Blancanales sped through the gate, sideskidding on the wet pavement as he made the right turn.

Lyons saw that the service road continued straight for hundreds of meters. Far ahead, taillights blinked and disappeared. No other vehicles traveled the road.

Standing, Lyons checked the jeep's rear M-60. The machine gun had no belt in place. Opening the side- mounted box of ammunition, he found the belts of cartridges dry. He threw open the M-60's feed cover.

In the blue white light from the mercury-arc streetlights over the road, Lyons saw rust in the mechanism. He had no time to clean and oil the weapon. He put a belt in place, shut the feed cover and jerked back the operating handle. A cartridge chambered. He jerked back the operating handle one more time. The cartridge ejected. Maybe the M-60 would fire.

Squinting into the wind-driven rain, he looked at the forward M-60. The second machine gun had no belt of cartridges loaded.

The Salvadoran army officers had entered the free-fire zone without arming their heavy weapons. Not wanting to risk leaning over the fascist prisoner to arm the second machine gun, Lyons sat down. He shouted over the noise of the tires and rain to Blancanales.

'Ask Ricardo what goes on in those mountains. Today, the Commies hit those troop trucks. The officers in this jeep were part of the react-force. But you know, they went into those mountains unloaded. Neither one of these M-60s had a belt in place.'

'What?' Blancanales asked, incredulous.

'Take a look,' Lyons said, pointing at the second M-60. 'I just loaded the back gun. But that one, it's empty. And I bet you those ammo belts in the can got no rain on them. What do you think of that?'

'Later! Look…'

They approached a landscaped area. Immaculate lawns surrounded a ten-foot-high concrete wall. The modernistic, flowing lines of the cast concrete offered no hand-or toeholds. The lawns, lit bright as day by many lights, provided open fields of fire for the machine guns placed in guard positions built into the wall. No flower beds