Kill School

crossbar braced them.

The designers of the Quesada security perimeter had anticipated attack from the outside. Therefore they had installed speed bumps in front of the gates to stop vehicles from hurtling into them. But they had not protected the gates from vehicles crashing out.

Lyons flashed past the jeep.

The machine gunner in the tower directed his weapon at the racing truck. Tracers sparked off the road.

Two lines of tracers found the machine gunner.

In the Silverado, Lyons held the steering wheel until the last instant, then threw himself against the dead men in the footwell.

The flesh of corpses reduced the shock, but the impact stunned him. At one-hundred-plus kilometers per hour, the Silverado cut its way through the buckling gates, snapped chains, bent the steel crossbar around the truck, threw one gate into the air.

The Silverado survived the crash, but not the speed bumps.

The springs shattered. Wheels smashed into fenders and the axles snapped. When the frame hit the bumps, the Silverado flipped end over end.

Blancanales saw the hulk roll to a stop on its side. He sped to the gate, skidded almost to a stop to negotiate the bumps. Ricardo fired burst after burst, aiming upward through the floor of the tower. No fire answered. Blancanales braked behind the shelter of the mangled truck.

'You alive?' he shouted out.

Lyons struggled to climb out the window. Blancanales grabbed the Atchisson from Lyons's hands, then helped his partner from the wreck. The Ironman stared around him, his eyes unfocused. Gore covered him.

Running his hands over Lyons's arms and legs, Blancanales checked for broken bones. He found only blood and pieces of flesh. Lyons watched him.

'You're wasting time,' Lyons said. 'That's other people all over me. Check my gear. I got my pistols? Where's my Atchisson?'

'Colt .45. Revolver. Here's the shotgun...'

'Then get me out of here. I am all fucked up,' Lyons intoned.

Blancanales half-carried him to the jeep and eased him into the seat. In seconds, they raced away from the finca.

Infinitely slowly, Lyons turned in the seat to look back. Flames and columns of black smoke rose from several fires. Gasoline fireballed as he watched.

Two pairs of headlights still pursued them. He slowly turned forward again. He closed his eyes and spoke.

'You know what this means, don't you...'

'Don't talk. You might be broken inside. I'll give you some morphine when we get back to the Wizard.'

'It means we lost the element of surprise. But I'll get him.'

'What're you talking about? I'm radioing Grimaldi for a medevac.'

Lyons continued as if Blancanales had not spoken. 'Now we know what's going on. We know Quesada's in there. But he knows we're out here. Now it's going to be a real drag.'

The M-60 fired, Ricardo hammering the pursuing trucks with slugs. Autorifles sparked and slugs zipped past the jeep. A slug smashed into the tailgate.

Lyons sighed. 'More nonsense.'

Rising slowly from the seat, he gripped his Atchisson like a crutch.

'Don't move, don't,' Blancanales told him. 'The boy can handle them. They won't follow us into the mountains. We'll get away, no problem.'

Flashes ripped apart the night. Points of flame from the muzzles of autorifles and squad automatic weapons slashed the darkness. Tracers streaked down at the jeep from the hillside above the road. Hundreds of slugs filled the air.

Ambush.

18

In the communications room, Colonel Quesada keyed the digital code lock to power the high-tech radio. Machine-gun fire continued outside the family compound. The voices of his personal aides called from office to office as his staff marshaled the militia forces. He heard men rushing through the corridor. Colonel Quesada spoke urgently into the microphone of the secure-band American radio.

'Captain Mendez! Captain Mendez! This is Colonel Quesada. Emergency!'

Boots stopped outside the door. A fist knocked. 'Colonel! News from the fighting. We have the identities of the attackers.'

'Wait. In a moment…'

The colonel knew who attacked. The warning of the North American 'paramilitary agents' had come from Washington only hours before. But his friends in the United States administration had said 'paramilitary,' not 'commandos.'

The North Americans had endangered his life with the use of the wrong word. In his country, 'paramilitary' meant raping and murdering the family of an unarmed campesino, or the driveby machine-gunning of a student at a bus stop, or the torture and mutilation of a teenage girl. Salvadoran 'paramilitary agents' did not assault concrete- and-steel defense positions manned by overwhelming numbers of militiamen.

The voice of his trusted officer over the radio interrupted Quesada's panic. 'This is Captain Mendez.'

'Are your men mobilized?'

'My squad assembles at the helicopters. We will pursue the Communist...'

'No!' commanded Quesada. 'Your duty will be my personal security in Honduras. We will go to La Escuela. Tell the pilots to prepare for the flight to Reitoca. We will take two helicopters. Divide your squad into two groups. I will wait in the gardens for my helicopter.'

'Comandante, the attack is over. The guerrillas have fled the property.'

'Then what is that I hear?'

'The militia shoots at shadows and trees. Allow my unit to pursue and exterminate...'

'The attack is not over! They killed my men in San Francisco and Los Angeles, California. And they are not guerrillas. They are elite commandos sworn to my assassination. They will come again.'

'These commandos have attacked before? In North America? Now here? Comandante, no one informed me of this threat to your security...'

'Ready the helicopters. We leave immediately!'

Colonel Quesada switched off the National Security Agency radio. He pressed an intercom button. 'Orderly. Return to your duties.'

As the colonel left the communications room, the radio operator ran in from the other office. Colonel Quesada did not allow any of the technicians to remain at the other radios when he used the secure-band radios. The high-tech electronics encoded every transmission to ensure absolute secrecy. But a disloyal radio operator overhearing and repeating a message would negate all the marvels of the North American technology.

A militia officer waited in the corridor, his gray uniform dripping rainwater. He snapped to attention and saluted when he saw his commander. 'I have the identities of the attackers, comandante.'

'Who are they?'

'North Americans. One blue-eyed, the other Latin. The second one speaks Spanish. There is a third, but he is believed to be Salvadoran.'

'Did you see them?'

'No. They took Lieutenant Kohl prisoner, but he fought his way free before the attack...'