Maelstrom. Don Pendleton

waited until the firing ceased with a click of a bolt locked back on an empty magazine, then exposed himself long enough to rush the felled bystander while simultaneously laying down a hail of fire in the terrorist’s general direction. It was meant more as a play to keep the gunner’s head down than to actually hit her. Besides, they still needed to take one of the terrorists alive, and Schwarz had no idea if any of the ones they’d wounded in the initial play at the bus were still alive after their cohort had turned her weapon on them.

      Schwarz reached the wounded club-goer and dragged her behind a heavy, overturned table. She wasn’t moving and her eyes were closed. He checked her carotid pulse—it was strong and regular—and a quick check of ear to nostrils confirmed she was breathing. Okay, so she’d passed out from the pain, which was sure as hell better than being conscious for it.

      Schwarz waited for a lull in the firing and then decided to take a risk. He had to neutralize this woman and fast. He reached to his belt and latched on to a flash-bang grenade. He pulled it from the belt with a quick turn of the wrist. A pop and snap followed, indicating the special mechanism he’d rigged to his belt had broken the plastic strap designed to prevent inadvertent dislodging of the spoon and simultaneously removed the pin. He jumped into view and hammered the area where he estimated his target had taken cover. While firing to force the terrorist to keep her head down, Schwarz released the grenade in a light over-hand toss.

      The electronics whiz went flat, opened his mouth and plugged his ears. The grenade went off a moment later, then he was up and moving. He vaulted the table he’d been using as cover, Beretta in one hand and FNC in another. He quickly found his opponent writhing on the floor, her eyes and ears discharging watery blood. Schwarz holstered the Beretta and reached for her, but the terrorist surprised him with a judo circle throw.

      Schwarz landed hard on his back, sucking down air to replace the wind knocked from him. He blinked several times and in one of those saw his opponent suddenly loom above him, her hands raised over her head as she wedged his skull between her thighs. Something kicked him into high gear and he brought both arms up in a cross block. Having stopped the combat knife from being buried in his chest, he then reached around and snagged her wrist. A quick sideways jerk and she landed on her right shoulder, facing him. He landed a rock-hard back fist punch on his adversary’s forehead and she dropped the knife, cried in pain and then lapsed into unconsciousness.

      The Able Team commando rose, a bit winded from the encounter, but a quick physical inventory said he was still in one piece. He snapped riot cuffs on the terrorist, then returned to aid the bystander. He found the gunshot wound, a clean hole through the fleshy part of her thigh that exited the other side. He’d seen much worse and he knew she’d survive the physical scars, although the mental ones would have a more lasting effect. She was just becoming conscious as Schwarz removed two field compresses and bound them on the entrance and exit wounds, securing them with his belt.

      She looked at him, a haze in her eyes.

      He smiled at her. “Just relax. You’re going to be fine. The ambulance is on its way.”

      “What happened?”

      “Someone will explain it to you soon enough. For now, you’ve been shot and I want you to lie still.”

      “I’ve…I’ve been shot?” Her eyes widened.

      “Yes, but it’s not fatal. You’re going to pull through just fine.”

      “How would you know?”

      “Because I’ve been shot plenty of times,” he said with a chuckle, pouring on the charm. “I just know. Will you trust me?”

      “I guess,” she whispered, smiling at him a little before she passed out again.

      Schwarz sighed.

      “Gadgets!” called a familiar voice.

      He turned toward the entrance in time to see Lyons and Blancanales enter the club, weapons drawn and held at the ready.

      “Over here,” he reported tiredly.

      They quickly rushed to his aid.

      “You hit?” Lyons asked.

      He shook his head, then pointed at his patient. “She took an in-and-out in the leg, but I’ve controlled the bleeding. She’s got some shock, but I think she’ll be okay.”

      Blancanales helped him to his feet as Lyons quickly scanned the room. His eyes came to rest on the terrorist. “Is she dead?”

      Gadgets scowled with a negative shake of his head. “Dreamland. She nearly impaled me with this, though.” He held up the knife.

      Blancanales gingerly took the knife from him and whistled. “Looks like she was planning on some Schwarz-ka-bobs.”

      “Very funny,” the electronic expert deadpanned.

      SHE CALLED HERSELF Magdalene Darmid from Israel, but a quick fingerprint analysis said she was Deborah Babbit from Kansas. Able Team settled on the second name as the most believable.

      “Although she’s got a great accent going there,” Carl Lyons told them just before they entered the interrogation room.

      Because she’d lied, they decided a hard approach was the best kind.

      Blancanales started. “Listen, Deborah—”

      “My name is not Deborah!” She was irritated because everyone coming into and out of the room in the last hour had been saying “Hi, Deborah” and “Would you like something to drink, Deborah?” and “Deborah, that’s such a pretty name.” Needless to say, that had her frazzled and angered enough to tell the Able Team commando where to stick it.

      “You’re not making things easy on yourself,” Lyons warned her when she tried to spit on Blancanales. He easily sidestepped the offense, which only seemed to anger her more.

      “I’d listen to him,” Schwarz added, jabbing a thumb at Lyons.

      Lyons’s voice went quiet. “Maybe that beating you threw her wasn’t good enough, Deputy Black.”

      Schwarz looked at him straight-faced a moment, then said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to do a more thorough job.”

      “Now that you mention it, your work has been sloppy lately,” Lyons replied with a curt nod.

      “Hey…wait a minute.” Blancanales raised his hands in mock innocence and said, “She’s now under the protective custody of the U.S. Marshals Service. You two can’t just start beating the hell out of her. We’ll all lose our jobs!”

      “Calm down,” Lyons replied, waving at him casually as if he had it all under control.

      “Yeah, really,” Schwarz jumped in. “What are you getting all backed up about? She just killed a bunch of innocent people. You think we should give a shit about her? Who’s going to complain?”

      Lyons stepped forward and grabbed the woman by the throat, transforming her smug look into one of terror. “I’m sure after some neck-wringing we’ll put her into a spirit of cooperation.”

      The woman managed to emit a squeal of outrage and pain before Lyons closed her trachea with one squeeze, immediately depriving her of oxygen. With her arms cuffed behind her, she had no way to defend herself. She tried to kick at him, but the proximity of her chair to the table made the attack ineffective. A moment later it stopped being an act of defiance and started to become an act of desperation. Her lips began to turn blue and her ears reddened.

      Blancanales stepped forward and cracked a fist down on the brachial-cephalic nerve area of Lyons’s arm. The blow looked real enough, although Blancanales insured he was actually an inch off the actual nerve bundle. Lyons let go of Babbit’s throat with a mock yelp. The hulking Ironman turned on the Politician, but it was Schwarz who got in between them.

      “Knock it off!” he said, trying to sound like the voice of reason.

      “Yeah, but did you see what that fu—”