Drawpoint. Don Pendleton

his best to look nonchalant—while sitting on the toilet. He had been reading a magazine when the team had busted down his door, apparently. It was crumpled on the floor at his feet, on top of the fuzzy blue bathmat that covered most of the floor in the tiny bathroom. The title Earth Action was emblazoned across it.

      “Is there anyone else here?” Blancanales asked calmly, the stubby barrel of his rifle trained on the young man’s face.

      “No,” the man shook his head.

      “Your name?” the Hispanic commando asked in the same even, almost friendly tone.

      “Ryan,” the young man answered. “Ryan Pinter.”

      “Well, Mr. Pinter—” Blancanales lowered the CAR-15 “—I suggest you cooperate fully. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

      “But…but…I didn’t do anything!”

      “We’ll be the judge of that,” Lyons said, easily playing bad cop to Blancanales’s good.

      “First things first,” the Hispanic commando said. “Why don’t you, well, pull your pants up. You’ll be joining us in the living room.”

      “Is anyone else expected here?” Lyons snarled.

      “No, no, not for hours,” Pinter admitted readily. “Look, please, I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t know what this is about, but—”

      “Oh, you know,” Lyons said, planting a beefy palm between Pinter’s shoulder blades and propelling him into the living room as the young man left the bathroom, still hitching at his pants. Pinter almost collided with the couch and tried to crawl up into a ball on it, looking up at each of the armed men who had suddenly invaded his world.

      “Look, you can’t just break in here and…Do you have a warrant?”

      Lyons, playing his part now, raised the USAS-12 menacingly. “This is my warrant,” he said.

      “You’re a member of the World Workers United Party,” Blancanales informed him.

      “So that’s what this is?” Pinter became indignant. “You’re rousting me because of my political beliefs? Oh, man, I knew this Patriot Act thing was going to turn into oppression! You can’t suppress my political beliefs at gunpoint! I’ll sue, I’ll sue and you’ll be—”

      “We’ll be what?” Lyons asked. “You are aware, aren’t you, that the director of the WWUP here in Illinois was killed while attempting to murder federal law-enforcement officers?”

      Pinter looked down, the wind taken out of his sails for a moment. “I heard he was maybe in an embezzlement scandal.” The young man shook his head. “That he tried to shoot his way out rather than get caught. That isn’t right, man, but it shows you that capitalist greed can infect even those who—”

      “Shove a sock in it,” Lyons growled. “I’m not interested in your speeches.”

      “But look, man, you can’t hold every member of the party responsible for what one guy does.”

      “Three guys, actually,” Lyons said. “Or don’t you read the news?” An officially scrubbed version of the events at the WWUP facility had been released to the media, complete with rumors of corruption as the official reason behind the shootings. The rumor mill had already started to manufacture plausible backstories, with the assistance of a twenty-four-hour cable news media desperate for unfounded speculation with which to fill its schedule. All of this put the public off the trail, as was intended. There was no point in starting a panic—though at this point, even the Farm didn’t know enough to guess as to why the WWUP director had been so fast on the trigger—with the real story behind the events, and of course Stony Man’s covert operatives had to be shielded. Lyons knew that Brognola’s heartburn only intensified every time Able was involved in so public a shooting, but it went with the territory. The big former L.A. cop had been as surprised as anyone when the probe had turned to gunplay so fast. The fact that it had was just proof for Brognola’s theory that big things were happening, or about to happen. The worm in front of Able Team now could well prove the key to unlocking some part of the puzzle. If not that, he might lead them to those who could.

      “This is not about politics. At least, it’s not about your public politics. You’re also member of the Earth Action Front,” Blancanales said calmly. “A highly ranked member, in fact.”

      “Look, man, you got it all wrong,” Pinter said desperately. “I’m an environmentalist, sure. Green Party, a few other groups. I care about my planet, is that a crime? But I’m not in the Earth Action Front.”

      Lyons snorted and lowered the shotgun. He stepped away long enough to duck into the bathroom, grab the magazine Pinter had been reading and throw it at him. Ryan flinched as the dog-eared, glossy pages hit him.

      “So what’s that?” Lyons demanded. “A little light reading?”

      “ Earth Action is a reputable publication,” Ryan almost whined. “Just because the Earth Action Front names themselves after a green magazine, you can’t—”

      Lyons snarled, set the shotgun on the carpeted floor and drew the Colt Python from his shoulder holster. He leveled the heavy barrel at Pinter’s face. “Let’s just stop dicking around, shall we?”

      “Ironman,” Blancanales said, sounding concerned. He, too, was playing a role for Pinter’s benefit.

      “Shut up.” Lyons turned away from Pinter, to Blancanales, and winked. Then he turned back to the terrified young man. “You’re a radical activist who uses saving mother Earth as an excuse for supporting violent causes, and you hang out with people who do the same, or worse. We’re here because your activities aren’t secret. You’re on a list, kid. You’re on a bunch of lists, in fact. When we cross-index those lists we get the profile of somebody we think is just screwy enough to firebomb a fast-food restaurant, or maybe, just maybe, take a shot at a federal officer.”

      “No way, man!” Pinter said vehemently. “Sure, I vote green. Sure, I want the EAF to succeed in bringing their voice to the people, man. But I’m, like, a pacifist! I wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

      “You just support those who do,” Blancanales said, sounding disappointed.

      Pinter said nothing.

      “You have one chance, kid.” Lyons let Ryan Pinter contemplate the gaping maw of the Python pointed at his face. “If you know something that will help us, something that will take us to the EAF or the WWUP, something they’re doing that’s not on the up and up, you’d better spill it. Or so help me God, I will spill you.”

      Pinter seemed to deflate in front of their eyes. He looked down, shaking his head. “I told them…I told them this wasn’t the way. I told them—”

      “Told who what?” Blancanales prodded.

      “My roommates, man.”

      “Roommates?” Lyons looked around skeptically. “In this one-bedroom dump?”

      “They don’t live here, exactly,” Pinter said. “But they crash here a lot. Hang out, sleep on the couch, plan stuff.”

      “Stuff?”

      “Direct action, man.” Pinter shook his head. “Stuff we can do to save the environment and the country from the capitalists and from depoliation.”

      “Uh-huh,” Lyons snorted. “And you’re completely innocent in all this.”

      “I wanted to help the planet and change the country, sure,” Pinter said. “But when they started talking about…well, I couldn’t do it. Maybe I’m a wuss. They said I talk a big game. That if I’m going to be a facilitator in the WWUP or a field operative in the EAF, I gotta do more than talk big. I don’t know, maybe they’re right.”

      “Facilitator?” Blancanales asked.

      “A recruiter, somebody