Promise To Defend. Don Pendleton

I was about to explain to your lady friend here,” Lyons said, “we’re here to see Hakim.”

      “You got an appointment?” the suit asked.

      “You work for Hakim?” Blancanales asked.

      “I ask the questions around here,” the suit replied.

      “I beg to differ.” Blancanales produced his fake Justice Department credentials and flashed them at the man.

      Scowling, the guy studied their credentials. He reached for the telephone. “I got to call the man.”

      Blancanales shook his head. “Wrong. You and Mr. Anabolic here are going to cop a squat off the premises and wait until we’re done with our business. Comprende?”

      The guy stared at Blancanales for a long moment, nodded his head. “Sure, man. We can do that. Anything for the Justice Department.”

      “Much obliged,” Blancanales said. “I trust you won’t call your boss?”

      “Wouldn’t think of it.”

      Lyons heard footsteps slap against the floor behind him. Staring over the body builder’s shoulder, he saw a reflection of Schwarz stepping into view, a dart pistol in his hand. The pistol whispered twice as he swept it over the two men, planting tranquilizer darts into the bigger guard’s neck and the smaller man’s left shoulder. Lyons watched as the big man’s face contorted with anger and confusion. He slapped at his neck, trying to find the source of the pain. Lyons drove an open-palmed strike into the man’s sternum, knocking him back. The guy hit the floor. He tried to bring himself back up, but found his muscles going slack. Within moments, he’d fallen unconscious.

      “So much for negotiating in good faith,” Blancanales said. “How long will they be out, Gadgets?”

      “Hours.” Intel had it that Hakim used contract security for the building, so the team had opted for nonlethal weapons.

      They dragged the men out of sight, hiding them in a vacant office. Blancanales and Schwarz took the elevator to the fourth floor, while Lyons used the stairs. According to intel provided by Stony Man Farm, Hakim occupied the entire top floor of the building, which was only accessible from a single elevator located further within the building.

      The men converged on the fourth floor and fanned out. The elevator opened into a large waiting area filled with cushy chairs and potted palms. A pretty Latina sat behind the reception desk. Flashing his own Justice Department ID, Lyons jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

      “Jackpot time, lady,” he said. “You just got the day off. Go home.”

      The woman gave him a quizzical look and started to reach for the phone. Lyons put his hand on hers before she could lift the receiver.

      “What do you say we do this smart? Your purse. Home. Now. Understand?”

      The woman cast a glance over her shoulder at her boss’s office, but nodded and began to gather her things. When she palmed her mobile phone, Lyons shook his head.

      “Uh-uh,” he said. “Leave the phone. You can pick it up later.”

      Hesitating, the woman regarded Lyons for a moment, then nodded. Clutching her purse, she came to her feet and rounded the desk, giving the men an uncertain look as she did.

      Lyons lightly gripped her upper arm, stopping her. “Anyone else on this floor besides Mr. Hakim?” he asked.

      She shook her head no. “He sent everyone home yesterday, telling them to take the weekend off. He asked me to come in and answer phones. He promised me double time and I figured, what the hell? I’ve got a baby at home, you know, and the money—”

      “He have any visitors?” Lyons asked.

      She paused, chewed at her lower lip and scrutinized Lyons with a lingering stare. Finally she shook her head. “This morning. A group of men. In the conference room. I heard them, but Mr. Hakim never let me see them. They were speaking a foreign language. Not Spanish. I’d know that if I heard it.”

      “Arabic?” Blancanales ventured.

      The woman shrugged. “Could be. Mr. Hakim always speaks English around me.”

      “Those guys gone?” Lyons asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “When?”

      “Ten this morning. I take a break at ten-fifteen and they left just before that.”

      “Hakim alone?”

      “Just his usual guys.”

      “How many?”

      “He had two with him when he came in a little bit earlier. He always has the same couple of guys trailing after him every day. Says they’re his cousins or some such. They never say anything. They just skulk around the office, stone-faced, staring at everyone. I thought maybe something was going on, like Hakim was gay or something, the way these guys followed him around. But one of them started staring at me so I started to think otherwise. Is Hakim in trouble?”

      Lyons nodded over his shoulder at the door. “You’re not. That’s all you need to know. Go.”

      “I’m not sure,” the woman said. “Mr. Hakim asked me to stay after work. Said he had something he needed to discuss with me.”

      Blancanales flashed a winning smile. “My guess is he wanted to terminate your employment, so to speak.”

      Lyons watched the woman’s expression change from confusion to grave understanding as the meaning behind Blancanales’s words sank in. Swallowing hard, she grabbed her things. The click of her heels receded quickly as she distanced herself from the office.

      “And they say I have no tact,” Lyons groused.

      Reaching inside his jacket, Lyons palmed the Colt, his most trusted weapon. Blancanales and Schwarz each produced micro-Uzis from under their jackets. Lyons knew both also carried Beretta 92s in hip holsters.

      Crossing the room in quick strides, Lyons stepped up to the door leading into Hakim’s network of offices. Kurtzman had supplied the team with layouts of the office space used by Hakim as well as the penthouse located on the building’s top floor. According to the plans, four offices lay on the other side of the door as well as the private elevator leading to the Arab’s penthouse.

      With Schwarz and Lyons on either side of the door, Blancanales tried the handle and found the door locked. The Beretta spit two subsonic rounds into the lock, shredding it. Blancanales stepped aside to avoid retaliatory fire. When none came, he cocked his leg back and drove a booted foot into the door, knocking it inward.

      Lyons rounded the corner in a crouch, the Colt extended in front of him in a two-handed grip. The corridor split into two directions. Ahead lay three rooms, doors closed, two to the left, one to the right. Blancanales was right on his tail. A glance over his shoulder told him Schwarz had headed in the opposite direction to check the rooms at Lyons’s back.

      The blond commando edged along the wall, listening for signs of danger. He reached the door to his right first. Crouching, he passed under the pebbled glass window that took up the door’s upper half. Reaching the other side, he came to his full height, grasped the doorknob and twisted. The door came free and swung inward. He tensed for a moment, waiting for a fusillade of hot lead to lance its way through the opening. When none came, he chanced a look around the doorjamb and scanned the interior.

      He flashed Blancanales hand signals indicating that he wanted cover. Blancanales gave him the okay. Lyons rounded the doorjamb, sweeping the room with the Colt. The office was nondescript, outfitted with a steel desk topped by a PC, a row of brown filing cabinets, a small roller table and a four-cup coffeemaker. He checked behind the desk, the only possible hiding place, found no one there, and gave his friend the all-clear signal.

      Checks of the other two rooms yielded similar results.

      Schwarz rejoined his teammates,