"Next time maybe you guys could do a little better search before we come out," Gadgets said.

The foursome went to get a car.

"It's your shot, Colonel."

Follet eyed the dart board. His score was sixty. A double twenty would finish the game. For Follet it was a relatively easy shot to make. He drew back his arm.

"Colonel Follet, you're wanted in communications."

He was too late to stop his shot. The dart missed the entire board, landing with a dull thud in the wall paneling. The twenty officers in the officers' club finished their drinks in eager anticipation of having a free one on Follet — that being the penalty for hitting the wall.

Follet stared at the second lieutenant who had interrupted his shot. The young man had the feeling he would be drawing garbage jobs for the rest of his hitch. The officers were already collecting their free drinks, which would automatically go on Follet's bar tab. Without saying a word, the grim-faced acting commander headed for the communications room.

"Hate to be the poor bastard responsible for that message," one major murmured to another. "Old Folly'll try to ram him up the ass with a poison dart."

Lyons talked to the pilot as he waited for Follet to come to the radio. "The way that signal is headed, how long would it take us to refuel and get back to where we could pick it up again?"

"There's all sorts of places where we can refuel in an emergency, sir. I doubt if we'd lose the signal for more than twenty, thirty minutes."

Lyons had a few seconds to think before an angry Follet got on the radio.

"Acting Commander Follet here,'' he snapped.

"Lyons here. We need another long-range copter. Send it to UCLA right away."

"But that's impossible," Follet protested, some of the anger having dropped from his voice. "We only have two of the H-76s with the extra tanks."

"That's fine. Send the other to UCLA. Now. Have it land at the women's gymnasium building. Make it fast. It may have to come and relieve me while we refuel."

"I'll send a light Hughes for the job. Saves fuel, plenty fast enough for local jumps."

"You'll send an H-76, Colonel."

"Ahhh," Follet said, realizing the futility of arguing with the Able Team member, "yes, sir."

"The Marine company standing by?"

"Yes, sir."

"You got a larger transport chopper standing by in case the two Sikorskys aren't enough?"

"As of right now I do, sir," Follet said grudgingly.

"Good, Colonel," Lyons said. "Over and out."

Gadgets Schwarz yawned deeply on his way up to Babette's apartment. The small elevator was crowded with the two FBI guards. A third guard had remained with the car; his duty was to watch the front of the building.

One of the bodyguards took Babette's key and went through her apartment before letting anyone else enter. The other man proceeded to the roof to take a position overlooking the fire escape. When the agent was finished checking the apartment, he motioned for Gadgets and Babette to enter, then took up a post guarding the door.

Once inside, Gadgets wandered around the apartment, looking through doors, locating the fire escape, glancing out at buildings that could possibly house a sniper.

"Don't you trust the man who just searched the place?" Babette asked.

"I stay alive by not totally trusting anyone."

"With that kind of philosophy, can you ever relax?"

"Sure," Gadgets replied, feeling kind of embarrassed over the questioning, the concern, shown by Babette. "Sort of."

She laughed heartily. "Tell me, Gadgets, how does a person 'sort of relax?"

"I guess I just make sure I'm in a secure place, then I can take it easy."

She came over to him and took the gym bag off his shoulder. She set it within easy reach then moved away from him. Babette went and closed all the drapes, both in the living room and the bedroom.

"All is safe, secure. Now you can relax," she said when she returned.

"I don't know if I can relax," he said jokingly. "Somehow I get the feeling I'm under attack."

"You don't mind being under attack?" she asked, her voice a soft purr.

"No," he replied. "It's my job."

"You're tense," she said. "Your body's tight as a drum. Why don't you take off that jacket? You look hot."

And with that she started to help him out of his clothing. She took off his gaudy sport shirt, then helped him unfasten the shoulder rig. She pulled the Beretta from the rig and carefully placed the modified 93-R within easy reach of the shower stall.

"A nice hot shower will work wonders for your tension," she said as she continued undressing him. When she was finished with the Able Team warrior, she started on herself, slowly stripping the clothing from her body.

Gadgets watched, somewhat in awe. Her body, revealed to him slowly, piece of clothing by piece of clothing, was awesome. She carried no excess, only the form that had carried her to the top of the gymnastics world.

In the steaming hot shower, they lathered each other, letting their fears and tension run down the drain. Babette's touch was firm, almost harsh, her fingers digging into tense knotted muscles, loosening them, relaxing them. Gadgets performed the same intimate service for her. As the tension drained out of their bodies, as the killing and past events were forgotten, a new, wild feeling crept into their bodies.

After climbing out of the shower, Gadgets wrapped a towel around Babette. Hugging her affectionately, he helped her dry off. Drying himself, he looked again at her magnificent form. It had been ages since he had felt so warmly about a woman. His business was a cold business; to gain warmth was often to commit yourself. He could not commit himself. He had to tell Babetteю

With an impatient, urgent movement, Babette touched her finger to his lips.

"Shhh," she said. "No words."

She led him to the bedroom.

A loud beeping broke the stale silence. Gadgets Schwarz, lying in the warm comfort of Babette Pavlovski's bed, refused to answer the summons.

"It's Pol," he said groggily.

"Well, answer it," said Babette, who had just opened her eyes, yet already looked bright, cheery.

"Can't," Gadgets complained. "Can't move. Complacency's set in."

Babette giggled, gave Gadgets a playful shove and answered the summons.

"In ten minutes," she said. "No, Pol, not alone. Both of us. Please. It's my fight. Okay."

She signed off then rolled back toward the still-dozing Gadgets. "It's time. I told him we'd be there in ten minutes."

"We'dbe there?"

"I'm coming too, Gadgets. It's me they tried to kill. It was one of my athletes they did kill. It's my fight."

Gadgets knew better than to argue with the woman; he was smart enough not to get into fights he knew he would never win. With all the effort in the world, he dragged his butt out of bed. Babette beat him to the floorboards. She also beat him in getting dressed.

She wore tan slacks, a brown shirt and a brown patterned scarf over her hair. Gadgets hopped into the clothes he had on earlier, including the life-saving flak jacket.

"Pol says we're going to the desert," she said as they headed for the door.

"UCLA," he told the guard as they moved toward the elevator. "There'll be a chopper waiting."

When they hit the street, Gadgets looked up at the starry sky. "God," he mumbled, "what time is it?"

"Sixteen minutes after midnight," one of the Feds answered.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the helicopter. Blancanales stood waiting for them, an Ingram and a bandolier of clips for Babette in hand.

The Sikorsky H-76 was already turning over. The trio crouched as they ran under the forty-four-foot rotors. Pol climbed in a front door to the copilot seat. Gadgets and Babette went through a door farther back to the passenger compartment. The copter was lifting off before Gadgets had the door secured.