"Someone saw me hiding the body," she whispered. "Whoever it is is hiding around the cars."

Lyons nodded and began to skirt the buggies, hoping to cut the person off from getting back to the rest of the camp. As he crouch-walked around the vehicles he became aware that someone was stalking him. He quickly checked; he could still make out Babette holding her position. Someone else was on his ass.

Sam Jackson tried to continue his roll and get back on his feet. Another pair of boots halted his movement. He looked up into the scowling face of Baker, the guard whom he had tried to recruit.

Baker looked at the knife man. "Easy, Bill, we're supposed to keep them alive."

He bent down and grabbed the boxer by the collar. With Jackson's help, he got the big man back on his feet. Baker put his face next to Jackson's, trying to make out the features.

"Isn't this one of the special ones who's supposed to be taken out by copter?" Baker asked.

"How'd you know that?" Frazer snapped. He still held the bowie knife and he still looked ready to use it.

"He told me," Baker answered in an innocent voice. Now he was sure the boxer hadn't been lying.

"Yeah," Frazer said, "the ones who just came are to be moved somewhere else. But that don't mean he ain't expendable."

With a sudden, quick movement, Baker had Jackson's arm bent behind his back and jammed up his spine. "You come quiet," Baker warned. "I'm a former cop and I haven't forgotten how to bust a thick skull."

Jackson stumbled ahead of the man, feeling more helpless than before. Unless this Baker dude was feigning loyalty, he figured sooner or later someone was going to slit his throat. When they reached the door of the tent, the guard gave Jackson a shove that sent him sprawling on his face. Baker left and the boxer sat up to massage the tender muscles in his shoulder.

"You're lacking terribly in the brains department," said a rumbling voice from the far side of the tent. "But I know four men would thank you for what you did."

"Four men got out," Jackson said. "Mustav, man, that news makes the risk worthwhile."

The boxer crawled over to one of the water containers and toasted his success with a drink of warm, metallic-tasting water. As he was putting the cap back on the container, he heard voices outside. Someone whispered his name. He went to the door.

A guard stood at the flap. Jackson suspected it was the ex-cop, but he couldn't be sure. The figure gestured for him to come out. Jackson started toward the man. The second he cleared the tent, four pair of hands reached out of the darkness and seized him. Before he could react, a patch of adhesive tape had been slapped over his mouth and his hands had been forced behind him and cuffed. He was swept off his feet and quickly carted away.

A voice whispered in his ear.

"Struggle, nigger. Or make a sound. Or just breathe wrong. I'll take great pleasure in clubbing you to death."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam Jackson spotted the solid-looking butt of a gun.

The faint sound of sand being finely shifted by a foot told Carl Lyons to kiss the earth. He dropped flat on his face as a tire iron sliced air above his head. Lyons rolled over, his drawn Beretta questing a target.

The target was clearly outlined against the bright stars. Lyons held his fire. His attacker was a black man with a wild afro.

"Drop it," Lyons ordered. He tried to put the man's mind at ease. "I'm a friend. I'm with Babette Pavlovski."

The black man clutched the tire iron as if it was his last hope for freedom. But the athlete knew that if he used the weapon, the man with the gun would rearrange his face.

The athlete eased back, dropped the tire iron. Lyons motioned for him to retreat to where Babette was waiting. Babette — showing the love that runs deep in the athletic community — hugged the man.

The two exchanged whispers. Then Babette let the man go and he disappeared into the heap of dune buggies. The gymnastics coach crept back to the gate.

Babette returned to Lyons, carrying the guns that belonged to the dead guards. Two black athletes materialized from the night and took the guns. Another conversation followed and the two blacks casually walked up to the gate. They untied the body of the dead guard, shoved it between two buggies and took the place of the guards. Lyons signaled for Babette to follow him and they began moving farther into the camp.

Slowly they worked their way around the parked dune buggies and past a small tent and some sort of plank shack almost buried completely in the sand. They stopped beside the largest tent in the camp. A sentry was sitting at table. The approach to him was open sand. Lyons picked himself up and began walking toward him. If Babette Pavlovski could try suicide tactics, so could Carl Lyons.

"Who's that?" the guard challenged, bringing his weapon up.

"Shut the fuck up," Lyons whispered as he walked confidently toward the guard. "I brought you some refreshment."

Lyons had one arm behind his back as though he were hiding a bottle. With a quick, powerful upper-cut, he brought the hand up. By the time his fist hit the guard square in the mouth, he had all his force planted in his rising arm. When his fist connected he could hear the shatter of bones. He could feel the guard's face collapsing. He could not remember ever having hit a man so hard, so deadly. The sentry dropped in a bloodied heap on the sand. Lyons rubbed his aching knuckles.

Babette gave him a hand placing the body underneath the roll of barbed wire. The duo then went to the side of the tent. Babette, having talked with the athletes, knew where the tunnel was. She went first and was followed by Lyons. Inside the tent he was met by blackness. Absolute blackness.

Babette's voice came from behind him.

"Kelly."

"Who's that?" a female voice answered.

"Kelly," Babette said, putting a little more volume in her voice. "You're breaking training."

Kelly let out a giggle before instructing Lyons and Babette to join her and Mustav, who were sitting about ten feet away. Introductions and a warm reunion followed.

"The guard on the side of the tent where we came in had an accident," Lyons said to Mustav. "Get one of your men out there to take his place. We've already got two of your guys on the gate."

Mustav balked. "Lyons," he said, "our men will not stand up to scrutiny."

"I don't want them to. If they're caught we're at war. Hopefully by them standing there we can buy a little time."

Mustav issued orders.

"How big a force do you have out there?" he then asked Lyons.

Lyons refused to answer. He knew that if he talked about the small numbers the athletes would be dispirited. They had no way of knowing the power the small force was capable of.

He veered onto another topic.

"Where's Jackson?"

"We're worried about him," Kelly answered. "Someone called for him and when he went to the door he was taken away. We figure the KKK goons can't be knowingly involved with Russia. Sam was trying to get them to help us."

"Oh, God," Babette moaned.

Although the athletes' hunch agreed with his own, Lyons did not think too much of Jackson's chances. He said nothing of his doubts.

"We'd better act fast," Lyons told the others. "But try not to get into some damn shooting war as long as we can take over slowly with guerrilla tactics."

Before the Able Team fighter could continue, Zak Wilson let out a low whistle from the front of the tent. A rustling filled the tent as someone moved. Lyons was pushed, driven backward. He struggled to bring the Beretta up on the attackers but Babette was pushed into him. A pair of flashlights shone into the entry of the tent.

Lyons and Pavlovski, not wanting to be found in the tent, kept low, away from the action.