The men continued north along the east side of the building. Suddenly, Pol plucked at Gadgets's shirt and pointed, nodding in the same direction.

"That looks like our decoy now."

A woman riding a bicycle emerged from behind the multilevel parking garage and headed toward the gym. The cyclist was only 250 feet from Schwarz and Blancanales. They could make her out clearly.

She wore jeans and a sweat shirt despite the heat of the day. On her head sat the phoniest looking raven-haired wig either man had ever seen. Her feet were covered by gymnast's slippers.

"Quite the stand-in," Pol commented. "Those Feds..."

"Stand-in, hell," Gadgets grunted. "That's the real thing."

The cyclist picked up speed as she pedaled down the hill leading to the gymnasium. One member of a group of "picnickers" pointed her out and shouted.

Hunting rifles, shotguns, handguns from World War II, even a couple of AR-10s, sprouted up all over campus.

Able Team's men exploded into action.

Pol and Gadgets took off toward Babette Pavlovski. Blancanales, pushing his legs to keep up with his young teammate, realized he had no chance of getting to Babette before Gadgets. He pulled up and snatched the Ingram from the gym bag.

Pol picked up at a trot, firing on the move. The modified Ingram spat two-thirds of its thirty-round clip in the second that Pol held down the trigger. The quick slash took out three of the bikers.

Gadgets's sprint had taken every last ounce of push and pull that he could demand from his muscles. He sent his body airborne, in a quarterback-sack, diving position. The timing was perfect. He hit Pavlovski with a flying tackle, knocking her off her bike, taking her to the ground. It was the second time in one long day that the Able Team wizard had been forced to send a woman flying. But he wasn't apologizing, he was saving lives.

Gadgets and Pavlovski rolled. Three .45 chunks of lead nailed him; one slashed into his side, knocking the wind out of him. And under him, Babette struggled, thinking that the man who had jolted her off the bicycle was an enemy.

As bullets rang off Gadgets's gear, he tried to comfort her with the whispered words, "Easy... easy." Finally the gymnastics coach realized the man on top of her was an ally. They kept rolling, then they crawled for cover, stopping behind a metal bike rack.

Politician covered their moves. He emptied the rest of the Ingram's clip, spraying as wide an area as possible. His shots were rewarded with a few screams of searing pain. The would-be assassins scrambled for cover. By the time Pol reached Gadgets and Babette, both were on their feet in a combat crouch.

Babette turned to Schwarz.

"Tracy. Tracy Shaw. Is she okay? Is she?.."

The gymnastics coach began to shake.

Gadgets grabbed her shoulders. "She's dead. I'm sorry. Real sorry."

Babette Pavlovski felt sick. She listened to the man trying to comfort her.

"Listen. We can't stop here. We've gotta move or we'll get killed. Babette, fight. Fight for Tracy."

Gadgets started to yank the Ingram from the gym bag, but Babette grabbed it from his grip. He let her have it. She had decided to fight for her fallen pupil. He pulled the Beretta from its shoulder rig and quickly detached the silencer.

The trio knew their stay behind the bike stand had to be short-lived. Cover was minimal. Manpower was lacking. The assassins began firing again.

Pol fired short bursts that tore at flesh, discouraging the enemy from moving closer. Gadgets did a quick recon.

"Through the parking lot," he said. "We'll make a stand in the garage."

Babette started firing short bursts. Each found a target. The three whirled and were off, zigzagging toward the parking lot. Gadgets used the Beretta, snapping single shots as he ran, keeping enemy heads low.

They paused behind two cars in the parking lot, careful to keep their legs and feet behind tires. The enemy dispatched pincer forces around the buildings.

Gadgets handed Babette more clips. "Let's get out of here before they flank us," he instructed.

As they weaved between the cars, making for the garage, Gadgets pulled a small radio from his belt.

"Wizard to Ironman. Wizard to Ironman."

Ironman Lyons did not answer.

After leaving Pol and Gadgets, Archer drove Lyons to the FBI office on Wilshire Boulevard. Lyons had little use for the organization, but he knew that in this mission it was necessary. While Able Team might be able to accomplish its task without outside help, they would definitely need outside cooperation.

With Archer acting as a mediator, Lyons got his point across in no time at all. He had the FBI's backing. Archer stayed at the FBI headquarters to arrange for a Babette double and to coordinate the press release on the gymnast's murder and the blackout on the kidnapping. Lyons went on to the LAPD where, in what seemed to be a lifetime ago, a previous lifetime, it seemed — he had been a sergeant.

As he walked into the familiar building he felt the emotion that always rose in his gut when he thought of cops — sympathy. He could sympathize with the job those poor bastards were asked to perform day in, day out. What he couldn't stand about the LAPD was the bullshit and the red tape that choked the entire operation.

Lyons stopped at the front desk and questioned the desk sergeant.

"Captain Braddock around?"

"It's Chief Braddock now, Carl," the desk sergeant answered. "A lot of changes have been made since your days."

Lyons did a double take when the man behind the desk spoke. "Len Terney," Lyons exclaimed, recognizing the face. "Gone from beat cop to desk jockey."

Terney smiled. "A man gets too old to tear shoe leather. It'll happen to you some day."

The two men shook hands.

"I hear you've been in here a bit," Terney said. "Guess I just keep missing you. It's been a long time since we teamed up."

"Long time," Lyons agreed. "Braddock here?"

"I don't think you want to see him. He's in a terrible mood."

"I'm not revolving my life around old Braddock's moods."

"Same old Lyons," Terney said.

"I've gotta see him, Len. It's a business call."

The sergeant shrugged and picked up one of the telephones on his desk. He dialed a three-digit number.

"Carl Lyons to see you, Chief. He says it's business." The sergeant shouldered a long pause before speaking. "Yes, sir. I'll tell him."

Around LAPD, Lyons had a reputation as a damn fine warrior, but certain upper-echelon heads hated his brashness, his arrogance and his incurable inability to conform. Braddock was one of those heads.

"Ah, Carl. The chief says to say hello, but he's busy. He told me to take care of what you want..."

"Shit," Lyons spat as he turned and headed toward Braddock's office.

"Don't do it, Carl. I'd have to stop you."

Lyons wheeled, reached in his wallet and handed Terney the letter from the President.

"It's a little worn," he said. "Overuse."

Terney whistled. "God. Is this for real?"

Lyons nodded. He took the letter back and put it in his wallet.

"I'll call him again," Terney said.

"Don't bother," Lyons said as he headed toward Braddock's office.

A young policewoman sat at the desk in front of the chief's office. She was tall and well built with shiny blond hair and a healthy glow. Her eyes had strength. Strength to hold a man. The name on the desk plaque read Nel Bly.

As Lyons approached, Officer Bly spoke. "The chief doesn't want to be disturbed."

"Well," Lyons snapped as he strode past her, "I don't want to disturb the chief. I want to talk to him."

"You can't go in there," she said to his back. "The door has an electronic lock. He has to buzz you in."

Lyons felt his temperature rising. Heat took hold of his face. He drove his foot into the office door, connecting just under the handle. The lock mechanism held, but the door jamb shattered. He walked in. Braddock, obviously startled by the uncustomary entrance, was on the phone.