C:\Users\John\Downloads\A\Able Team 36 - Final Run (Ron Renauld).pdb

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Able Team 36 - Final Run (Ron R

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Creation Date:

10/01/2008

Modification Date:

10/01/2008

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01/01/1970

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PROLOGUE

Under the sweltering mid-July sun, a ragtag band of youthful disciples
recited the short prayer expected of them in thanks for at last being given a
ten-minute break following five straight hours of arduous toil in the Cuyamaca
Mountains east of San Diego.

"All praise to the Holy One!" they cried out in unison, coaxing fervor into
their voices the same way they tried to summon forth new strength from their
weary limbs. As they prayed, their eyes turned toward a six-foot-high poster
propped against a large, dust-covered truck that was parked beside the rolling
green field where they had been laboring. The poster depicted a beatific,
full-faced Asian with dark, knowing eyes that stared out at the world with a
look of calm omnipotence. The Holy One. The one to whom they dedicated their
lives in the belief that obedient servitude would bring them peace of mind and
a chance for fulfillment both in this life and the next.

"Work is the one true way!" they intoned. "Work makes us clean, work makes us
strong, work makes us worthy!"

It was a simple enough chant, and having recited it five times each day since
first embracing the doctrine of the Church of the New Word, the disciples
couldn't help but know it by heart.

Rest and ritual completed, it was time again to take to the fields. The
workers numbered almost thirty, most of them in their mid-to-late teens. The
young men and women were dressed alike in nondescript khaki shorts and
T-shirts stained with perspiration. They trudged back to their stations,
pausing only long enough to file past the oversize likeness of the Holy One to
retrieve tools from a bench beside the large truck that they were loading with
the land's harvest. The youths gave a wide berth to three pit bull terriers
lolling in the dirt beneath the truck. Two of the dogs were asleep, while the
third lay with one eye open, lazily watching the timid souls parade past.

Standing atop the truck's cab was a tall and muscular man in his mid-twenties
wearing white slacks and a loose-fitting yellow shirt. He was bald, his head
clean-shaven every morning just like those of the two dozen other deacons
pledged to the service of the Holy One. And, like the Holy One, most of the
deacons were of Oriental lineage.

The deacon also wore opaque-Iensed sunglasses that softened the harsh solar
glare, allowing him to keep a better eye on the disciples as they fanned out
across the fields. Binoculars dangled from his neck, and beneath the folds of
his required yellow shirt was a tooled-leather shoulder harness containing a

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Beretta 92SB-C automatic. A compact version of the standard Model 92, the
pistol held a thirteen-round detachable box of 9 mm parabellum. A replacement
clip of ammunition was stored in the back pocket of the deacon's slacks. More
than half the deacons working the fields were similarly armed. The weapons
were compliments of the Holy One, who believed that although prayer was fine
for the disciples, the deacons required a more tangible means of persuasion.

As work resumed, a heavyset man sitting in the comforting shade of a fir tree
picked up a bullhorn and began to read aloud from a thick pamphlet containing
the gospel according to the Holy One. The prose begged for a passionate
oration, but the thirty-year-old man was a less-than-gifted speaker, and he
spoke the words in a dull, lumbering monotone.

" and though ye may toil until sweat flows from the very marrow, still harder
should ye labor, for sweat is the impurity of the soul, driven off by your
efforts and your zeal to lead a rightful life. Work hard and endure, embrace
the ache of muscle and bone and then rejoice, knowing that in the eyes of the
Holy One you are becoming more pure"

As the man's words echoed across the fields, eighteen-year-old Ozzie Towers
tried to concentrate on their meaning, to glean enough inspiration to get him
through the day. He was exhausted. Like most youths his age, he was woefully
out of shape, and he was winded from the chain-smoking habit he'd developed at
fourteen. Cigarettes were but one of many vices he had vowed to renounce as a
newly accepted Child of the New Word. He'd already gone five days without a
smoke, but the craving for nicotine still tore at him with regularity and made
his lungs burn. He tried to force the temptation from his mind. I want to be
worthy, he kept telling himself. I want to be worthy of the Holy One.

"Hey, Oz-butt, snap out of it!"

Ozzie glanced over to one side, where another teenager was regarding him with
a smirk. AI Rivera had been a disciple longer than any of the others, and he'd
had his fill. When he spoke, it was with a cynical arrogance that reminded
Ozzie of his own attitude before the chain of events that had changed his life
and sent him fleeing to San Diego in search of a new beginning.

"You look like just sniffing this stuff's got you stoned," AI taunted,
gesturing toward the knee-high stack of marijuana plants he'd been binding
together with a length of twine. "Or maybe you're palming a few leaves for a
quick buzz when no one's looking, huh?"

"No! No way!" Ozzie declared.

Realizing he'd raised his voice, Ozzie quickly looked around to see if anyone
had overheard him. The closest men in yellow shirts were over fifty yards
away, and one of them glanced in the youth's direction. Ozzie quickly bowed
his head and resumed his work. Both his hands and his heart began to tremble
in fear that any second the deacon would be at his side, chiding him for
straying from his work and speaking without permission. The Church tolerated
few infractions from its probationary members, and Ozzie was determined to
keep his personal slate clean for as long as possible.

"Hey, quit shakin', chickenshit," Rivera hissed at him with mirthful
contempt. "With that dude blabbing on the bullhorn, nobody's gonna be able to
hear anything else. It's cool, man. Chill."

The deacon with the bullhorn was now reiterating the Church's reasoning
behind today's activities in the field. It marked the fourth time since dawn
that the disciples had heard the story of how the Holy One had recently

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dreamed of infidels trespassing on their sacred grounds and securing a remote
patch of land to sow the seeds of corruption. Upon waking from the dream, the
Holy One had dispatched deacons to search every square inch of the Church's
three hundred and fifty acres in the Cuyamacas. It was then that the field of
marijuana had been discovered. The disciples were pulling up the mature plants
as a symbolic gesture of their own triumph over vice. The dreaded weed would
later be destroyed and the heathens responsible for planting it on sacred
ground would be tracked down and soundly shown the errors of their ways. The
Holy One's acolytes carried guns in case the heathens dared to interrupt the
pulling up of the plants. So said the deacon with the bullhorn.

"You don't really believe any of that jive, do you?" AI snickered to Ozzie as
he bound up yet another of the jagged-leafed bushes.

"Please," Ozzie whispered. "Don't"

"Hey, wake up and open your eyes, asshole!" Rivera shot back. "I seen the way
you been acting since you came here. Walkin' around like some dumb shit with
some stupid-ass grin on your face and a sponge between your ears. Soak up
anything they pour down your throat."

"Stop it," Ozzie pleaded. He filled his arms with the marijuana he'd uprooted
and tried to walk away from Rivera, but the other youth followed, still
hissing in his ear.

"I was just like you when I first came here, numb-nuts. But I seen through
the shit since then. Man, this is nothing but boot camp run by a bunch of
nerds on a power trip."

"No"

"Yes! Man, you really think some 'invaders' planted all this weed?" Rivera
shook his head with contempt. "Get real. This is the Holy One's stash, and
we're pickin' it like niggers on a plantation just so the Church can get rich
sellin' it to dealers."

"Liar!"

They were carrying their loads toward the truck, almost within hearing range
of the deacons.

"Just think about it," Rivera whispered. "As for me, I'm outta here, and I'm
takin' a little souvenir with me, too"

Ozzie looked at the other disciple with stunned horror. Rivera was grinning
slyly as he turned away from the deacons and raised his T-shirt slightly so
Ozzie could see the plastic bag filled with marijuana leaves he'd tucked
inside the waistband of his shorts. With a conspiratorial wink, Rivera lowered
his shirt to hide the stash, then adopted the expression of a devout follower.

There were several other new recruits returning to the truck with armloads of
marijuana, and Ozzie took advantage of the congestion to break away from
Rivera. He was bothered by the young man's remarks and his attitude. A part of
him even wondered if perhaps Rivera was deliberately tempting him with all the
derogatory comments about the Church. Could it be part of his probationary
regimen? If so, Ozzie was confident he'd passed the test. After all, he'd
shown no signs of believing any of Al's blasphemy.

At least not outwardly.

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Deep down, however, he couldn't help but wonder. As he handed over his bundle
of bound plants to a deacon, Ozzie glanced over the bald Oriental's shoulder
and noticed that the truck's thirty-foot bed was already more than half-filled
with marijuana plants stacked almost eight feet high. Towers had bought and
sold enough pot before joining the Church to know a thing or two about the
street value of grass, and his mind reeled as he tried to figure out how much
this shipment might be worth. Thousands, no doubt. More likely tens or even
hundreds of thousands of dollars.

"and when we destroy this crop of evil," the deacon with the bullhorn droned
on, "it will be a moment of glory for us all. For we will have looked full
into the face of temptation and said Nay! We will have wrestled with the devil
and emerged conquerors, strengthened by our show of will"

Ozzie fell in with several other disciples as they returned to the fields,
and this time he made a point of working close to the deacons so that they
could watch his every move. He would prove himself in their eyes. Look, I
stared into the face of temptation and said Nay! Tell me I'm worthy.

From where he was working, Ozzie could see that AI Rivera was walking deeper
into the field with one of the prettier teenage girls. Isabelle. Ozzie had
been attracted to her the first day he'd shown up at the Church's mountain
enclave, but he'd kept his feelings to himself, knowing that lust was a sign
of weakness in the eyes of the Holy One. She'd smiled at him a few times
during the past week, but they hadn't been seductive smiles, rather the open,
sexless smiles of a radiant spirit inviting him to share in the joy that came
from finding peace in the New Word.

Turning away from Rivera and Isabelle, Ozzie resumed the task at hand.
Kneeling before one of the six-foot-high plants, he scraped away at the soft,
dark soil with a trowel until he'd exposed the roots. The entire bush pulled
free from the earth when he tugged gently at the base of the stalk. Leaves
brushed against his face, and the familiar smell teased him anew with memories
of all those occasions he'd strayed from the one true way. Strange, how it
seemed almost a lifetime ago that he had been a hedonist rebel back in Los
Angeles, committed to nothing but short-term gratification at any cost. He'd
wasted so much time in the pursuit of pleasure, ignoring the truer virtues
that were only made clear to him after the suicide of one friend and the
traumatic overdose of another had forced him to take a harder look at his
life. Ozzie Towers suspected that if it hadn't been for the Church of the New
Word and the enlightenment of the Holy One he, too, might have succumbed to
the lure of the evil by now.

"Work is the one true way!" he uttered quietly under his breath. "Work makes
us clean, work makes us strong, work makes us worthy!"

The sun continued its westward trek, eventually dropping behind the conifers
atop Enchanto Peak, the tallest of the mountain slopes surrounding the
marijuana field. A wide, welcome shadow began to creep across the work site.
Sweating from his labors, Ozzie carried yet another bundle of plants to the
truck, which was now nearly filled. As he paused for a moment to dab
perspiration from his brow, a shrill, sudden whistle sounded from atop the
truck. The deacon with the bullhorn abruptly fell silent, and all the workers
froze in place, knowing that the whistle was a command for them to stop. Fear
raised goose bumps along Ozzie's arms as he quickly whirled around, ready to
apologize for taking an unauthorized break from work. He quickly realized,
however, that the whistle wasn't directed at him.

The Oriental standing on the truck's roof had the whistle between his lips as
he peered through his binoculars toward the far edge of the field. With his

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free hand he pointed in that direction, and when Ozzie turned to look he saw
the reason for the alarm. Five hundred yards away, AI Rivera was making a run
for it, his head barely visible above the tops of the marijuana plants as he
headed for the foothills leading up to Enchanto Peak.

The deacon inside the back of the truck jumped down to the ground and clapped
his hands to get the attention of the pit bulls. With a chorus of growls, the
dogs crawled out from under the truck and scrambled over to the bald man, who
used a series of hand commands to get them to bound up into the back of a Jeep
parked in the shade of the fir trees. Pulling out his Beretta, the man drove
off, across the fields, making a beeline for the fugitive disciple.

While the pursuit continued, the other deacons commanded the disciples to
cease their work and gather in a line near the truck. Ozzie stood at attention
and watched the others come in from the fields to join him. He took particular
notice of Isabelle, whose face was ashen with worry. When she took her place
in line, she couldn't help but continue stealing glances out across the field,
where the Jeep could be seen forging through the tall bushes as it closed in
on the runaway.

A head count was taken to determine that only one of the initiates had fled,
and after the deacons had determined the identity of the guilty party, they
ordered the others to their knees. The heavy man who had been speaking through
the bullhorn flipped through his pamphlet until he found an appropriate
passage on disobedience and betrayal. He read aloud without amplification. His
face had reddened, and anger gave his voice more passion.

"Bad as it is for the ignorant to shun the ways of the Holy One, their guilt
pales when measured against the transgressions of a believer who turns his
back on the truth! Woe to the fallen who deliberately choose evil over the
chosen way, for theirs is by far the greater of sins."

As the oration continued, Ozzie cringed inwardly, cursing his own weakness
and at the same time giving thanks that he hadn't let Rivera sway him with
false words. More than ever, he was determined not to succumb to temptation.

The deacon was still lecturing when his cohort returned in the Jeep ten
minutes later. The pit bulls were in the back of the vehicle, traces of blood
flecking their mouths. Beside the driver, AI Rivera was slumped over in his
seat, groaning in obvious pain. Both his arms and legs were red where the
flesh had been torn by the fierce jaws of the pit bulls, and blood continued
to flow from most of the wounds. His face contorted in agony, Rivera was no
longer the cocky youth who had teased Ozzie earlier. He wept and cried out,
begging for mercy and first aid.

Two other deacons approached the Jeep, but they were not about to offer
Rivera any assistance. Rather, they dragged him from the seat and shoved him
down so that he sprawled on the ground, bleeding into the dirt.

The heavyset deacon finally put aside his pamphlet and went to the truck long
enough to retrieve a leather whip from the cab. Rolling up his sleeves, he
strode over to the cowering figure of the captured runaway.

"Stop your sniveling and get on your knees," he commanded, snapping the whip
in the air above Rivera's head.

"Please, don't hurt me anymore!" Rivera sobbed.

"On your knees!"

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The youth weakly complied.

The deacon who had driven the Jeep showed the plastic bag filled with
marijuana that he'd found on Rivera.

"Not only did he try to run from the Holy One, but he tried to leave with the
fruit of the infidels!" The bald man's eyes bored into the gathered disciples.
"Watch, all of you, and see what fate befalls those who dare to mock the one
true way!"

The whip cracked again, this time striking flesh. Rivera screamed and jerked
to one side as the leather strip wrapped around one of his bleeding wounds,
intensifying his pain. It was an anguished howl, bringing forth empathetic
whimpers from several of the disciples, including young Isabelle. Even the pit
bulls whined at the sound of Rivera's agony.

"Forgive me!" Rivera wailed between his sobs.

The deacon whipped him again, and Rivera bled through the back of his T-shirt
as he collapsed to the ground.

"On your knees!"

Ozzie diverted his gaze momentarily and saw tears streaming down Isabelle's
face as she watched Rivera's torture. Her lips were pressed tightly together,
as if to keep her from crying out on the youth's behalf.

"You!" the deacon atop the truck shouted, pointing at Ozzie. "Watch the
punishment!"

Ozzie swallowed hard, feeling his face redden. He turned back to Rivera, who
was struggling to his knees, only to fall over again when the whip tore into
his flesh once more. As he stared at the forlorn figure writhing on the
ground, Ozzie was filled with a doubt he hadn't felt since first making his
commitment to the Church of the New Word.

This isn't right, he thought to himself.

This is wrong.

Up in the northwest corner of the San Fernando Valley, Chatsworth Park
boasted some of the best rock-climbing formations in southern California. The
gargantuan volcanic boulders that rose through the manzanita and chaparral
were part of the Santa Susanna Mountains, which formed the northern rim of the
valley. Over the centuries, wind and rain had worked on their surfaces,
creating small pockets and indentations that a skilled soloist could rely upon
to hoist himself to great heights without the aid of picks, pitons or the
other encumbrances a good climber used to tackle most inclines.

More than ten years ago, John Kissinger had developed an interest in soloing
during a brief stint with the McKinley Everest expedition. Astounded by his
prowess in scaling the sheerest of rock facings with an agility amazing in a
man six-two and two hundred pounds, the other members of the expedition team
had nicknamed him Spidey after the comic-book hero with arachnidlike powers.
Even after he'd traded his climbing gear for a suit and badge as a member of
the Drug Enforcement Agencya move that had earned him his long-standing
nickname of "Cowboy" because of his reckless daring during drug-busting
venturesKissinger had continued to hit the rocks whenever the opportunity
presented itself, finding the challenge both physically and mentally

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invigorating. Like test-piloting, tightrope-walking and a handful of other
enterprises, soloing was an art that demanded total concentration and perfect
synchronization of mind and body. Instinct was what it was all about, and in
Kissinger's mind there was no better way of honing one's reflexesand that was
especially important when one was involved in a life-and-death profession like
that of the men from Virginia's Stony Man Farm.

And so, when Kissinger and the three-man hell-force known as Able Team had
been informed of a pending assignment after a rare eight-week layoff, Cowboy
had suggested that all four of them put in a few hard days on the rocks to
prime themselves before undertaking the mission.

They were out there now, four human dots making their way up the steepest
cliff in the entire parkan area that had recently been fenced off because of
fatalities and crippling injuries sustained by soloists biting off more than
they could chew. It was late afternoon, and the cliff was in shade, cutting
down somewhat on the sweat creeping from the men's pores as they crawled
upward.

Kissinger led the way, followed by Carl Lyons, a blond, muscular man who
nearly matched Cowboy in size and maneuverability. As a former L.A. cop, Lyons
had been to this area several times pursuing criminal lowlife who were trying
to bring off drug deals or elude capture after high-speed chases along Topanga
Canyon Boulevard.

Pol Blancanales was next, a lean, wiry Hispanic who had done his share of
scrambling up forbidding terrain while going through the brutality of jungle
warfare school before serving with the Black Berets and the infamous Long
Range Recon Patrols back in the thick of Nam. Although that had been nearly
twenty years ago, when he dug his fingertips into a slight crevice and began
pulling himself up, there was no excess poundage on his scrappy frame to
hinder his movements. And after months of taking things relatively easy and
following a rehabilitation program, a thigh wound received from a New Orleans
gunman had finally healed, giving him the full mobility he had been known for
in his prime.

Bringing up the rear was Gadgets Schwarz, the smallest of the quartet at
five-ten and a few ounces over 165 pounds. Like the others, he was in his late
thirties, a veteran of countless battlefields, both overseas and at home, and
although he was as physically fit as any of the others, it was his
technological expertise that was an invaluable addition to the group's
arsenal. Although Able Team was in essence a force-oriented squad, called into
action when some vicious enemy stepped beyond the bounds of tolerance and
required neutralization at the hands of sanctioned enforcers partially unbound
by the niceties of legal restraint, there were times when finesse was needed,
and finesse was Schwarz's stock and trade. Be it high-tech high jinks or
near-psychic evaluation of any given situation, Gadgets could be counted on to
provide that sixth sense that often meant the difference between victory and
stalemate.

Not surprisingly, it was Schwarz who first sensed a danger that had nothing
to do with the treacherous pitch of the cliff. Having the nagging sensation
that they were being watched, Gadgets waited until he had a relatively sure
grip on the rock facing, then slowly shifted his weight and glanced over his
shoulder.

Some eighty feet away, standing atop a rocky outcrop on the other side of the
fence that surrounded the cliff, two teenage boys were smoking cigarettes and
watching the four men. From the way they were turning to one another
periodically and leaning their heads together, Schwarz guessed they were

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whispering to one another. The taller of the two finally shook the other's
hand, then reached into his back pocket for something. So did the other youth.
They were so far away that it took a moment for Gadgets to realize what they
were holding. When it became clear, it was almost too late.

"Everybody freeze!" he called up. "Slingshots behind us!"

He didn't have to repeat himself. The others immediately held their
positions. All four men were wearing special soft-soled boots that provided
extra grip on the stone surface, allowing them to keep their weight as evenly
distributed as possible. Theoretically, this would allow them more options in
terms of quick movement.

A whizzing stone slammed into the cliff less than a foot away from Schwarz's
back. The second shot struck him square in the back, just below the ribs. He
grimaced at the sharp stab of pain racing up his spine, but he couldn't
prevent an involuntary contraction of his right arm. Pulled off balance, he
clawed at the rock with his left hand, drawing blood from his fingertips as he
tried to support his rapidly shifting weight.

When it became clear that he was going to fall, Schwarz pushed off from the
rock with as much force as he could muster, hoping he could land clear of the
rocks lying at the base of the cliff. It was a twenty-foot drop, far greater
than the distance paratroopers practiced falls from, but Gadgets relied on
that experience when he hit the sandy earth, rolling on impact to reduce the
jarring blow to his feet and ankles. The maneuver helped to prevent any broken
bones, though the strain on tendons and ligaments was severe enough to render
him temporarily immobile.

"Little bastards!" he muttered, riding out a shock wave of raw pain that
would have left most victims unconscious. When the flash passed and a deep,
persistent ache set in, he took deep breaths and sized up the situation.

The others were still trapped on the cliff facing, and the teens were loading
their slingshots for another volley. This time they were aiming for Kissinger,
who was more than fifty feet up. If they were to knock him down, his fate
would be almost-certain death, and there was also a chance he would strike
Lyons and Blancanales as he fell, compounding the tragedy.

Schwarz saw only one option. Ignoring the near-crippling pain in his feet and
ankles, he dragged himself over to the four knapsacks piled six feet away. He
snapped the latch on his bag and pulled out a modified Government Model Colt
automatic. The pride of the Able Team handgun arsenal, the M-1911 packed
.45-caliber ammunition and had been specially altered by Stony Man gunsmiths
Kissinger and Andrzej

Konzaki so that the barrel rifling cut bullet velocity and allowed for
greater accuracy. Although he felt the youths fully deserved blasts between
the eyes and knew he was capable of doing the honors, Schwarz instead aimed
low and fired a quick 3-shot salvo that tore at the ground in front of the
teenagers, warning them off with a spray of shrapnel to their lower calves.

Switching the firing mechanism to its semiautomatic mode, Schwarz howled,
"Next time I'll aim higher!"

The youths got the message. They pocketed their slingshots without firing at
Kissinger, then turned tail and fled. Cowboy saw them running off and resumed
climbing toward the top of the precipice only five feet away. He called down
over his shoulder, "Ironman! Pol! Climb down and get after 'em in the rover.
I'll keep an eye on 'em from the peak!"

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Lyons and Blancanales followed Kissinger's advice and lowered themselves to
the ground as quickly as possible, which was no easy feat. Difficult as upward
soloing was, descents were even more precarious because it was harder to feel
out the grips and also because looking down induced a sense of vertigo in even
the most experienced climber.

By the time Lyons and Blancanales reached the ground, Kissinger was atop the
cliff, pointing off in the distance as he shouted down to Able Team. "They're
heading for dirt bikes off near the road. Hurry and you might be able to cut
them off!"

"We're on our way!" Blancanales called out as he broke into a run for the
nearby fence.

As he passed Schwarz, Lyons snatched up two of the knapsacks and asked his
cohort, "You gonna be okay?"

"Might be off the dance floor a few days, but I'll survive," Gadgets said,
rubbing his ankles, which had already swollen considerably.

"Better get those shoes off and stay put," Lyons advised before bounding up
and over the fence. Blancanales had already climbed behind the wheel of the
all-terrain vehicle they'd rented for the excursion. It had a low top-end
speed, but its thick, cushiony tires and sturdy suspension made it perfect for
taking shortcuts over rugged turf. Looking up at the cliff-top, Lyons kept an
eye on Kissinger and relayed directions to Blancanales, who cut the wheel and
guided the ATV over the uneven landscape in pursuit of the young pranksters.

Fortunately for Lyons and Blancanales, the teens were on low-horsepower
minibikes. Their laboring engines whined as they sped along a dirt path
leading up to Santa Susanna Pass Road, a winding strip of asphalt that
eventually linked up with Topanga Canyon Boulevard and an endless web of
suburban side streets where they would easily be able to loose their pursuers.

It never came down to that, however. Pushing the ATV to its limits,
Blancanales scaled a steep incline dotted with logs and small boulders,
beating the teens to a crucial bend in the road. When the youths roared around
the corner and found the two men blocking their way, they had no choice but to
apply their brakes. One of them tried to jerk his bike around and retreat, but
Lyons fired a shot into the bike's rear tire, putting it out of commission.

"You boys are in some serious shit," Lyons advised them.

A LAPD black-and-white rolled to a stop along the shoulder of Santa Susanna
Pass Road. Two officers got out to deal with the delinquents being held at bay
by Lyons. Blancanales had backtracked to the cliff to pick up Schwarz and
Kissinger in the ATV.

'"lo, Bill," Lyons said to the older of the cops.

"Hey, Ironman." Detective Bill Towers shook Lyons's hand while the other
officer began the formalities of placing the two teenagers under arrest. "How
come it always takes trouble before I find out you guys are in town, huh?"

"Sorry, B.T.," Lyons said. "We only figured to be here a day."

"No problem. I know how it goes."

Bill Towers was a veteran of L.A.'s finest. He and Lyons had been partners

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long enough to have been behind a number of outrageous exploits now part of
local police legend. They'd kept in touch over the years, after Lyons had
moved on to become part of the Organized Crime Strike Force and then a
founding member of Able Team. In fact, on a couple of occasions Towers had had
a chance to lend a hand to the Team during tight situations when some extra
manpower had come in handy. Most recently the detective had assisted in the
siege of a nearby industrial complex in Canoga Park, where the mob had been
operating a porno film distributorship above an auto repair shop. His
participation in the ensuing firestorm had put Towers in the doghouse with his
supervisors. He had shown up today primarily because he was on temporary loan
to the West Valley station's juvenile beat, which was a big step down from his
former position working homicide out of Van Nuys.

"So, how's the world been treating you?" Lyons asked. "I hate to say it,
Bill, but you don't look so hot."

"We all got problems, right?" Towers quickly changed the subject. "These
little snots tell you why they were using you guys for target practice?"

"You kidding?" Lyons scoffed, glancing at the sullen-faced youths, who were
in the process of having their hands cuffed behind their backs. "First thing
outta their mouths was some crap about wanting to see their lawyers. Haven't
said jack shit since."

"Know their rights, huh?"

"Yeah, probably been through this routine enough times to have it down pat."
Lyons slipped his .45 back inside his knapsack. "How about that boy of yours?
He still giving you trouble?"

Towers didn't respond at first. He looked away from Lyons and stared at the
two delinquents. His jaw clenched, and he swallowed hard.

"What is it, Bill?" Lyons asked. "Is Ozzie all right?"

The cop took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then slowly turned to face
his ex-partner. "He's missing," he said hoarsely.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry."

"That's okay. You couldn't have known."

Lyons realized that Towers's partner was waiting impatiently next to the
patrol car. Off in the distance, the Ironman's current partners were heading
up the road in the ATV.

"I got some time, Bill," he told his longtime friend. "Wanna talk about it
when you get off work?"

It didn't take Towers long to think about it. "Yeah," he replied. "I'd
appreciate it."

They met for an early dinner at a Mexican restaurant on Sherman Way in Canoga
Park, a few miles from the West Valley station. Neither of the men was very
hungry, so they just ordered a side of guacamole to go with their chips and
margaritas.

"I'm tellin' ya, you raise a teenager and you just can't do anything right as
far as they're concerned," Towers said, wiping layers of salt off the rim of
his glass. "I mean, I tried, damn it. I really did. But nothing worked."

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Lyons sat patiently, listening to his friend while trying to ignore a
wrenching in his gut regarding his own son, Tommy, who was also a teenager.
Since his divorce from Janiehow many years ago had it been now?there had been
little contact with either of them, and at times like this the loss was most
acute. When Bill spoke of his son, Lyons couldn't help but think of Tommy and
wonder what kind of relationship they'd have had if they'd ever spent time
together.

"It's like he was always testing me. You know, one day it was 'You don't care
about me,' so I'd try to get a little more involved, and the next day it was
'Why do you keep nosing around in my business?'" Towers continued. "Christ, I
tell you, there's times I just wish I could shake him till I had his attention
and then tell him that he's my own flesh and blood, goddamn it, and I do care
and I am trying, but it isn't that easy when we're living in separate worlds."

Lyons noticed that Towers was speaking in the present tense and felt a
glimmer of hope for his friend. "So you think he's run away?" he asked.

Towers nodded as he took a sip from his drink. "Yeah. He packed some things,
closed out his savings accountwhat there was of it."

"Any note?"

Bill shook his head. "Wasn't really any need for one. I think he knew we'd
get the message."

"How's Peg taking it?"

"Not well," Towers said. "He's our only kid since Jimmy drowned. She's scared
to death he's never going to come back."

"How long has he been gone?"

"Going on five weeks now." Towers idly skimmed a chip across the top of the
guacamole and then bit into it. "Missing Persons is working on it, and we've
hired a PI, but it doesn't look good. Statistics on runaways aren't something
you want to think about when your kid's one of them."

"I remember," Lyons said, recalling his experiences dealing with frantic
parents back when he'd been on the force. Few forms of torture rivaled that of
not knowing whether one's son or daughter was alive or lying dead in some
gutter after storming out of the house with a vow never to return. There was
one crucial piece of information Lyons was lacking. He couldn't think of any
roundabout way of getting it, so he asked, "You know what prompted him to
leave?"'

Towers made a sour face, then laughed bitterly. "Yeah. He wanted to find
God."

Lyons was stunned. "Ozzie?"

"You think it sounds weird, too, huh? Tell me about it. Three years he's
driving Peg and I crazy with all that heavy-metal devil-worship shit and
wearing upside-down pentagrams and thenpoof!he's carrying around some kinda
new bible and talking holy this, holy that.

"I tried to sit down with him, you know, to talk things out, maybe see if he
couldn't try some middle ground for a while instead of going from one extreme
to another. But you know how it is with a zealot. You fucking better be with

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them a hundred percent or in their book you're the enemy."

Lyons watched as the angry, frustrated Towers struggled visibly to control
his emotions. He drained his drink and wiped salt from his lips with a napkin,
then crumpled it into a tight ball and dropped it into the glass. He looked
away from Lyons, blinking moisture from his eyes. "I don't know, maybe it is
all my fault. Mr. Hardass, overbearing schmuck, just like my old man"

"I'm sure you've always tried your best, Bill," Lyons said. "Like you said,
sometimes it just doesn't work out."

"Well, I want another chance to try!" Towers asserted.

"Then you've got to hold on to your hopes," Lyons said. "From what I know of
Ozzie, he may be a little confused, but he's got a good head on his shoulders.
Some luck and he'll come around."

"Yeah," Towers said halfheartedly. "Yeah"

"There hasn't been any trace of him since he left?"

"Nothing solid," Towers said. They both fell silent for a moment as a
waitress stopped at their table, asking if they wanted to order another round.
Both men shook their heads. When they were alone again, Bill continued, "This
private eye's been passing around photos, and he found some old lady down in
Escondido who thinks she might have seen him there. That was a week ago,
though, and he hasn't shown up since, so I think it was a false alarm."

"Escondido?" Lyons frowned thoughtfully. "We're headed down that way. Got
some business in San Diego to tend to. If you want, we can keep our eyes and
ears open, see what we can come up with."

"Hey, that's okay, Carl. I know how frantic things are when you guys are onto
something. I couldn't ask"

"Then don't ask," Lyons said. "I'm volunteering. Can't say anything will come
of it, but I want to help somehow, all right?"

Towers smiled gratefully. "You're a good friend, Ironman."

Lyons leaned across the table and gripped the other man's shoulder. "Takes
one to know one," he said with a grin.

The Church of the New Word's mountain headquarters were located in a remote
section of the Cuyamacas, on the former site of a training camp for forest
rangers. Aside from a few dirt roads providing the order with access to the
outside world, the only thoroughfares threading through this rolling part of
the mountain range were more than five miles away, and the closest thing to
neighbors were the inhabitants of the Inaja Cosmin Indian Reservation, sixteen
miles in the other direction.

Although cyclone fence and barbed wire encircled all five hundred acres owned
by the Church, most of the terrain was left wild, and nearly all activity was
centered around the old training camp and twenty-five adjacent acres of fruit
orchards and farmland. The original barracks, which dated back to the early
thirties, served as bare-bone accommodations for the disciples, while a newly
built compound divided into small efficiency apartments was occupied by the
deacons.

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Between the bunkhouses and the deacons' quarters was a small stone church
that had been painstakingly erected over the course of the past year. It
replaced an outdoor arena that had initially been used for religious services.
Hand-hewn pews filled most of the austere interior, and sunlight filtered
through tall stained-glass windows that featured life-size images of the Holy
One striking poses similar to those of figures in Christian icons and the
statuary of various Eastern religions. The allusions were appropriate because
the Church of the New Word espoused a religion that borrowed freely from
countless sourcesfrom Catholicism and Buddhism to dime-store philosophy and
behavioral psychology, with a healthy dose of the puritan work ethic thrown in
for good measure. With such a diverse pool of beliefs to choose from, the Holy
One was invariably able to produce a credible response to most questions of
faith, and for wayward souls hungry for direction and enlightenment the
Church's message was convincing, even addictive. For every youth in attendance
at the small church, there were five others who had already gone through their
period of indoctrination and were now working out of the Church's satellite
facilities located throughout southern California. It was the wish of the Holy
One to create a flock that spanned not only the rest of the state but the
entire country.

That morning the disciples filled the pews while the yellow-shirted deacons
stood in the back, arms crossed in front of their chests, bald heads gleaming
in the tinted shafts of light that poured in through the south windows.
Standing on an elevated platform in front of the pews, the Holy One addressed
the gathering. The leader was no more than five feet tall and wore a white
tunic and straw sandals. He was bald like the deacons, and his facial features
were even more beguiling than those found on the many likenesses within the
church and throughout the camp. The Holy One gazed upon the assembly with
large dark eyes set in a round face. Full lips and perfect teeth further
accented an appearance that seemed strangely ambiguous, saintly-pure and yet
also adrogynously seductive. The voice was high-pitched but lyrical, imparting
a calm sense of self-confidence and authority. The disciples hung on every
word of the sermon with rapt attention.

" and it is thanks to you, my loyal children, that we have already destroyed
half the crop of corruption planted by our unknown enemies. By week's end it
will all be gone, and we can then fully rejoice in our small triumph. But you
must all know in your hearts that it is just that, a small triumph. The ways
of transgression are many, and even as they have found their way onto our
sacred ground, so may they come to you, despite all your efforts to hold true
to the New Word"

Kneeling in one of the back pews, Ozzie tried to pay attention, but his mind
was restless and uneasy. Etched in his brain were troubling images from the
previous afternoon. AI Rivera, bitten and bloodied on the ground, flinching as
the whip flailed against his body; the pit bulls, watching with the youth's
blood still in their mouths; Isabelle Fiori struggling to hold back the tears
welling up in her eyes. How could such pain and brutality have a place in an
order that was supposed to be based on the pursuit of peace and tranquility?
True, Rivera had clearly fallen from grace and succumbed to the temptations of
the vile herb, but did he deserve so harsh a retribution? None of the
disciples had seen him since the whipping, and although the deacons claimed AI
had been taken for medical treatment at the order's compound in Escondido, an
hour's drive away, Ozzie was plagued by doubts. Would they really go to all
that trouble for someone whose wounds were their deliberate doing? It just
didn't add up.

Apparently Isabelle shared his opinion, because when Ozzie cast a sidelong
glance across the aisle at her he saw that she was tense and fidgety, a human
volcano on the verge of eruption.

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Oblivious to this minidrama, the Holy One continued his sermon from the
platform, meticulously avoiding any mention of the incident with AI Rivera.
"You have all made great progress since first coming to the Church. Hold true
to your faith and fashion it into something even stronger and more resolute,
for the day will come when you are asked to move on, either to wear the robes
of a deacon or to go out into the world and help to spread our wondrous
message."

"What wondrous message?" Isabelle suddenly screamed, rising to her feet and
stepping into the aisle. She was quaking with rage, eyes wild as she glared at
the Holy One. "The message that you whip defenseless boys after your dogs have
had their fill of them? Or is it the message that we're barely fed before you
send us hiking to the fields in the dead of night and make us work from dawn
to dusk?"

The Holy One's expression changed only slightly. A slight gesture was given,
and two of the Oriental deacons broke ranks and strode down the aisle toward
Isabelle.

"What happened to AI?" the young girl demanded. "Where did you really take
him?"

"That's enough, child," the taller of the deacons said, placing a hand on
Isabelle's shoulder.

"Get your hands off me!" She whirled around and lashed out at the
yellowshirts with fingers curled like talons. One of the men managed to duck
the blow, but the other grimaced as the woman's nails tore the flesh on his
cheek, leaving parallel lines of blood. Isabelle laughed hysterically. "There!
How do you like it?"

The wounded deacon struck back with his open palm, slapping Isabelle's face.
The young girl screamed and staggered backward from the force of the blow.
Ozzie was less than a foot away, and he reached out, steadying the girl. He
himself was shaking, and he felt a swelling urge to come to her defense and
try to fight off the deacons. But when the men caught up with Isabelle and
grabbed her by either arm, Ozzie meekly relinquished his own grip on her.

"No! Noooooo!" Isabelle wailed as she was dragged from the church, squirming
madly but unable to break the iron hold of her captors. Moments after she had
been carried outside and the doors had been closed again, her screams of
protest abruptly stopped.

Within the chapel there was a restless stirring amongst the disciples. On
another signal from the Holy One, the deacons began to fan out, coming down
the outer aisles and then standing along the walls so that they were clearly
in view of the initiates. The subtle show of potential force was sufficient to
restore order, and within seconds the murmuring in the pews ceased. The Holy
One waited a moment, then resumed speaking as if the interruption had never
occurred.

"And once you have fully embraced the New Word, there will be a clarity of
vision that will astound you. All difficulties will fall by the wayside like
wisps of morning fog burned away by the blinding light of day"

Again Ozzie found it impossible to concentrate on the sermon. He was filled
with a sense of shame that he had stood by and watched Isabelle being struck
and then dragged away. I should have stood up to them, he thought bitterly. I
should have. Coward! Spineless little coward!

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The service ended almost twenty minutes later, with the disciples mouthing
the usual litany of prayers asserting their devotion to the Holy One and the
principles of the Church. Ozzie spoke the words, but for him they were fast
becoming nothing but words, and empty ones at that. It hardly seemed possible.
A day ago he had felt secure in his newfound faith, but now, mere hours later,
that faith was all but shattered. Ozzie stood silently with the others, trying
his best not to betray his inner turmoil.

While the initiates remained in the pews, four of the deacons advanced to the
altar and took up positions flanking the Holy One, who appeared even smaller
alongside them. Eyes focused straight ahead, the leader walked solemnly down
the main aisle with the bald yellowshirts keeping pace.

Ozzie stole a glance at the Holy One as the entourage passed by him. A
thought occurred to him. All I see is flesh and bone. Just like anybody else.
What makes you so holy? He kept the thought to himself, however, and waited
with the others until the diminutive leader was out of the church before
leaving his pew. Under the watchful eyes of the remaining deacons, the
absolute silence continued. In prescribed order, the disciples quietly filled
outside and back into the glare of the midday sun.

"There will be no work in the fields today," the head deacon announced. "You
are to clean your quarters instead and then ready the whole barracks area for
painting next week."

Compared to the harshness of fieldwork, the barracks assignment was greeted
almost as a treat, and there were numerous polite smiles among the disciples
as they started for the bunkhouses. Ozzie scanned the faces, looking for signs
that others shared his growing doubts and anger about the situation they'd
become trapped in. But hardly anyone returned his gaze. Most of them were
looking at the ground in front of them as they walked. Some moved their lips,
reciting silent prayers.

Fools, he thought to himself bitterly. We're just a pack of fools sucking up
to a midget with an ego problem.

Looking out across the clearing that the church and living quarters were
built upon, Ozzie saw the Holy One heading for a set of gleaming marble steps
that led up a knoll to a palatial mansion that was every bit as sumptuous in
appearance as the barracks were drab. Erected out of the same marble as the
steps, the building rose three stories and sported several turrets at its
corners. The tile roof contained solar panels and skylights, and the grounds
around the structure were meticulously landscaped. The Holy One was the only
person known to reside in the mansion, and all the gardening was done by the
most trusted of deacons.

gt;

Disciples were forbidden to go anywhere near even the bottom steps, and Ozzie
could only speculate on what took place behind those polished walls. He knew
that often in the middle of the night vehicles could be heard approaching the
mansion from behind, unseen by anyone who might happen to glance out the
barracks windows. Who was it that came to see the Holy One? Or was it that the
Holy One went somewhere after sundown, only to return later? Ozzie had no
answers, and the more he thought about it, the more questions seemed to come
to mind. "I have to find out," he whispered. "Tonight"

Precautionary X rays revealed no breaks in either Gadgets Schwarz's feet or

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his ankles, and after he had both extremities taped and was given a
prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs, he was ready to take
on Able Team's assignment in San Diego. He hobbled slightly when he walked,
favoring both feet with every step, but he figured he had at least three hours
in the car to rest them during their trip south.

The original plan had called for the men to fly out of Los Angeles with Stony
Man flyboy Jack Grimaldi, but there had been a last-minute change, and John
Kissinger was the lone passenger when Grimaldi lifted off from Van Nuys
Regional Airport. Apparently there had been an unexpected speedup in plans to
allocate funds to Stony Man for production of Kissinger-modified Barrett M-82
rifles. Cowboy was needed back at the Virginia compound to demonstrate the
weapon to some official from Washington who had the authority to finalize
appropriations if he liked what he saw.

"Well, this is the first time in a while it's been just the three of us going
into an assignment," Blancanales remarked from behind the wheel of the rented
'87 Cadillac he was guiding through traffic on the south-bound San Diego
Freeway. They were coming up on Long Beach, and the cars were beginning to
stack up with the onset of rush hour, which in the L.A.-Orange Country area
was actually more of a three-to-four-hour phenomenon.

"Yeah, how about that?" Gadgets said from the back seat, where he had his
legs stretched out across the upholstery. He wriggled his toes periodically to
make sure he was getting adequate circulation. "Almost seems a little
lonesome."

"Maybe Cowboy and Grimaldi will shuttle out once the demo's over," Pol said.

"Maybe." Schwarz realized that Lyons had hardly spoken since they'd first set
out. "Hey, Ironman, cat got your tongue?"

"Guess so," Lyons muttered. Traffic picked up, and Pol drove a few more miles
before Carl opened up. "It's this whole thing with Towers and his kid. Got me
to thinking about Tommy. Hell, he could be a runaway and I wouldn't even know
it, that's how little I keep in touch."

"It happens, amigo," Pol said. "No need to get down on yourself."

"Hell, Janie's living in the Valley, and every time we come out this way I
say I'm going to get in touch, but there's always an excuse." Lyons stared
absently at the stream of cars clogging the other lanes. "Always rushing
around in a big fucking hurry, no time for keeping in touch with my own son. I
mean, what if he's having problems and needs someone to talk with?"

"He's got a stepfather, right?" Schwarz told him. "A decent guy, too, I
remember you saying."

"True," Lyons said. "Still"

He let the sentence hang, suddenly self-conscious about complaining so much.
Hell, if it was important enough for him to keep in touch with Tommy, all he
had to do was pick up a phone or put a stamp on a postcard. He managed to do
it at Christmas and on the kid's birthday, so why couldn't he just broaden the
routine a little? Was it really so hard to talk to Tommy without dredging up
all those old wounds from a marriage gone bad?

He flicked on the radio for distraction. The Dodgers were trying to snap out
of a miserable road trip, and as they fought to come from behind against the
Cardinals, all three men in the Cadillac rooted their home team on. Lyons

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managed to shake off his doldrums, although he had a momentary relapse as they
drove past the Carlsbad turnoff, which cut inland to Escondido, where Ozzie
Towers might or might not have been sighted a week ago.

Valenzuela shut down the Cards after a ninth-inning homer by Guerrero, and
Able Team cheered on the victory as they pulled off the San Diego Freeway at
La Jolla Villa Drive. They headed west toward the sunset for their rendezvous
with the man who was to brief them on their new assignment. Amazingly, despite
the switch from plane to car, it looked as if they were going to be on time,
although they would have to wait until after the meeting to check into their
hotel.

After enduring the agony of finding a parking space on Prospect Road in the
heart of La Jolla's trendy shopping district, Able Team found Ike Ebsen
sitting at a corner table on the back terrace of a seafood restaurant with a
bay view.

Ebsen was a thin but sturdy man of fifty-four, with deep brown skin and gray
creeping into his short-cropped hair. He wore a tailored Ralph Lauren suit and
polished Italian shoes, and he looked more like a successful businessman than
a top-ranking official of Naval Intelligence. Spotting the three men, he waved
them over to his table and finished his pre-dinner aperitif.

"Gentlemen, welcome," he said, rising to shake hands. "It seems I have some
clout, because they gave me the best table in the house."

"No kidding," Gadgets said, admiring the coastal view from the terrace. Out
on the Pacific, the sun looked like an egg yolk flattened against the horizon.
Several boats were still out on the water, and a few hundred yards up the
coast a handful of die-hard surfers waited patiently for one last good wave to
take them to shore.

After exchanging introductions and engaging in small talk until they'd placed
their orders, the men got down to the matter at hand. A jazz combo was playing
inside the main dining room, and the music drifting out onto the terrace was
loud enough that they felt they could speak freely.

"Now then, gentlemen," Ebsen said in a low voice that nonetheless was filled
with strength and presence. "What kind of specifics did Hal go into with you?"
Ebsen was referring to Hal Brognola, director of Stony Man Farm and official
liaison to the White House and various intelligence organizations based around
the nation's capital.

"Not much," Lyons reported. "He sort of broad-stroked it for us. Something
about the KGB using prostitutes and drugs to pump information out of our
sailors."

Ebsen nodded. "Well, that pretty much covers it in a nutshell." He unfolded
his napkin and draped it across his lap before continuing. "As you know, the
Navy's Eleventh Fleet is harbored here in San Diego, and we also have air
stations in Miramar and Coronado. We have our share of top-secret programs
going on, and literally tons of less classified work that could still benefit
the Soviets if it got into their hands."

"We also have thousands of men, and the majority of them are either single or
living away from their wives while they serve their tour. When furloughs come
through and these men hit the streets around here, they have certain, shall we
say"

"Urges?" Blancanales prompted.

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Ebsen smiled. "Precisely. And as, with any Navy town, there are ample outlets
for these urges. We don't sanction many of them, but men will be men."

"And women will be women," Pol said. "Especially when the price is right."

"Unfortunately, yes."

The waiter drifted over to the table with salads and appetizers, and the men
momentarily fell silent. The sun was down now, and a cooling breeze rolled in
from the ocean. After the waiter had served the men and ignited an overhead
lamp, he headed off to another table.

"What makes your people think the KGB's gone into the pimping business?"
Lyons asked once they were alone again.

Ebsen offered a cynical half smile. "Brognola forewarned me that you
gentlemen had a way with words. I see he wasn't exaggerating."

"Truth in advertising," Gadgets said. "That's our boss."

"Go on," Lyons urged the Navy man.

"During the past few weeks we've been getting reports from officers who claim
to have experienced blackouts shortly after taking prostitutes to hotels. They
wake up alone, usually with some manager chewing them out for still being in
the room longer than the hour they paid for. Some of them say they had their
wallets rifled, but others say nothing was touched.

"We've tried to get a chemical analysis to isolate what it is these men have
been given, but apparently it's something that masks easily or else runs
through the system before we can get to it." Ebsen raised his wineglass and
stared into its contents. "We suspect that some form of truth serum is being
slipped into the men's drinks, obviously when they aren't looking."

"Just like the movies," Lyons observed dryly.

"Right again," Ebsen said. "And because all of the reports we've received
have been from officers involved in either intelligence matters or top-secret
projects, you can imagine the possible repercussions."

Gadgets nodded. "Plus, you have to consider the fact that there's probably a
good number of men Who're too ashamed to even bother reporting they've been
slipped a Mickey."

"That's exactly the reason we wanted to bring in some people from the
outside," Ebsen explained. "Until we can get some idea as to how much our
intelligence operations have been compromised by all of this, we really can't
do too much investigating in-house."

"What about the FBI or CIA?" Blancanales asked. "Why not go to them?''

"Well, it's partly office politics," Ebsen confessed. "We at Navy aren't
particularly proud of what's going on here, and the idea of giving another
agency a chance to snigger about it doesn't sit well with my superiors."

"Of course."

"Secondly, we want this matter settled as quickly and decisively as
possible." The agent emphasized the word decisively . "If that means using

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people who aren't hog-tied by a lot of legal restraints, well"

"Well, well," Lyons said with a smirk, raising his glass. He regarded his
partners and said, "Boys, I think they're playing our song."

Ozzie Towers had his eyes closed when the deacons did their nightly check,
but he wasn't asleep. Moments after the bunkhouse lights went out and he heard
the men close the screen door behind them, he craned his neck to see if any of
them had remained inside. A yellow bug lamp shone above the barracks entrance,
so it was easy for him to observe. Three deacons had come in, and three had
left.

So far, so good.

The next hour dragged on as he waited for the other disciples to doze off.
The day's prep work on the barracks had proved to be more demanding than any
of them had expected, and one by one the youths succumbed to their exhaustion.
Ozzie was tired and aching, as well, but adrenaline and anticipation cut
through the fatigue. He tried to keep his head clear as he watched the beams
of moonlight that poured in through the windows. His plan had already taken a
great deal of preparation, and he would need more than his share of breaks if
he was to carry it out successfully.

At first he'd come up blank when he'd tried to think up a course of action,
but once he'd started analyzing the situation in terms of what he thought his
father would do, things had begun to fall into place. It was a strange
sensation, especially when he'd been so sure of his father's total ineptitude
and uselessness at the time he'd left home. Now, as he looked at the situation
from this new perspective, Ozzie was beginning to think he might have
misjudged the old man all these years. Was it really possible?

There were more beds than bodies in the men's barracks, so Ozzie had a bunk
to himself and didn't have to worry about waking someone above him when he
finally stirred, throwing off his covers. He was wearing his shorts and socks
but no shoes. Those he carried as he eased off the bed.

After only a few nights in the barracks he knew which floor slats creaked,
and he took care to avoid them as he tiptoed across the room. All around him
he could hear the light snoring and deep breathing that signaled full sleep.
As he'd counted on, the others were oblivious to his movements.

A whisper suddenly cut through the darkness, startling him. "Hey! Where are
you going?"

Ozzie froze and tried to place the voice. It was coming from the bunk closest
to him. In the moonlight he recognized Randall, at twelve the youngest of the
initiates, perched atop the upper bed.

"Gotta take a leak," Ozzie told the boy once he regained his composure. He
hid his shoes behind his back so Randall couldn't see them. "Go back to
sleep."

"I gotta go, too."

His master plan foiled, Ozzie thought fast, trying to come up with
alternatives that might turn the disruption in his favor. It was another case
of falling back on advice from the old man. One of Bill Towers's favorite
sayings was 'A wall can be turned into a hurdle if you try getting over it
instead of beating your hands against it.'

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"Okay," Ozzie finally said, helping the youth down from the bunk. Randall was
only wearing his underwear, so Ozzie handed him a towel hanging from one of
the overhead rafters. "Look, I don't really have to go. I was just having
trouble getting to sleep. You go ahead."

"You're sure?"

Ozzie smiled and patted the shorter boy on the shoulder. "Yeah. Go on. Just
get one of the deacons' attention."

Randall was reluctant, but at Ozzie's urging he finally trudged to the screen
door and waved his arms until the deacon on guard duty outside spotted him and
came over. Both the male and female barracks were locked from the outside to
discourage disciples from straying in the night. When Randall explained his
predicament the deacon made a snide remark about the youth's lack of
discipline, but he finally consented to open the door and lead the
twelve-year-old to the latrines, which were located a few dozen yards away
behind a large shed where most of the farming equipment was stored.

Ozzie took full advantage of the diversion and moved quickly. Just inside the
screen door was a small room walled off from the rest of the barracks.
Originally set aside to give the counselors a little privacy from the
recruits, the room was now used for storage and contained work outfits,
towels, dirty laundry and other paraphernalia. Earlier in the afternoon, work
crews had been set loose on the barracks to prep the fading surfaces for their
new coat of paint. Ozzie had volunteered to handle the windows, checking for
cracked glass and areas in need of fresh putty. The locks on the windows had
also been moved so that they were now on the outside, and Ozzie had taken care
to rig the one on the counseler's room window so that it looked from the
ground as if it were in place, but was actually disengaged.

Before he tried the window, Ozzie pulled a broken section of hacksaw blade
from one of his shoes and used it to cut through the spots where old paint was
binding the window to the frame. He'd already done a thorough job on the outer
side with a razor blade that afternoon. Once the task was finished, he
hurriedly slipped on his shoes, then pushed the window upward. It creaked
slightly but moved with little resistance until it was open wide enough for
him to squeeze through.

It was a short drop to the ground, and Ozzie landed as softly as possible,
taking care to remain in the shadows as he ran away from both barracks and
into the chaparral-choked foothills. The moon was nearly full, providing ample
illumination as Ozzie threaded his way through the brush, circling around the
main grounds and heading toward the knoll upon which the Holy One's mysterious
palace stood. Although the air was considerably cooler than it was during the
day, Ozzie was sweating with fear. The pit bulls were always allowed to roam
the grounds freely after lights-out, and Ozzie knew they were trained to track
down runaways by sniffing out the "telltale odor of the strongly scented soap
the disciples used when they showered after their hours in the fields. Even
though he had not used soap this evening, Ozzie suspected there was enough
residual smell clinging to his skin to draw the dogs if they got wind of him.

Halfway to his destination, Ozzie heard the distant groan of an automobile.
He paused in the chaparral and looked in the direction of the palace. Beyond
the knoll he could make out two faint dots of light bobbing along one of the
old dirt roads heading toward the mansion. Soon the vehicle lights were
blocked from Ozzie's view by the knoll, but he could still hear the engine,
sounding closer with each passing second.

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Picking up his pace, the youth ignored the painful ache in his lungs and
ventured through the foothills until he came upon the barbed-wire fence that
cordoned off the knoll from the rest of the property. The strands of wire were
too close together for Ozzie to have any hope of squeezing through, but from
that vantage point and distance from the main grounds he at least had a
different view of the palace. In fact, he could see where the dirt track led
to a driveway behind the Holy One's estate.

As Ozzie caught his breath and watched, a Mercedes sedan rolled into view and
came to a stop beneath a floodlight by the rear entrance to the palace. A man
in a chauffeur's uniform got out of the car and walked around to the
passenger's side, then opened the back door for a portly man dressed in a dark
grey suit. The two men were nearly forty yards away, but with the Mercedes's
engine off and the foothill slopes forming a natural amphitheater, their
voices carried well in the night air.

' Ozzie couldn't make out any words, and he soon realized it was because they
spoke a foreign language. He couldn't be positive, but the accents reminded
him of the Russian heavies he occasionally saw on TV shows or in the movies.

Russians?

Ozzie was baffled. What could the Russians have to do with the Holy One and
the Church of the New Word?

Before the youth had time to contemplate the possibilities, the inner gateway
to the palace courtyard opened and both men disappeared inside. Just as the
gates closed, two smaller figures burst out from the courtyard and began
chasing one another on a wide strip of lawn next to the driveway.

Pit bulls.

Ozzie held his breath involuntarily and slowly crept away from the fence. He
wasn't sure if there was a wide enough gap for the dogs to wriggle under the
barbed wire if they caught his scent, but he didn't want to wait around to
find out.

Carefully retracing his steps, Ozzie scrambled back through the foothills
without pausing to look over his shoulder. It was only as he was closing in on
the barracks that he began to slow down. And it was only after he had
successfully crept back into the bunkhouse and made his way back to his bed
that the jackhammer beating of his heart began to subside. Even then he knew
that it would be hours before he could fall asleep. There was so much to think
about.

Russians, he found himself thinking over and over. Who were the Russians?

Sergei Karanov's stomach was acting up again, and the antacid tablets he
gulped down with increasing frequency did little to abate the misery. All
along he had sworn he'd rather die early than resort to the restricted diet
his doctors advocated, but now he wasn't so sure. Better a bullet through the
head than the painful and gradual decline of a body that had lost its
tolerance for the good things in life. That was the way he looked at it. There
had to be a better way. Perhaps once he finished this assignment he would
treat himself to a well-deserved vacation, go to one of those fancy European
spas and pamper himself with the waters to make the diet more endurable.
Perhaps a little more rest and a little less aggravation might return him to
the robust form of his younger years, when Department V had still been
independent and he had been the most independent of the KGB's top agentsa

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reckless daredevil whose success rate had always earned him the top-priority
missions doled out by the Soviets.

Now Karanov worked for the First Department of the Foreign Directorate, the
division of the complicated machinery of the KGB that dealt with Soviet spy
activity in the United States. Even more specifically he was part of Line PR,
named after the Russian words for "political intelligence," and he worked on
the San Francisco desk, which was responsible for most major operations west
of the Rocky Mountains.

Karanov and his driver awaited the arrival of the Holy One in the palace's
opulent den. The Russian stared at the room's many exotic trappings, from the
Persian carpets on the marble floor to the gold-leaf trim on the wall's oak
paneling and the elaborate fresco adorning the vaulted ceiling. Such
capitalist decadence in the possession of a spiritual leader struck him as
contradictory. Marx was right, Karanov mused. Religion was indeed the opium of
the masses. How else to explain the blind devotion of those who endured
deprivation and suffering without questioning the luxurious amenities of those
like the Holy One?

But so be it. In this case, and in the case of many of the cults through the
U.S. that the KGB was subtly infiltrating with increasing success, the
foolishness of the flock made them valuable pawns in Soviet plans to undermine
the social fabric of their greatest enemy. Like drugs, fanatic religious cults
could be used effectively to subvert American ideals and weaken the nation's
overall resolve. It might be a slower process than engaging in military
conflict or other more blatant tactics, but in the long run the same desired
results could be achieved, and with far fewer casualties to Mother Russia.

At least this was Karanov's thinking when he felt the need to rouse his
spirits, to assure himself that even though he was no longer involved in the
more glamorous cloak-and-dagger intrigue of his earlier years, he was in his
own way still among the most vital agents in the KGB. Yes, there was a certain
ring of truth to the premise. He'd changed tactics, but his effectiveness was
unchanged. Whereas before his prowess had been physical, now it was more
refined. Experience had made him shrewd, with no need for the reckless bravado
of yesteryear.

I am still the best, he thought to himself. Damn it, I am!

The Holy One finally appeared, striding through the arched doorway, flanked
by two of the yeliow-shirted deacons.

"Greetings, Comrade Karanov," the religious leader said, signaling for the
deacons to fall back and remain at attention on either side of the doorway.
Turning to the chauffeura tall, muscular man in his early thirtiesthe Holy One
offered a faint smile and added, "And to you, Yuri."

Yuri bowed slightly but did not divert his eyes from the short, bald figure
in the white robe. It was clear that he regarded the Holy One as something
other than a living divinity. Karanov was of a similar mind, and there was no
trace of deference in his voice as he addressed the cult's enigmatic leader.

"We are here a day early because this lot of serum is defective." As Karanov
slipped one hand inside his suit coat, the two yellowshirts reflexively
reached for their hidden Berettas. The Russian eyed them with bland
condescension as he slowly withdrew an amber glass vial from his inside
pocket. The container, which was the length and width of his index finger, was
half filled with a clear liquid. Karanov waited patiently for the deacons to
take their hands off their weapons before continuing, "When it is given to the

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sailors, they black out completely and cannot be questioned. A total waste of
our efforts. Weak as the previous solution was, at least we were able to have
some instances of success, however limited."

The Holy One didn't seem surprised by the agent's remarks or by the
accusatory tone of his voice. "We have been trying to reach you for days now
to let you know the serum was faulty."

"If you knew it wouldn't work, why did you give it to us?" Karanov wanted to
know.

"Comrade Karanov, you must understand"

"Do not call me comrade," Karanov snapped irritably. "We both know you do not
subscribe to the party doctrine, so such petty endearments are wasted. To you
I am Mr. Karanov. Understood?"

"Of course," the Holy One responded after a brief pause.

"And you can tell your bald-headed friends that if they so much as touch
their guns again in my presence I will see to it that they are taken away."
Karanov let his gaze drift to the two deacons in the doorway. "Let us not
forget who is in charge here."

A tense silence washed through the room, charging the air with an almost
palpable sense of confrontation. Only the Holy One's face refused to tighten
with concern. Refusing to acknowledge Karanov's outburst, the robed figure
motioned to the doorway and said, "Come, I will explain as we go to the
laboratory."

The two Russians traded glances, then fell in beside the Holy One as they
left the den and started down a long, high-ceilinged hallway every bit as
lavishly appointed as the other room. There were five-hundred-year-old
tapestries on the walls, and priceless urns and vases rested on pedestals near
various doors leading to rooms set off from the corridor. The two deacons
followed the threesome at a distance that allowed the Holy One to speak
without their overhearing.

"You must understand, Mr. Karanov, that it is not easy to create a serum that
will give both the results you desire and also break down within the system so
that it cannot be traced after its use.

"At first it appeared that this newest combination would be effective. The
initial tests produced impressive results, but when we used the same solution
two days later under the same conditions we, too, found the subjects lapsed
into unconsciousness and could not be interrogated or placed under hypnosis.
Dr. Bates suspects that something in the interaction of the three different
compounds causes a delayed change in chemical structure, turning the serum
into one with anesthetic qualities rather than one producing the effects you
are looking for. Do you understand?"

Karanov nodded. "Yes, I understand. You and Dr. Bates have failed again."

"It is part of the process," the Holy One responded calmly. "Trial and error,
the scientific method We must use these means. You cannot expect us to give
you a magic wand that you only have to wave in front of the faces of those you
wish to bring under your control. That is simply not plausible."

Karanov sneered. "You painted a far more optimistic picture when you first
came to us and convinced the Directorate to allocate funds to your movement.

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'Mind control as you have never before witnessed.' I believe that is how you
put it. 'Truth serums so effective that they will make Pentothal seem like a
mere soft drink in comparison.'"

"I have promised those things," the Holy One admitted, "and I shall deliver
them to you."

"When?"

"Soon," the Holy One replied. "We have made great progress. You need only
show us a little patience. All good things come to those who wait."

"The party is weary of your fortune-cookie philosophy," Karanov said flatly.
"We want results. Not tomorrow. Today!"

Reaching the end of the corridor, the threesome paused while the deacons
moved forward and opened a set of teak doors that had been carved with
pastoral settings. The group walked down a wide stone staircase into a large
basement laboratory. There were long, untended workbenches covered with
beakers, microscopes, burners, glass tubing and all the other paraphernalia of
scientific research. Fluorescent lights, which covered most of the
acoustic-tile ceiling, lighted the room.

The Holy One led Karanov and Yuri to a small cubicle in the far corner of the
room, where a middle-aged woman in a white lab coat was standing next to a
hospital bed. Lying on the bed, heavily swathed in gauze bandages, was AI
Rivera. Several intravenous tubes were taped to his arm, and cloth restraints
bound the young man's arms and legs to the bed's frame, holding him still
despite his frantic, twitching attempts to move.

"Dr. Bates is trying a new variation of the serum," the Holy One informed the
two Russians as they watched through a large viewing window in the wall that
separated the room from the rest of the lab. "I believe this one employs a
stronger muscle relaxant and a far weaker dose of sedatives. Hopefully the
subject can be brought under control while still remaining semiconscious, in
an almost hypnotic state."

"That sounds like what we're looking for," Karano v said.

Inside the smaller room, AI Rivera shouted at the woman hovering above him as
he strained against his bonds. "Get away from me! If you touch me I'll kill
you."

"I don't think so," Dr. Lana Bates replied as she calmly filled a syringe
with liquid from a small glass beaker. She was a tall woman with greying hair
pulled back from her gaunt, bony face. Wire-rimmed bifocals were propped on
her long, straight nose, and she peered through them as she tested the
syringe's plunger. She squirted a small spray of solution into the air before
turning to Rivera again and using a cotton swab to clean off an exposed area
on the youth's upper arm. "Very soon, I think, you'll be feeling much better."

Rivera tensed and let out a long, pained scream as the needle pierced his
arm. Dr. Bates injected the full contents of the syringe, then extracted the
needle and stepped back to observe her patient's reaction. Out of the corner
of her eye she saw the others watching, and she turned to acknowledge their
presence and signal that she would be with them shortly.

The serum took effect quickly, stealing the strength from Rivera's body in a
matter of seconds. He quit struggling and lay still on the bed. His eyelids
began to flutter as he turned to the woman beside him. "You bitch," he groaned

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weakly. "You fucking bü"

Rivera's jaw hung slack. His eyes remained half-open, but his chest stopped
rising beneath the covers. Dr. Bates set aside the syringe and monitored the
youth's vital signs, checking his wrist for a pulse and gently easing one of
Rivera's eyelids open all the way. With a sigh she let the youth's arm fall
limply to his side, then closed the valves on the intravenous lines running
into his arm. After turning off the room's overhead light, she walked out to
greet the others. The Russians already knew her.

"Another failure?" Karanov said, making no attempt to conceal his
displeasure.

"Not really." Dr. Bates put her hands inside the front pockets of her smock.
With a nod of her head in Rivera's direction, she said, "He was a control, to
see how strong a dose the body can tolerate. I have a girl who's been given a
milder injection, and I think you'll be encouraged by the response we've
received from her."

"Show us," Karanov said.

"Gladly, if you'll just follow me."

Apparently oblivious to the dead man lying in the darkened side room, the
doctor led the group around the corner and down a short hallway. "Earlier this
afternoon," she explained as they walked, "this girl was brought in in a state
of extreme agitation. She was ranting and raving about how the Church was a
fraud and how we'd beat up her boyfriendthe one back there. After an injection
with the new combination serum, we put her under hypnosis and gave her a
thorough indoctrination. When we brought her out of the trance, her vital
signs were steady. She's been up now for five, going on six hours, and acting
totally in line with optimum expectations, with no obvious side effects."

"None?" Even the Holy One seemed surprised.

"You'll see."

Halfway down the back hallway, Dr. Bates motioned for the others to step into
a small activity room, where Isabelle Fiori was playing chess with one of the
deacons. The girl was concentrating on the game, but when she saw the Holy One
step into the room, a look of rapture came over her face. She rose from her
chair and fell to her knees beside the table.

"Blessed be the Holy One," she said in a firm, measured voice, a voice filled
with emotion, nothing like the sluggish, zombielike drone that might have been
expected from a victim of such thorough brainwashing. Her eyes were clear,
vibrant. As Dr. Bates had predicted, she showed virtually no outward sign of
being under any form of external control or post-hypnotic suggestion.

"Blessed be thou, child," the Holy One replied, smiling gently and placing a
hand on Isabelle's cheek. "Please, stand. And tell me, how are you feeling?"

"Wonderful," Isabelle said as she rose to her feet. Looking past the Holy
One, she asked Dr. Bates and the Russians, "Have you come to join the
Church?"'

"Perhaps," Dr. Bates replied.

"Oh, but you must!" Isabelle insisted with a radiant smile. "You can't
believe what a change it's made to me"

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"You seem very happy," Karanov said.

"Oh, but I am!" Isabelle proclaimed. "I've found the one true way, and my
life's in order. Complete harmony. There's nothing like it, I promise you."
Her words rang with total, unforced conviction. Any trace of the angry,
questioning young woman who had confronted the Holy One earlier inside the
church was completely gone.

"Thank you for those kind words, child," the Holy One told the girl. "You may
go back to your game now. I am just showing these kind people the facilities."

"Thank you," Isabelle said. She looked at the others cheerfully, and then
said, "I hope to see you all around later."

As the teenager rejoined the deacon at the table, Dr. Bates led the Russians
and the Holy One back to the main laboratory. The two deacons who had
originally accompanied them downstairs were now in the process of removing AI
Rivera's body from the smaller antechamber.

"So what did you think of the girl?" Dr. Bates asked.

"A convincing performance," Karanov said.

"That was no performance," the doctor maintained. "She believes every word of
it, just as surely as she breathes."

"And you feel we could indoctrinate mature adults in the same manner with the
same results?"

"That's certainly our hope," Dr. Bates said.

"I think I would like to stay here overnight, then observe the girl again in
the morning to see if her behavior is unchanged," Karanov announced. "If it
is, then we will take a sample of the serum back to San Diego and try it on
some officers."

"An excellent idea, Mr. Karanov," the Holy One said. "As you know, we have
ample accommodations."

"Of course."

"And," the cult figure said, "I think that we should acknowledge that we are
partners, yes? It is true that you provide some of our funds, but it is also
true that we are providing you with a service in exchange for those moneys.
Agreed?"

Karanov smiled thinly at the Holy One. "It's late," he said.

Miramar Naval Air Station was located on a massive parcel of land just north
of San Diego, bisected by the Cabrillo Expressway, one of the countless
concrete arteries linking the city to the rest of the state. Despite its
present proximity to the freeways, the station had initially been isolated
from the residential population. But in recent years the same proliferation of
suburban tracts that had encroached upon buildable land surrounding major
cities throughout the Sun Belt had led to extensive development around the
station, particularly along Miramar Road, on the northernmost boundary of the
station. As if it were a game of leapfrog, the creation of new homes had led
to an expansion of local commercial facilities, which in turn had lured still

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more residents into fast-growing neighborhoods and triggered a subsequent
spurt in the erection of shopping malls, fast-food establishments, car lots,
minimalls and other businesses.

There was an area of richer, more upscale estates, complete with two-acre
lots, security gates and private garbage collection. The middle-class lived
close by, in clusters of homes that resembled one another, a situation that
some found comforting and others found depressing. And then there was a 'wrong
side of the tracks', where people lived in cheaply constructed apartment
complexes and worn-out trailer homes located within walking distance of a
wilderness of liquor stores with a sideline interest in cashing checks 'for a
small fee,' small hole-in-the-wall taverns with chopped motorcycles and
battered pickup trucks in the parking lot, older motels with paint flaking
from the walls and run-down mom-and-pop shops unable to compete with the
resources of franchise chains.

"Real cheerful place, eh, guys?" Schwarz said as he took in the surroundings,
which appeared even more ominous in the dull glow of the streetlights. He was
still favoring his wounded ankles.

"Hell, it's Beverly Hills compared to where I grew up," Pol observed,
recalling the barrios that he'd called home prior to his enlistment in the
Army half a lifetime ago.

Both men were wearing Navy uniforms with appropriate patches and insignia to
give the impression they were part pf the NAS facilities just down the road.
Lyons, walking with them, was dressed in civvies, but his fake identification
pegged him as a Navy lieutenant and part of that service's intelligence
agency. The disguises were courtesy of Ike Ebsen, who was providing backup for
the Team with another plain-clothes officer in an unmarked sedan parked in an
alley two blocks away.

As he observed the passing glances of loose women loitering on the corners
and rednecks leaning against their vehicles outside the liquor store across
the street, Lyons summed up Able Team's overall feeling about their
assignment. "I feel like a worm on a hook in a trout stream."

"Ain't that the truth," Schwarz said. "Let's just try to keep the hook
hidden."

"I'm trying," Blancanales told him, "but I swear, I never thought I'd be
caught dead in a Navy uniform. We run into any of my old Army buddies and I'll
never hear the end of it."

"It's not likely that any Army folks will be hanging out in this neck of the
woods," Lyons said.

According to Ike Ebsen, most of the victimized officers from the Naval Air
Station had linked up with prostitutes in and around a bar called The Anchor's
Away, located in the middle of Miramar's small underbelly. Bulbs were out in
the sign on top of the tavern, so that when it lit up at night it read HE
CHOR'S WAY. The outside walls were done up in weathered clapboard to give the
place a wharfish look, and a rusty anchor was welded in place next to the
entrance. A sailor dressed in white was talking to a redheaded woman slouching
lasciviously against the anchor with one foot resting on the raised iron
prongs. The position revealed a great deal of the fishnet stockings she wore
beneath her leather skirt. When the sailor spotted Able Team, he immediately
sprang to attention, turning his back on the woman.

"As you were, sailor," Blancanales told the younger man.

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"Thank you, sirl" The sailor snapped off a salute, then swung around and
resumed his seduction, telling the leggy redhead, "So, you're an anchorwoman,
right? For what network?"

"Oh, boy, looks like I got myself a comedian," the woman responded between
smacks of chewing gum.

She shifted her legs slightly, exposing a bit more thigh. "Listen, how'd you
like to get a real scoop ?"

"How'd you like to tickle my funny bone?" the sailor countered, grinning with
anticipation.

"Oh, is that what's bulging your britches? Here I thought maybe you'd just
gotten paid and were going to buy me a drink."

"I got enough for that, too, sweetcakes"

From the doorway, Lyons looked away from the woman and the sailor and rolled
his eyes. "I think we better go inside. It's getting a little thick out here,"
he said to Schwarz and Blancanales.

"Gee, I don't know," Blancanales said. "Romeo's on a roll over there. I want
to write some of those lines down for future reference."

Schwarz laughed and slapped his partner on the shoulder. "Skip it, he might
want royalties. Come on, I'm thirsty. Buy the first round and I'll tell you
the one about discharged seamen in the naval base."

The Anchor's Away was small, loud and dirty, just like the mustached
bartender, who had destroyers tattooed on his biceps. When Able Team elbowed
up to the bar, he eyed them warily and warned, "Ain't seen you fuckers here
before. If you're MPs lookin' for trouble, maybe you better go back and talk
to Admiral Mahgie."

"Just looking for a cold drink and a warm reception, friend," Lyons answered
evenly as he slid a ten-spot across the counter. "How about a pitcher of draft
and three glasses? Put the change in the kitty."

"Since you put it that way, welcome aboard!" The bartender grabbed the ten
and grinned. His teeth were different colors, and it was hard to tell which
were real.

As he went off to fetch the drinks, Able Team took a moment to take in the
rowdy din and clientele around them. The jukebox in the corner was broken, but
there was music of sorts as men at different tables competed with one another
to see who could sing the loudest drinking song. Obviously no prizes were
being awarded for quality of performancethe drunken yelps of tone-deaf sailors
and rednecks assured that no group would be mistaken for a slumming barbershop
quartet. The normal antagonism between local boys and men in uniform was
absent, no doubt due to the fact that the Navy outnumbered the locals and were
the less likely of the two to pick fights. If anything, the good-natured
competition symbolized a peaceful coexistence between the groups that Able
Team hadn't felt when out walking the streets. Here at The Anchor's Away,
fighting ranked low on the list of priorities, well behind getting drunk and
slaphappy, bitching about life back on the base and looking to get laid. To
help out with the latter objective, there was a steady influx of ready women
who showed up at the bar with the same eager-to-please attitude that people
hungry for a paycheck bring with them to the employment office.

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The bartender returned, and each of the Stony Man team was given a frosted
mug. The accompanying pitcher was barely large enough to pour full rounds, and
Schwarz promptly slid the bartender another ten for a refill. As they sipped
the cold, watered-down brew, the three men casually resumed their
surveillance.

"Definitely a meet market," Schwarz said, watching yet another twosome leave
the tavern arm-in-arm.

"What I don't get is how the KGB's ladies figure out who's working
intelligence here," Blancanales said. "From what I've seen, it doesn't look
like there's any in-depth interviewing going on, if you know what I mean."

Lyons said, "Depends on where you're looking, Pol. Check out the pool tables.
Things move a lot slower over there."

In the far corner of the bar, two pool tables were crammed into a space
better suited for one. There were women playing sailors at both tables, and
there was plenty of conversation going on between shots. Other men stood off
on the sidelines, dividing their attention between the games and the come-ons
of still other short-skirted women in tank tops.

"Shall we?" Schwarz said to his partners after the bartender brought them
more beer.

Lyons and Blancanales nodded. They took their drinks from the bar and waded
through the throng to the other side of the room, pausing halfway to lend
support to a tableful of Navy officers singing a rousing chorus of "How Dry I
Am."

There were long rows of quarters lined up along the edges of both tables, and
a sailor nursing a bottle of Corona along the wall quickly filled Able Team in
on the situation. "If you're looking to play, better figure on at least an
hour wait," he told them.

"That's assuming it's pool we want to play," Lyons wisecracked, raising his
voice loud enough that a tall, lanky blonde standing nearby could hear. She
cast a subtle glance Lyons's way, and he grinned at her, drawling, "Evenin'."

"It is, isn't it?" she replied. "My, you must be an officer of some sort to
have figured that out." There was a brunette standing behind her, and she
laughed at her friend's comeback.

"Well, right now I'm off duty," Lyons said. "So are my buddies. Had a full
week of breaking codes, so we thought we'd come here where the people aren't
quite so cryptic."

"I see. So you guys are big shots over at the station, huh?"

"Big enough," Lyons said.

"So I see," the blonde said, casting a glance up and down Lyons's body. She
introduced herself. "By the way, I'm Dottie. This here's my friend Gloria."

Lyons handled introductions for Able Team. "We're Manny, Moe and Jack."

"Ah, the Pep boys!" Gloria gushed with mock excitement. "You sure don't look
anything like in the advertisements."

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"We like to protect our privacy," Blancanales said. "And what do you ladies
do?"

Dottie gestured at the nearby pool tables. "We hang out and keep our eyes
open for stray balls."

Gloria giggled again, then managed to keep a straight face long enough to
say, "We also make sure the cue sticks stay straight."

"I bet you do," Schwarz said.

"Maybe you'd like to see how we train? It's very interesting." Dottie quickly
added, "That girl shooting over on the far table's with us."

Lyons glanced over and saw a short woman with curly hair clearing the table.
A pair of obviously frustrated towners held their cues as they watched, hoping
they'd have a chance to shoot before the game was over.

"Hey, how convenient," Lyons said. "Three of you and three of us!"

"Must be fate, hmmm?" Dottie said. "Say, it's kinda noisy and crowded here
for demonstrations, y'know. We could give you a little one-on-one
demonstration, y'know? How about if we scoot over to my place? It's just down
the block. You could get the grand tour."

"Grand tour?" Lyons frowned. "Sounds expensive."

"Not when you consider all the fringe benefits. Come on, we haven't had any
dissatisfied customers yet."

"Well, I don't know." Lyons turned to Schwarz and Blancanales to take a quick
poll as to whether or not they thought these might be the KGB's women. Pol
gave a thumbs-up, while Schwarz gave a subtle so-so gesture. Carl looked back
at Dottie and Gloria. "Okay, what the hell, if you're sure it's just down the
block."

"Absolutely," Dottie promised.

Heading back out into the night, the sixsome walked two and a half blocks
from The Anchor's Away to what Dottie and the other women affectionately
called their "launch pad." Several times along the way the girls stopped their
escorts to point out the more scenic attractions of the Miramar strip. For
most of the last block they were delayed by heckling towners in a passing
pickup that trailed slowly alongside them, trying to bait the men of Able Team
into a fight.

"Hey, dudes, no dippin' into the home 'tang."

Gloria gave the locals the finger and shouted, "You guys are just jealous
because we wouldn't give you the time of day."

"Hah! You gave me more than the time, sweet-shakes!" the driver chortled. He
advised Lyons, "Better watch it. These bitches got itches, you know what I
mean?"

The acne-faced man riding shotgun added, "Yeah, when you're through with them
you're gonna need first aid."

Lyons calmly broke away from the others and approached the pickup. In a
matter of seconds the driver accelerated the truck and screeched off down the

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road. Ironman watched the departing taillights before rejoining the others.

"What'd you tell them?" Dottie wanted to know.

Lyons grinned deviously. "I told them I had influential friendsand that I was
more of man than they could ever dream of being."

"Ooon, really?" Dottie said. "We're going to have to pull straws to see who
gets him," she told her two girlfriends.

"That's not all we'll have to pull," the shortest of the three snickered.

"Let's not be naughty now, Paula," Gloria scolded.

"That's okay," Schwarz said, doing his best to play along with the others
despite the fact that his ankles were throbbing from walking on the concrete
sidewalks. "I think we can live through a little naughty."

"We don't do anything little, mister," Dottie promised.

Dottie's place turned out to be a room at the Miramar Arms, one of the first
hotels to have been built in the vicinity of the naval air station. It looked
it, too, showing few signs of upkeep and even fewer traces of renovation. The
vacancy light was on, and the parking lot was three-quarters empty. A
sick-sounding Labrador retriever howled at Able Team and the three women as
they passed by the fenced-in pool area where the dog was pulling guard duty.

"Oh, shut up, Ollie," Gloria yelled at the dog. "Don't you recognize us by
now?"

The retriever continued to bark until the group had circled around the pool
and out of its view.

"Paula and I have a nice suite on the ground floor," Dottie whispered as she
fished out her keys and led the others to a dimly lit entranceway. As she was
unlocking the door, the three men traded quick, uncertain glances. This wasn't
one of the hotels Ebsen had mentioned that the KGB used. Of course, Lyons
reasoned, it made sense that they'd move their base of operations around as a
standard precaution.

The inside hallway was dark and musty-smelling. The carpet was threadbare,
and there were water stains in several spots on the ceiling. Rock music blared
through the thin walls of a room halfway down the corridor.

"We like to keep a low profile," Dottie told the men as she stopped in front
of a door near the end of the passageway. "But just wait until you see how
we've spiffed up our place."

"Yeah," Paula chimed in. "You're gonna flip!"

"Shouldn't we really surprise 'em? You know, give 'em the full treatment?"
Gloria asked her friends."

The girls looked at one another, then shared an impish laugh. "Okay, guys,
you have to close your eyes and count to three when you walk in to get the
full effect," Dottie told Able Team.

The men balked. This wasn't part of the modus operandiat least not that they
knew of. They were each beginning to reach the unsettling conclusion that
they'd caught the wrong fish. If so, they were going to have to figure out as

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graceful a way as possible to bow out of following through on their bartered
liaison with the ladies.

"Come on," Paula said, pouting. "Don't be party poopers."

"Well, what the hell," Lyons finally said, moving in front of the door and
closing his eyes. "I'm game. Come on guys, let's see what kind of surprise
we're in for."

Schwarz and Blancanales followed the Ironman's lead and stood before the door
and closed their eyes. But the three commandos had no intention of keeping
them closed when the door was opened. Their cautionary instincts served them
well, because when the door slid open and the women gently guided the men into
the darkened room, there was just enough moonlight seeping in to reveal the
darkened outlines of other guests.

What happened next went by in a blur. Once they saw that company was already
waiting for them, Able Team immediately broke away from the women and dived in
three separate directions, going for their guns in the same motion. When
Dottie reached inside the room and flashed on the overhead light, five men
took threatening steps toward their anticipated victims, then promptly shrank
back at the sight of the Colt Python and two Government Model .45s pointing in
their direction.

"Freeze!" Lyons shouted.

It was clear the strangers hadn't anticipated any gunplay, as they were armed
only with chains, clubs and tire irons. None of them were foolish enough to
try going up against the gunmen crouched on the floor.

"Drop the toys, boys," Lyons commanded as he slowly rose to his feet. As the
hardware dropped to the carpet, Schwarz and Blancanales stood up, as well,
simultaneously advising the men to put their hands in the air.

"You!" Pol said, pointing at a tall man in a black T-shirt. "You were back at
the bar!"

"So what?"

Pol sized up the scam immediately. "The girls make sure we take our time
getting here so you can hurry over and set up the surprise party. That how it
goes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man in the T-shirt said.

"Speaking of the girls" Schwarz looked over his shoulder and saw that the
three women were nowhere to be seen.

"They won't go far," Lyons reminded Gadgets, pointing to the spot where a
hidden microphone was taped to his chest. "Backup'll get 'em."

As Lyons predicted, the three women only got as far as the entrance before
they were stopped by Ike Ebsen and Pete Crowley, Naval Intelligence's liaison
officer with the Miramar police force. Out in the parking lot, two patrol cars
were already screeching to a halt and disgorging uniformed officers.

"Going somewhere, ladies?" Ebsen inquired.

"Uh, yeah," Dottie said. "We just came home and found all these guys in our
room. I don't know, I think they're doing a drug deal or something. Some of

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them have guns! Thank God you're here!"

Ebsen smirked at Dottie. "Nice try, but we're on to you, okay? Up against the
wall and spread 'em. We got a couple of ladies in blue coming to take care of
you."

As soon as the local police arrived and two woman cops started frisking the
prostitutes, Ebsen and Crowley led three other officers down the hallway to
the room where Able Team was holding their would-be attackers at bay.

"Well," the oldest of the cops said when he looked at the prisoners, "if it
isn't my buddy Lex and his pack of Iowlifes."

"You know these guys?" Ebsen asked.

"Yeah, I know 'em" the cop said. "Lex has been doing this shit with different
flunkies around here for years. Hell, we just caught 'em at this same scam a
month ago. Got out of doing time on some friggin' technicality, but it looks
like they didn't quit while they were ahead."

"Shit," Ebsen muttered, disappointment creeping into his face. He told the
cop, "Can I have a word with you outside?"

"Sure."

Able Team followed Ebsen and the older cop out into the hallway while Crowley
supervised the arrest of the towners in the room. They walked to the far end
of the hall. Then Ebsen asked, "Are you saying this Lex fellow's just a
nickel-and-dime hood?"

The cop grinned. "Well, I'd make it a dime-and-quarter hood. Inflation, you
know. He'll get these ladies to reel in some poor sucker with a bankroll and
then swoop down with his goons. Strictly little league."

"You don't think he'd have any ties with higher-ups? KGB, maybe?"

The cop laughed, "You kidding me? Look, he's been a pain in Miramar's ass
since he was a teenager. Lex is too stubborn to take orders from anyone and
too dumb to be hired by anybody like the KGB. I promise you that."

"I was afraid of that," Ebsen grumbled. "Well, go ahead and take 'em away."

"Will do," the cop said, nodding at Able Team. "Nice sting, guys."

"Yeah, right," Lyons groused, realizing they'd spent the night working a
false alarm. "Only it looks like we got stung, too."

The Holy One's appreciation of the fine arts was also evident in his bedroom,
where a collection of framed Aubrey Beardsley prints was mounted on the walls.
The priceless works were examples of the artist's renowned gift for erotica,
depicting graphic sexual couplings between consenting adults who possessed
grotesquely oversize genitalia. They seemed as out of place in the sleeping
quarters of a religious leader as the large, round bed with the scented silk
sheets and the smooth-limbed, suggestive statues at each corner. Bathed in a
low, languid light, the room seemed more like the boudoir of a high-priced
call girl, and yet the Holy One sat peacefully on the bed in a lotus position,
eyes closed, as if in the grips of introspective, spiritually uplifting
meditation.

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When a short series of knocks sounded on the door to the bedroom, the Holy
One's eyes slowly opened, showing no sign of either surprise or agitation at
the interruption.

"Come in."

The door opened inward and Yuri Ostrovich, Sergei Karanov's chauffeur, strode
purposefully into the chamber, still dressed in his uniform, eyes fixed on the
robed figure on the bed. Without saying a word, the tall Russian unsnapped the
strap on his black leather holster and pulled out a Hungarian Pisztoly 37M
automatic. He drew aim at the Holy One and released the gun's safety. Seven
rounds of 7.65 mm ACP were ready to be fired at the sitting figure at a muzzle
velocity of 280 mps.

The Holy One glanced briefly at the gun, then looked up into the eyes of the
Russian. There was no emotion in the gaze. No fear, no anger. Slowly the
leader unfolded from the lotus position and knelt upright. With eyes still
fixed on Yuri, the Holy One untied the tasseled strings of the robe and parted
the cloth to reveal the soft lines of clavicles and shoulders. Then the robe
was cast off completely, exposing the leader's nakedness.

The Holy One was a woman.

From a small leather case beside her on the bed, the woman removed a wig of
long, black hair and carefully placed it atop her bald head. Then she leaned
forward slightly so that the dark tresses fell across her small, firm breasts.
Aroused, her light brown nipples filled with blood and thrust outward.

"You like it, don't you?" she whispered seductively at the man before her,
who stood frozen, his gun still in his hand.

Crawling on her hands and knees with the graceful ease of a panther, the Holy
One went to the edge of the bed, placing her face against the cold steel of
the Pisztoly. Her hands reached up, softly stroking the Russian's thick
fingers.

Yuri was trembling, and the woman had to hold his hands steady on the gun as
he stared down at her. Sweat broke out on his brow, and beneath the brass
studs of his uniform his heart pulsed frantically. He swallowed hard, several
times feeling his finger graze the trigger.

He felt a terrifying yet strangely wonderful weakness course through his
body.

Finally Yuri could stand it no longer. Undoing the buckle of his holster with
one hand, he snapped the gun back into place with the other. He placed the
holster and his belt on an ottoman next to the bed before she leaned back and
pulled him to join her.

For more than an hour they made love amid the silk, matching the athletic
positions of the Beardsley prints and surpassing them with some limb-twisting
variations of their own. The room was soundproof, so neither felt any need for
restraint, and his lustful cursings were answered by her impassioned cries of
ecstasy.

When it was over, Yuri, spent and sated, fell promptly into a deep slumber.
The woman, however, remained awake beside him, at first lying on her back and
staring blankly at the ceiling, then once again resuming the lotus position
and removing her wig before lapsing into a state of meditation. Only five
minutes passed before she was finished, and then she carefully wrapped her

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chest with a length of support bandage to conceal the swell of her breasts.

After putting her robe back on and slipping her feet into a pair of simple
thongs, the Holy One left Yuri to sleep and strode from the bedroom. Two
deacons flanking the door were about to break from their rigid stances when
the woman signaled for them to remain in place.

Alone she walked down the long, ornate hallway, which resembled a wing of an
art gallery with its array of crafted artworks, each one carefully illuminated
by strategically placed lights. The Holy One paused several times to admire a
piece, to stroke it possessively, the way one might touch a pet. Halfway down
the hallway was an alcove lined with windows that provided a view of the
church and barracks. In the middle of the recess was a hand-carved wooden
pedestal. Through an art dealer with sufficient discretion, the Holy One had
plans to purchase a Rodin bust of Honore de Balzac. The sculpture would cost
several million dollars, but she thought that was a small price to pay to be
able to look at such a fine work every night on the way to bed and every
morning on the way to tend to her flock.

Her flock.

She smiled at the thought of them. Poor, pathetic souls, so willing and so
trusting. And always more of them coming in, lured by the recruiters out on
the streets. In only a few years, she'd seen the Church of the New Word grow
from a small band of fourteen longtime acquaintances into a burgeoning
movement with hundreds of members committed to her cause. It was a long way
from her days with the People's Army of Vietnam, when warfare had been the
chosen means of persuasion. That had been nowhere near as fruitful an
enterprise as this. True, here at the Church there was still a need for guns
and occasional violence, but overall her power base had widened dramatically
without her having to resort to a public display of force. No, this way was
better, subtler, more effective in the long run. It was the Church's New Word,
a way to seize control in the guise of providing salvation.

She hadn't been the first to use such a ploy. Hundreds of cults throughout
the years had operated on the same principles, and with similar results. But
the Holy One had a few additional tricks up her sleeve, and it was her hope
that those tricks would help her to succeed where the other movements had
failed.

The Holy One passed several more deacons on her way to the basement
laboratory, where she found Dr. Bates going over notes at one of the
worktables. The older woman finished with what she was writing, then looked
up.

'"Just double-checking all my data on the new serum."

"Good," the Holy One said. "I don't need to tell you how crucial it is for
this batch to meet all expectations."

"That's right," the scientist replied. "You don't."

"You promised the last supply would be foolproof," the Holy One reminded her.

Dr. Bates set down her pencil and took off her glasses long enough to rub her
eyes a few moments. When she was finished, she took a deep breath and stared
hard at the woman in the robe. "As I've told you before, this is not the way
science is supposed to work. You are expecting results in a week that should
require years of testing and refinement to be truly accurate."

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"We don't have years," the Holy One said. "The Soviets want results now! You
said you could deliver."

"You knew my circumstances," Dr. Bates said. "I had no choice but to make
such promises."

"You still have no choice."

The older woman stood up from the table. She was half a head taller than the
Holy One, and she looked down at her scornfully. "I would have a greater
chance of meeting with success if more money was directed toward my research
and less to the things you pamper yourself with!"

"Enough!" the Holy One snapped, turning to leave. Over her shoulder, she
warned the doctor, "Another remark like that and I will make a longdistance
call to your homeland. They would be interested to know where you are and what
you are up to, don't you think?"

Dr. Bates paled as the Holy One strode out of the chamber. She knew only too
well that the leader did not make idle threats. One way or another, both the
Holy One and the Soviets would have to be appeased. If not, Dr. Bates's days
were numbered, and she knew it. With a grim, weary sigh, she propped her
glasses back on her nose and went back to her notes.

"Trust me, Chief. False alarm or not, there's no way we were going to jump
out of our Jockeys for those ladies," Lyons insisted. He was speaking into a
telephone in Able Team's room at the La Jolla Village Inn, having patched
through the usual security numbers to assure a clean line to Stony Man Farm.
Hal Brognola was on the other end, and his avuncular voice came through loud
and clear.

"Of course not. I know you all better than that."

"Then why the third degree?"

"Look, Carl, I just want a full briefing, that's all," Brognola said. "We've
been through this before. I'm the one who's accountable for whatever trouble
you get into, remember. You want to keep avoiding paperwork, you'll just have
to put up with all the questions and give me the gory details, all right?"

Lyons rolled his eyes, then glanced over at Schwarz and Blancanales, who were
sitting by the window, holding their guns low so they could clean them while
still enjoying the second-story view of the sun rising above the jagged
eastern horizon. Gadgets had both his ankles soaking in plastic buckets filled
with ice.

"Either of you guys want to wrap this up?"

Schwarz yawned. "Nope."

"You're doing fine, Ironman," Pol said. "Just tell him we're sticking by the
Boy Scout oathespecially the part about being clean."

"And thrifty," Gadgets added, reaching over for another bite of the
three-course breakfast he'd ordered from room service.

"Thanks, you're a real help." Lyons turned his attention back to the phone.
"Okay, that's about it, Chief. We went back to The Anchor's Away, but they
were already closed."

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"You going to try it again tonight?"

"Nope," Lyons said. "If we did, I think we'd be more likely to blow our cover
than snare the right ladies. My guess is, word's already out on the street in
Miramar about us. Ebsen says there have been a few reports of the same thing
going down near the base in San Diego, so we're going to try there tonight."

"Maybe instead of going together, you should"

"Break up," Lyons said, interrupting him. "Yeah, we already decided on that.
Consider it done. Ebsen's upping our backup so we can spread out and cover
most of the pickup areas in one swing."

"Good. I can't tell you how antsy they are at the Pentagon and NSA about this
whole thing," Brognola said. "The security aspect's bad enough, but the big
fear is that the media's going to catch whiff of it before long, and that
would be a disaster."

"No shit. A spy scandal with a sex ring thrown in you'd have film at eleven
every night for at least a week."

"Exactly. So give this your best shot."

"We always do," Lyons said. "Listen, Chief, not to get off the subject, but
do you know if Bear got anywhere on that favor I asked him about?"

"Bear" was Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man's resident computer fanatic and ace
communications specialist. His duties at the Farm included monitoring the
output of other law-enforcement agencies. He succeeded at his job through an
uncanny, almost spooky ability to tap into the transmissions of anyone from a
random trucker with a CB radio to government intelligence forces using the
most sophisticated computer and microwave technologies. As Lyons often
wisecracked, even Big Brother would have a hard time hiding secrets if the
Bear was determined to find them.

"Well, I know he's tapped into a couple of runaway hotlines and come up
blank," Brognola told Lyons. "Last I heard, he was running a check on the
missing persons network. Anybody on that front who doesn't already have a
description of Ozzie Towers will by tomorrow. We'll let you know if we come up
with anything."

"Thanks, Chief," Lyons said. "I owe Bill one."

"Understood," Brognola said. "You let us handle that and concentrate on your
assignment."

"Will do. Talk to you later."

Lyons hung up the phone and let out a sigh. He poured himself some coffee and
tried to work up an appetite for the eggs and ham on the plate in front of
him. It wasn't easy. He didn't like the fact that Ozzie hadn't turned up
anywhere yet. The youth's disappearance had a too-familiar ring to it, and
Lyons couldn't help but recall one of Able Team's recent jobs. They had been
assigned to protect a Mafia caporegime who had been ready Jo go before a grand
jury and point fingers at the dons he'd worked for. The poor bastard had had a
daughter Ozzie's age who had run away, only to be picked up by a snuff-film
producer with syndicate ties who'd killed the girl in front of the cameras and
then had her severed head sent to the mobster as a warning to him to keep
quiet. There were other, equally grisly stories he'd seen and heard, and they

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all began with some confused kid falling in with the wrong folks and livingor,
as was more often the case, dyingto regret it.

"I wonder where he is," Lyons muttered as he bit halfheartedly into his
toast.

Sunlight had yet to creep down the mountains into camp when Ozzie was jarred
from his fitful slumber by an urgent whispering in his ear.

"Inspection!" the youth in the next bunk told him as he threw on his clothes.

"What?" Ozzie mumbled, sitting up. "We just had inspection last night."

"Well, we're having it again!" the other disciple said. He was making his bed
as fast as his trembling hands would allow. "Randall just got back from the
head and overheard the deacons. They're coming here after they finish checking
the girls!"

Ozzie looked around and saw that everyone else in the room was bustling
around their beds in a similar state of frenzy, and a sudden panic finally
overcame him.

His shoes.

He tumbled out of bed and saw telltale scrapes of mud and soil. During the
inspection just before lights-out, the shoes had been shined and spotless. One
look at them now and the deacons would know he'd been out during the night. He
didn't even want to think what the punishment might be for such an infraction.

Ozzie knew an inspection of the girls' barracks couldn't take long. He didn't
have much time. He quickly dressed, then made his bed and straightened his few
personal belongings, which he kept on the shelves behind the bunk. That left
only the shoes to tend to, and he raided his polishing kit like someone from a
bomb squad trying to race a fast-burning fuse. Clean, polish, buff. Clean,
polish, buff.

He was just putting the shine cloth back in the kit when the door to the
barracks swung open and two deacons strode in, calling out, "Stand for
inspection!"

Like underage Marines, the young disciples vaulted to attention in front of
their bunks. They were all dressed in work gear for another day in the fields,
and though few of them felt well-rested enough to withstand another twelve
hours under the blistering sun, no one dared so much as yawn, even when the
deacons had their backs turned.

The inspection went fast. While one of the bald men sized up the initiates
one by one, the other circled around to check the bed and shelves. Those that
passed inspection were acknowledged with a perfunctory nod, while the few who
had been lax in aligning their clothes on the shelves or leaving a few
wrinkles on their bed sheets were verbally chastised and then ordered out of
the barracks for their punishment. Ozzie knew from previous experience that
those unlucky ones would have to forgo their meager breakfast rations and
spend the time cleaning out the latrines before running to catch up with the
rest of the group bound for the distant fields.

A sudden, terrifying thought came to Ozzie, and it was all he could do to
remain still. What if the deacons had called for this impromptu inspection not
on a mere whim but because they had somehow found out that one of the
disciples had been out during the night and were trying to pinpoint the

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culprit. How would he be able to look them in the eye without betraying his
guilt?

Because I have to, he thought to himself. There's no other way.

In desperation, he tried to imagine his father on an undercover police
assignment, knowing his life depended on the ability to fool his enemies. What
was it the old man always said? You better be out to win an Oscar every time,
'cause those bastards do more than boo if they don't buy your performance.

When the two deacons reached him, Ozzie stood tall and stiff, staring
straight ahead, repeatedly telling himself, I'm the best disciple here. I
know, and they know it, too. When a pair of dark Oriental eyes bored into his,
Ozzie met the gaze firmly and refused to so much as blink. I have nothing to
hide.

The other deacon scanned Ozzie's quarters, running a finger underneath one of
the shelves but not bothering to check inside the shoe kit. Satisfied, he and
his cohort both nodded approvingly at Ozzie, then moved on to the next youth.
Ozzie refused to relax until the inspection was completed and the group was
ordered out of the barracks and sent to the mess, which was located inside an
old lodge two hundred yards away from the church and the barracks, half-hidden
beneath sprawling oaks and tall conifers.

This morning's rations consisted of water, small bowls of white rice in a
thin, watery broth that also contained bits of chopped carrot and celery. Each
disciple was required to offer up a quick prayer of thanks to the Holy One for
this negligible bit of sustenance. As he waited his turn in line, Ozzie
reflected again on his father. He had to keep himself from laughing bitterly
at the thought of how much he'd complained about the discipline and
restrictions at home. How could he ever have thought he was being mistreated
then? Compared to what he was going through now, his home life had been a
relative paradise. And though he was loath to admit it, maybe his parents
hadn't been all that unreasonable in their demands. They might have even meant
it when they'd told him they were being strict for his own good.

Ma and the old man. The mere thought of them caught Ozzie off guard
emotionally. He blinked hard to stall the tears brimming in his eyes and
muttered the necessary prayer of thanks to get his share of the rice soup and
water. By the time he found a seat at which to down the swill, he had his
emotions back under control. As he ate, he looked around carefully, trying to
locate Isabelle among the other disciples. She was nowhere to be seen,
however, and Ozzie wondered what had become of her. Had she been taken away
along with AI Rivera? Or were they keeping her in isolation somewhere, trying
to break her will without breaking her body any more than was necessary?

Ozzie didn't have much time for idle speculation. Only ten minutes was
allotted for breakfast. Then a whistle was blown and all the disciples rose
from their seats, whether or not they had finished eating, and filed out of
the lodge.

The truck with the large image of the Holy One strapped to its side was
waiting for them, emptied of its cargo from the previous day. The deacons and
the pit bulls were allowed to ride in the truck, but the initiates would have
to hike the four miles of winding mountain trail leading to the remote
marijuana fields. The sun was in full view by now, burning off what little
early-morning haze still lingered from dawn. After less than a mile of walking
the disciples were sweating, and some of them gasped for breath between
recitations of their hiking chant.

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"One step for the Holy One, one step for the New Word. We walk to be pure and
worthy, and no complaints are heard."

Three-quarters of the way to their destination, Ozzie glanced through the
dense foliage and saw a small corner section of what looked like a large
warehouse camouflaged to blend in with the surrounding fir and oak trees. He
hadn't seen it on any of the earlier trips they'd made along this same
stretch, and it was only the glinting of the sun off something metallic that
had brought the building to his attention. By his estimation, the warehouse
was located close to the dirt track that ran from the Holy One's lair to the
distant main road. Perhaps that was where AI and Isabelle had been taken, he
thought. Whatever its function, Ozzie suspected it was concealed for a reason
that he and the other disciples weren't supposed to know about.

That would have to change.

"Your body is an agent of the Holy One, Isabelle. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the young girl responded. "My body is an agent of the Holy One."

"Your body has power. It is your temple of strength."

"My body has power," Isabelle repeated. "It is my temple of strength."

"When men want to make love with you, they want to worship within that
temple, Isabelle. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I understand."

Isabelle sat alone in one of the side rooms of the laboratory. The room was
bare except for the plain wooden chair she sat on and the full-length mirror
she watched herself in. Instead of the drab uniform of a disciple, she was now
dressed in a pumpkin-orange satin minidress that clung tightly to her
blossoming figure. Under the dress she wore black lace undergarments that
showed faintly through the satin material. The outfit was completed with black
spike heels. Her hair had been teased with mousse so that spiky strands shot
out in all directions, and makeup had been applied to give her eyes prominence
and exaggerate her raised cheekbones. Moist-looking lipstick and thick
eyelashes rounded out the transformation.

Dr. Bates was on the other side of the two-way mirror, speaking to the young
woman through a microphone. The Holy One and Sergei Karanov stood beside her,
each of them impressed as they witnessed this latest incarnation of the
once-dissident initiate.

"Isabelle, you like your body, don't you?"

"Yes," the young woman said, continuing to eye her reflection.

"Touch yourself," the doctor prompted. "Feel yourself and imagine the
pleasure both you and a man will experience when you are together."

As Isabelle began to follow the doctor's instructions, Dr. Bates turned off
her microphone before speaking to Karanov. "Normally, it's not possible to
hypnotize someone against their will or to coerce them to do something that is
against their basic nature. The drug I've given her works by inhibiting any
natural resistance to hypnotic suggestion."

Although the Holy One watched Isabelle, Karanov feigned embarrassment at the
display and looked away. "Then you are saying the drug can have applications

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as a truth serum, as well?" he asked Dr. Bates.

Dr. Bates nodded. "By all indications, yes. Again, I must qualify things,
because this is only the first subject I've tried this variation of the serum
on. With so few controls and no time to evaluate long-term effects, I can't be
positive that"

Karanov interrupted her. "Yes, yes, of course. I know all of that, Doctor.
But for our needs, it's only the short-term effects that matter. Can we give
this serum to a U.S. intelligence agent and get him to reveal secrets he's
sworn to protect?"

"I would say yes," Dr. Bates said.

"And he could be interrogated while in a hypnotic state so that he would not
know he'd been questioned?"

"Yes."

"If we chose, we could turn him into a double agent?"

"With the proper handling, I believe so."

"And you, I trust, are the most qualified to give that proper handling?"

Dr. Bates nodded, then gestured for Karanov to wait a moment while she turned
the microphone on again and addressed Isabelle. "Very well, Isabelle. You have
learned much today. You will retain all this new knowledge after I have
brought you out of hypnosis, and you will believe all you have learned with
every fiber of your being. Is that understood?"

Isabelle drew her hands away from her thighs and sat upright in the chair
again. "Yes."

"Good. Now you will close your eyes and commit all this to your memory. When
the proper signal is given, you will awaken, but you will have changed into
this new identity. You will have no memory of who you were before. Do you
understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. Now close your eyes."

Isabelle did as she was told. Karanov reached into his coat pocket and
removed an envelope, which he handed to the Holy One. "Your payment from the
directorate."

The Holy One opened the envelope and quickly counted its contents. She
glanced quickly back at Karanov. "This is only half the agreed amount."

Karanov nodded. "As I have said, the directorate is not pleased with your
progress. You are given half now, and you will get the other half if this
serum proves itself viable several days down the road."

"That was not our agreement," the Holy One said.

"Neither was it our agreement to provide you with funding without a steady
increase in tangible results.

As I told you last night, there have been too many failures." Karanov spoke

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evenly, with authority and conviction. "This decision comes down from the
party. I am being called to task as well as you. Don't forget that."

The Holy One slipped the envelope into the folds of her robe. "I won't
forget," she said coldly. "Take the girl and the serum and go. Get your
results.".

"I want Dr. Bates to come with us," Karanov said. "To handle the
interrogations. We are more likely to obtain the results we want that way."

"As you wish," the Holy One said.

Moments later, a series of computer-generated bleeps sounded in the other
room. Isabelle opened her eyes but continued to behave in accordance with the
instructions she had been given under hypnosis. She eyed herself coyly in the
mirror, standing up and preening from side to side as she checked the length
of her skirt. "Oh, Isabelle, honey, you are a package!" she told herself.

As Dr. Bates and Karanov went in to brief the young woman on her new calling,
the Holy One left the laboratory and walked out into the vast courtyard
adjacent to her palace. A third the size of a football field, the open-air
enclosure was surrounded by eight-foot-high walls inlaid with mosaic tiles
arranged to create a long mural of a mountain range reminiscent of her
Vietnamese homeland. There was a sculpture garden filled with bronze statues
glorifying the human physique and a gurgling fountain surrounded by plush
Oriental landscaping. Several deacons were busy weeding the plant beds. One of
the pit bulls was chewing a bone on the grass, and the Holy One took a seat on
the ground beside it, stroking the dog's short, bristly hair as she stared at
the real mountains that rose beyond the wall.

It had come time for her to reconsider her alliance with the Soviets. As
instrumental as their aid had been in getting the Church of the New Word off
the ground, the KGB's reciprocal demands had proven more difficult to abide by
than anticipated. The creation of the laboratory and Dr. Bates's presence had
initially seemed an opportune venture, since the development of advanced mind
control techniques could prove as beneficial to the cult as it would to Soviet
intelligence. Incidents like last night's dramatic brainwashing of Isabelle
Fiori were a boon to the goals of the Church.

But to the Holy One's way of thinking, a partnership with the Russians was
ultimately unsatisfactory because it undermined the total authority she wanted
over the dominion she was trying to establish. There were too many compromises
being made. Too many of her people, primarily the younger, more beautiful
girls, were being siphoned off by the KGB for use in their own programs.

What if she were to break with the Russians and strike out on her own? It
would require taking the movement underground to avoid retaliation, then
resurfacing in a new locale and under a new name, but that seemed a small
price to pay for the increase in autonomy. The deacons Dr. Bates had trained
to work under her could continue her mind-control experiments until such time
as the Holy One could find another competent doctor more willing to be
subservient to her.

And there were other ways to bring in income than depending on handouts from
Karanov and the KGB. She was already working on that angle. In fact, by this
time tomorrow she would have brought in a cash windfall to match the funds
Karanov had just presented to her. And this cash came without strings attached
and was earned primarily by the sweat and toil of her flock.

That was the way it should be, the Holy One reasoned.

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The way it must be.

Although downtown San Diego was undergoing a multimillion dollar renovation,
there were still random pockets of urban blight not yet slated for a cosmetic
make-over. But even these neglected streets, most of which were within walking
distance of the piers, looked almost quaint and unthreatening by day, as if
Disneyland had been hired to create a red-light district safe enough for
tourists. There were topless bars, tattoo parlors, pawnshops, missions for the
homeless, bored streetwalkers and a smattering of derelicts staring out at the
world through bloodshot eyesbut in the antiseptic glare of the sun, all these
sights seemed stripped of menace. It was only as the day progressed and
shadows began to creep across the city that innocence began to flee from view
and the ocean breeze began to carry an ominous, whispering chill as it blew
debris down empty alleys and raised a creak from rusting hinges and
second-story windows. By sundown, when the first artificial lights pulsed to
life, the city's lowlife began to emerge from the dark maws of unlighted
doorways and alleys like moths drawn to an electric flame. Men and women who
had seemed only pitiable hours before suddenly took on a forbidding aspect,
and only the less apprehensive of tourists dared to walk some of the meaner
streets. The charged atmosphere of impending intrigue made the far smaller
Miramar strip seem almost benign by comparison.

To aid in the search for those women of the night with KGB connections, Ike
Ebsen had interviewed the previously victimized officers, pressing for
physical descriptions of the prostitutes they'd picked up. By and large it was
an exercise in futility, because the women had worn wigs and so much makeup
that most of the men were unable to pinpoint any truly distinguishing
characteristics. The Stony Man team was aware that the Soviets would take
every precaution to avoid having their women marked for pickup; it also seemed
unlikely that the same outfits would be worn repeatedly or that the same women
would frequent the same street corners night after night. Nonetheless, Ebsen
was able to come up with a few rough composites for Able Team to consider as
they roamed the downtown area in their own disguises. The size of baseball
trading cards, each composite included all available information on a
particular woman. A facial scar here, a discernible accent there, the color of
the eyes or the slant of the nose. Hairstyles were included but not
emphasized. Certain key words were also noted as having been used by the women
in the course of their seductions.

By one in the morning, Able Team had been canvassing the streets for the
better part of five hours, fending off come-ons and following through on a few
potential targets. But just as in Miramar they discovered they had backed the
wrong women. Trying to back out of a tryst after prolonged bartering wasn't an
easy task, and in several instances the men had to endure outbursts of
indignation from women who resented having their time tied up by
"window-shoppers."

Lyons in particular had a problem when he lingered in a back alley haggling
over prices with a woman who closely matched the description of one of the
suspects. After nearly five minutes of discussion, he'd come to the conclusion
that the prostitute wasn't in the hire of the KGB.

"Oh, what the hell," he finally cried out in mock exasperation, "Forget it,
lady. For that kind of money you're going to have to find yourself another
chump."

"Say what?" the woman exclaimed.

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"You heard me."

"Say what?" another voice called out from the darkness in the back of the
alley. It was a low voice. Very low.

On his guard, Lyons took a reflexive step backward, only to bump into someone
who'd come up behind him. He whirled around to see a tall, broad-shouldered
man with cauliflower ears and a flattened nose between two small, molelike
eyes.

"Goin" somewhere?" the large man asked in a gravelly voice even lower than
that of the slickly dressed pimp who eventually emerged from the darkness of
the alley, sandwiching Lyons in.

"You sayin' you don't like little Miss Chrissy here?" the pimp needled.

"Not that at all," Lyons calmly responded. "She's nice. Real nice. It's just
that we sailors don't make as much as ballplayers, know what I mean? I'm
looking for a little cheaper fun, okay? No hassles."

The pimp shook his head. "You were gabbin' with Miss Chrissy longer than it
takes some guys to get it on with her. In this business, talk ain't cheap.
Know what /mean?"

Lyons quickly evaluated the situation. The pimp was his height but thinner,
and he didn't look as though he was used to roughing up anyone but his string
of ladies. However, the man had one hand inside his coat, and Lyons detected
the bulge of a gun tucked near his armpit. As for the taller man, he already
had a switchblade out and was taking great care to make sure Lyons saw it.

"You know, I have to tell you" guys," Lyons said casually, "this is the
second night in a row I've gone out for a good time and ended up having to
face down a goon squad. It's enough to make a guy want to stay home and watch
television."

"Enough talk, sea boy," the pimp said. "Let's see some green."

"I don't know about you fuckers, but I'm seeing red," Lyons said, snapping
into a Shotokan karate stance. Although martial arts was primarily a form of
conditioning for Lyons, he was no stranger to putting his mastery to good use
in the field of battle. He leaned back as the thug's switchblade slashed
through the air, just missing Lyons's throat.

The Ironman timed his moves perfectly, taking advantage of his larger foe's
awkward lunge to level him with a sharp blow to the midsection before grabbing
him by the collar and heaving him headlong into the pimp, who was just
starting to yank his gun into view. The two men collapsed in a maze of
entwined limbs, and Lyons unleashed another quick series of karate chops that
knocked loose the switchblade and the gun, an obviously stolen M-15 .45. He
retrieved both weapons and pocketed them before using some karate footwork to
finish off the pimp and his heavy, knocking them unconscious with blows to the
head. In all, less than ten seconds had passed, and Lyons had barely worked up
a sweat.

"You really ought to watch the company you keep, Chrissy," he told the
stunned prostitute, who had watched the short-lived battle with a look of
horrified fascination.

"They're gonna be pissed and take it out on me," she whined, reaching for
Lyons. "You gotta help me."

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Lyons shook off the woman's hands and dropped the switchblade at her feet.
"Here. Like they say, God helps those who help themselves. Have fun."

Taking long strides, Lyons walked away from the woman and nearly collided
with a man who was rushing headlong toward the alley, pistol in hand. Lyons
instinctively whipped the confiscated M-15 into firing position, but he took
his finger off the trigger when he recognized Naval Intelligence agent Pete
Crowley.

"Thanks for the backup, Ace," Lyons snapped, stuffing the modified Colt
behind his waistband. "I could have been sushi in the time it took you to get
here."

"Hey, I came as fast as I could," Crowley protested as he tried to catch his
breath. "You think we can cling to you like guardian angels without blowing
your cover? Gimme a break."

"All right, all right, forget it!" Without breaking stride, Lyons checked his
uniform and saw that he'd ripped the seams under both arms during the melee in
the alley. The realization only fueled his anger more. "Look, I'm just not cut
out for this undercover crap," he told Crowley. "It drove me up the wall when
I was with LAPD and it drives me up the wall now. Me, I like the enemy pointed
out so I can just move in and take 'em out! That's what I'm good at."

"If only it were that easy," Crowley said. "Imagine how frustrated we are.
Damn KGB is making us look like fools."

As Lyons and Crowley made their way down the block, several other prostitutes
accosted them, only to recoil at the expression of brutal contempt on Lyons's
face.

"Let's get out of this armpit," the Ironman said. "We're wasting our time,
and if I see one more prostitute I'm going to wind up celibate."

The men's rendezvous point was a parking garage another block away, but
before they could get there the unmarked Dodge van serving as their mobile
base roared up out of the structure and barreled toward them. Ike Ebsen was
behind the wheel, and he braked hard as he came up alongside the men.

"Hurry, get in!" he shouted, leaning across the front seat to unlock the
passenger doors.

"What's up?" Crowley asked as he and Lyons piled into the van.

Ebsen laid rubber as he screeched off, exclaiming "Blancanales just hit the
jackpot!"

Pol had been working the docks most of the night, not having much better luck
than Lyons or Schwarz, who was making the rounds within a five-block radius of
the convention center on First Street. There was plenty of flesh-peddling
going down, but Blancanales hadn't come across any women who either matched
the composite descriptions or had tried to find out what line of naval work he
was supposedly involved in.

He'd started at the G Street Pier and gradually worked his way north to the
area around the museum and the B Street Pier. Three ships that dated back to
the glory days of sea travel were permanently moored just off the dock.
Blancanales was particularly impressed by the graceful lines of the oldest
craft, the tall ship Star of India . But the boat intrigued him for reasons

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other than its appearance.

During his youth, when he'd been living just south of San Diego in San
Ysidro, his Uncle Mariano, a Navy lifer, had bought him a plastic model of the
Star of India for his birthday. The painstaking effort required to assemble
the kit had frustrated young Pol, and Mariano had finally agreed to pitch in.
He had not only given his nephew a valuable lesson in patience and
perseverance, but had also filled the youth with romantic tales of his
supposed exploits during his years at sea. By the time they had completed the
project, Pol had become enthralled with thoughts of sea travel. For a time he
had felt certain that when he grew up he would be either a merchant seaman or
a member of the U.S. Navy. Not surprisingly, McHale's Navy had been his
favorite television show, adding to his fantasies of the grand time to be had
in that branch of the service.

Then, in the brief space of two weeks, Uncle Mariano had died in a mishap
during routine naval maneuvers at sea and one of Pol's best friends at school
had drowned when his father's fishing trawler had gone down in a sudden
squall. The two tragedies had had a profound impact on young Blancanales,
destroying his love of the sea. To fill the void he'd switched allegiance to
the Army, becoming a devoted watcher of Combat and consigning the miniature
Star of India to the attic so that his bookcases could be adorned with models
of tanks and the GI Joe doll that had become his alter ego. When it had come
time for him to enlist in the armed forces, the Army had still been the branch
for him, and it was that commitment that had led to the series of events that
now found him assigned to Able Team along with Carl Lyons and Gadgets Schwarz.

Blancanales was still pondering the old memories when the opportunity he'd
been awaiting presented itself. Shortly before meandering out onto the B
Street Pier, he had stopped in at one of the pickup bars frequented by Navy
personnel on Harbor Drive. While nursing a beer, he'd traded a few words with
two other sailors at the bar, who'd let on that they did classified coding
work for Naval Intelligence. Now those same two men were cruising the pier
only a few yards away, hitting on the prostitutes. Of the two women they had
accosted, one perfectly matched the description on one of the composite cards,
down to the small scar on her left cheekbone and her slight Texas drawl. The
second woman was much younger, wearing a tight orange skirt and spiked hair.
Blancanales heard her call herself Isabelle. He also heard one of the sailors
boast about how he was involved in top-secret work "keeping the Russkies in
check.''

The woman with Isabelle suggested that the foursome take a little trip to her
small cottage out by the airport, promising to treat the men to a party they'd
never forget.

"Sounds good to me," the shorter of the two men said. "I like a good party."

The second sailor was more skeptical. "Maybe we oughtta discuss the cover
charge first, eh, ladies?"

Blancanales had been partially hidden from the foursome's view by another man
who'd been staring at the Star of India , and when that man moved, Pol quickly
turned away and walked off a few yards until he was out of the glow of the
pier lights. He couldn't hear the bartering, but when the two men left the
pier with the prostitutes, Pol figured a deal had been made. As he followed
the group from the pier, Blancanales fidgeted with the lapel of his coat,
bringing the planted microphone closer so he could relay a whispered message
to the two Naval Intelligence men assisting Crowley and Ebsen with Able Team's
backup.

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"I'm on to something," he reported, picking up his pace as he saw the
foursome pile into a taxi. "I can't wait for you to pick me up. Head north on
Harbor toward the airport and I'll try to keep you posted."

Reaching the curb, Blancanales flagged down a second taxi and quickly slid
into the back as he pointed to the other vehicle just pulling out into
traffic.

"I'll pay double fare if you can stick with that cab up there."

The driver was a bearded man in his late twenties with a cigarette dangling
from his lower lip. He blew smoke as he shifted gears and said, "Whaddaya
know, somebody who speaks my language. You got it, pal."

Traffic was sparse that late at night, so it was easy to stay within sight of
the lead taxi. Harbor Drive followed the contour of San Diego Bay, bending
westward after passing the county administration building and the county
health center. At Laurel Drive, the first cab turned inland and started down
side streets into a dilapidated neighborhood where property values had sunk
because of an unfortunate proximity to the flight paths of the jumbo jets
using San Diego International. Blancanales's taxi kept up the tail but fell
back as the streets became increasingly deserted.

"You're not lookin' to get me in some kind of trouble, are you?" the cabbie
asked nervously as he eyed Pol in his rearview mirror.

"No," Pol said, keeping his eyes on the taillights up ahead. "Why do you
ask?"

"This ain't Mr. Roger's neighborhood, that's why," the driver said. "Lotta
bad shit goes down here this time of night. I want to get out of here in one
piece."

"You're doing fine so far," Blancanales said. "Just keep thinking about that
big tip."

"Bit tip won't be worth diddly if I wind up in some"

"There!" Pol shouted, pointing to where the other cab had just rolled to a
stop along the curb more than half a block ahead of them. "Look, just let me
out."

"Here?" the driver said, pulling into the nearest driveway.

"Yeah, right here." Blancanales checked the meter and slipped the driver more
than twice the fare. "Good work. Keep the change."

Pol stepped out of the taxi and started up the front walk toward a small,
darkened bungalow set back behind a weed-choked lawn. The cab's headlights
flashed off him as the driver backed out into the street and headed back the
way he'd come. Once he was alone in the darkness, Blancanales stole quietly
across the lawn and took cover behind a tree so that he had a good view of the
street.

The two prostitutes and their naval escorts exited the lead cab and talked
gaily as they walked up the driveway to another of the small tract houses
lining the block. The older woman keyed the side door and led the others
inside. Lights blinked on and Blancanales could see silhouettes in the
windows.

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After backtracking to the nearest corner and using a street sign to relay his
position to the backup force, Blancanales put his hands in his pockets and
casually strolled down the sidewalk toward the bungalow cat-house, humming
lightly to give an impression of nonchalance. An incoming jet rumbled
overhead, drowning him out.

Late as it was, there were several front lights on down the block, and out of
the corner of his eyes Pol could see figures sitting on front porches.

"Hey, Navy, want some crank?" a voice called out from one of the porches.
"Preeemo stuff. Keep you up all night."

Blancanales shook his head and kept walking. Fortunately, there was no
activity in any of the other homes near the one the foursome had gone into. To
be safe, Pol walked past the house in question, looking up from the sidewalk
only long enough to spot the address and take in a few descriptive details.

"Three forty-two," he muttered into his bug mike. "White house, planter box
on the porch, hedge along the driveway. I'm going to try to get in a little
closer."

There was a For Sale sign posted on the overgrown lawn next door, and by all
appearances the cottage on the lot was unoccupied. After crouching down long
enough to tie his shoe and sneak a glance up and down the block, Blancanales
veered off the sidewalk, taking advantage of another 747's takeoff roar to
clear the yard in long strides and reach the cover of the hedge separating the
two lots. He was less than ten yards away from the bungalow next door, and he
could hear a radio and the patter of lighthearted conversation inside.

The nearest window was partially open, and although the blinds were drawn,
Pol thought there was enough of a gap for him to be able to look inside if he
could get closer. He waited several minutes for another jet to thunder by,
then eased his way through the shrubbery and crept to the side of the cottage,
crouching just below the window.

"Okay, how's about a toast?" one of the sailors was suggesting inside the
main room of the small house. Pol peered through the slight gap in the blinds
and could see both men clutching half-filled cocktail glasses while the two
prostitutes contented themselves with cans of beer. The place was sparsely
furnished and looked barely lived-in. The men had already taken off their
coats and loosened their shirts.

"To a good time," the older woman proposed with a sly smile.

"Ah, a woman after my own heart! Here's to a real good time!"

The four of them clinked glasses and cans, laughing heartily. Then the women
sipped their beers while the sailors knocked back their drinks with
long-drawn-out swallows.

"Mmm, tasty," the shorter sailor murmured, licking his lips as he set his
glass aside. He leaned over and turned up the radio, then began dancing in
front of Isabelle. "C'mon, honeybuns, let's cut the rug a little, get loosened
up," he said to the young woman.

"Why, of course, doll," Isabelle responded cheerfully. She began moving in
time with the music, swaying in a slow, languid motion that contrasted with
the. more demonstrative gyrations of her partner. The other man, feeling less
athletic, slid up next to the older woman, who was leaning against the wall.
She reached out and drew the man into her arms, going up on tiptoe to kiss

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him.

The dancing man was the first to feel the effects of his drugged drink. One
second he was pretending to be the reincarnation of Fred Astaire, whirling
Isabelle around with rubber-limbed grace, and the next he was down on his
knees, pale faced, one hand going to his stomach and the other wiping a sudden
flood of sweat on his brow.

"Vic," he called out weakly before keeling over onto the carpet.

Vic, the other sailor, pulled away from the older prostitute and glanced at
his buddy, then doubled over and succumbed to the same overwhelming pull of
gravity. As Isabelle knelt and slowly turned her date onto his back, the other
woman opened a cupboard drawer and pulled out a walkie-talkie.

"All clear," she said.

Outside the bungalow, Blancanales remained hunched near the window, waiting
out the drone of another takeoff and feeling a surge of both apprehension and
excitement at the realization that his instincts had paid off. Hard on the
heels of those sensations, however, came yet another feelingthat of being
watched. Whirling around, Blancanales discovered the reason for the feeling.

Three men and a middle-aged woman were entering the side yard through a gap
in the bushes, having left their posts in the abandoned house next door. All
three of the men were armed, and Blancanales found himself staring into the
barrels of three .38 Special Colt Cobras. His own .45 was well out of reach
inside his shoulder holster, and he knew that any false move would send
200-grain slugs racing at him with a muzzle velocity of 223 meters per second.

Blancanales thought to himself, I'm a dead man.

An unmarked '87 Mustang glided slowly down the street until its brakes
suddenly screeched in the night, bringing the vehicle to a halt. San Diego
Sheriff's Officer Charley Padden, riding shotgun, already had his window
rolled down and was pulling out his Smith & Wesson Model 19 service revolver.
He had been on the force only nine months, and this was his first potentially
life-threatening confrontation. He was nearly shaking from the surge of
adrenaline rushing through his system. As part of Blancanales's backup team,
he was on the scene in response to the directions Pol had given prior to
approaching the bungalow where the two prostitutes had lured their marks.

His partner, thirteen-year veteran Joe Krebbs, idled the engine and looked
toward the small bungalow. He saw light from the window fall on the figures
lurking in the side yard. Like the younger officer, he instantly recognized
Blancanales and saw the other assailants drawing beads on him.

"Hit 'em with the light!" Krebbs snapped, jerking out his revolver as he
opened the door.

Padden directed the harsh glare of the car's portable searchlight into the
faces of the gunmen.

"Police!" he shouted.

Blancanales had anticipated the arrival of his backup, and he took advantage
of the blinding effect of the searchlight by springing backward and to his
right, seeking the cover of the large planter set at the front corner of the
house. Slugs from enemy .38s chewed the ground and the stuccoed siding around

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him, but Pol cheated the Reaper again as he reached the planter unscathed
except for a few stinging bits of shrapnel.

Charley Padden wasn't quite so lucky. When two of the three gunmen in the
yard fired blindly at the Mustang, they failed to put out the spotlight but
managed to hit the officer just above the neckline of his bulletproof vest.
His throat ravaged, blood geysering from a severed carotid artery, Padden
slumped against his half-open door and fell out into the street. His Smith &
Wesson clattered to the pavement, unfired.

Krebbs had the Mustang between himself and the assailants. He took aim over
the hood, squeezing off three shots. One of the gunmen in the yard crumpled,
while the other two spread out, leaving only the middle-aged woman in the
glare of the spotlight. She put her hands up and cried out, "Don't shoot! I
surrender!"

There was a muzzle flash from a nearby bush, and the woman's white blouse
began to turn red as she let out a slight groan. Clutching at her chest, she
sagged to the earth next to the man Krebbs had felled moments before.

Blancanales gauged the path of the shot that had claimed the woman and
unleashed three .45 ACP death bursts into the shrubbery. The bullets found
their mark, and twigs snapped under the collapsing weight of the hidden
gunman.

Although the frenzy of gunfire was partially muted by the air traffic
overhead, the disruption still roused the neighborhood, and soon there were
angry shouts from doorways up and down the block, adding to the commotion. Off
in the distance, the first of several sirens began to howl with forlorn
urgency.

"There's still at least one other gunman," Blancanales shouted to Krebbs as
he fed more ammo into his M-1911. "The women are inside with the Navy!"

Krebbs cautiously circled around the Mustang to check on Padden, who was
sprawled at an awkward angle, turning the gutter red. There was no need to
check for a pulse.

"Assholes!" Krebbs muttered angrily.

A car came to life behind the supposedly abandoned house next door, and when
a late-model Olds shot down the driveway with its lights out, both Krebbs and
Blancanales took aim at the driver and blasted away. There was a shattering of
glass as the windows were pulverized by .357 and .45 slugs and the car veered
wildly into the street, clipping the front end of the Mustang before spinning
out of control into the opposite curb.

Miraculously, the driver survived the ordeal, and although he had two bullets
buried in his shoulder and his vision was obscured by a stream of blood from
facial cuts, he was somehow able to get the Olds back on track. Accelerating,
he fled the scene, sitting low in the seat to make a smaller target of
himself.

Krebbs jammed a speed-loader into his Smith & Wesson while Blancanales darted
into the street and leveled his Colt for another shot at the runaway driver.
The Olds was zigzagging from one side of the road to the other, however, and
with several bystanders out on the nearby sidewalks, Pol didn't want to risk
wounding innocent parties with ricochets or stray shots.

Before the Olds could clear the block, however, a Dodge van sped into view,

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skidding to a stop in the middle of the intersection. The wounded driver tried
to slide behind the four-wheeled barricade, but Ike Ebsen anticipated the move
and quickly reversed the Dodge, ramming the Olds as it raced past. Knocked off
course, the sedan jumped the nearest curb and sheared a fireplug before coming
to a halt in the front yard of one of the block's best-kept homes.

Those inside the Dodge were shaken up, but only momentarily. When the doors
flew open Ebsen, Lyons, Schwarz and Crowley piled out, weapons at the ready.
The two men from Naval Intelligence headed for the ravaged Olds, approaching
from an angle to avoid the raging fountain that spewed from the severed
hydrant. They found the driver hunched over the steering wheel, unconscious
and barely breathing.

Lyons and Schwarz, meanwhile, hurried down the block, ignoring the queries of
curiosity-seekers who wanted to know what the hell was going on. They reached
the bungalow just as Blancanales was about to enter through the side door. He
saw them and motioned for them to go around and cover the other entrances.
Schwarz crept up the front walk as Lyons stole past Blancanales to cover the
backyard.

Once he figured the others were in position, Pol threw open the side door and
quickly pulled back in case anyone inside started firing.

.

Nothing.

Still on his guard, Blancanales slipped through the doorway, Colt set on full
automatic. The side hallway led past the kitchen to the living room. The radio
was still blaring, but the room was empty. Pol turned off the radio and
listened for sounds of activity elsewhere in the cottage.

Nothing.

He moved to the nearest bedroom and flicked on the light switch, then froze a
moment before exhaling in disgust. He called out to his partners, "We're too
late."

A few seconds later Schwarz and Lyons caught up with Blancanales, and the
three of them looked at the bodies of the two sailors who had come to the
bungalow in search of a little gratification, only to find death. They were
both lying on the threadbare carpet, splattered with their own blood. One man
had had his throat slashed, while the other was impaled on a ten-inch-long
kitchen knife.

"They were already out cold," Pol said, letting his gaze drift from the
bodies to the bedroom window, which was open. The outer screen had been
knocked away, and across the narrow backyard was a gate leading to a back
alley that ran parallel to the main street. The gate was open.

"The women got away?" Lyons guessed.

Blancanales nodded. "Probably during the shoot-out." He heard the sirens of
approaching police cars. "We can get on APB put out on 'em, but I think
they're long gone by now."

"What happened?" Schwarz asked.

"The men got spiked drinks," Pol explained, "and as soon as they went under,
one of the ladies signaled next door. Apparently the plan was for a team to

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come over to handle the interrogation or whatever they had in mind. I got in
the way."

"And these guys got cut so they couldn't help us," Lyons theorized.

"Yeah," Blancanales said. He made a fist and pounded it against the doorway
in frustration. "So damn close"

For a second night in a row, Ozzie Towers battled his fatigue and tried to
stay awake while the other male disciples dozed in the bunks around him. And
again his thoughts took him back to his home in the San Fernando Valley. What
he wouldn't have given for a chance to return there, to have his own room and
all the personal possessions he'd come to take for granted. Imagine, a stereo
and a private record collection and the freedom to decide what he wanted to
hear, so long as he didn't crank up the volume too loud. And to think that one
of the things that had prompted his leaving home had been constantly being
told to "keep it down." That had seemed like an intolerable restraint back
then. Hah. Here at the Church of the New Word there wasn't a stereo or a radio
in sight, and anyone who so much as tried to hum a favorite song was singled
out for discipline by the deacons. The Holy One had decreed that all forms of
music, especially rock and roll, were depraved distractions from the quest for
spiritual perfection.

How did I let myself get talked into coming here, he wondered silently. What
on earth could have ever possessed him to think these bald-headed thugs were
spiritually enlightened or that the Holy One was the one person in the world
with all the answers.

He remembered his father's reaction when he'd first mentioned his interest in
the Church of the New Word. The old man had gone on and on about slick-talking
shysters who were always willing to tell young kids what they wanted to hear
in the hope of getting them down on their knees.

"They'll peddle you a smooth line about some pie in the sky," his father had
maintained, "and as soon as they've got you where they want you, you'll find
out that pie might as well be on the moon for all your chances of getting it."

But Ozzie had been smarter than that. Hell, yes. Man, he'd been tapped into
the ultimate truth, and the way the Holy One had laid things out, everything
had been black-and-white, clear and simple to figure out. None of those
troubling gray areas that had always gotten him confused. This was good, that
was bad. This was right, that was wrong. Those who believe the New Word shall
be redeemed. All others, poor bastards, just aren't going make the grade in
the long run. To be totally pure you had to totally break away from the impure
influences. Sure, it might be hard to turn your backs on friends and family,
but hey, it was a small price to pay for eternal salvation, right?

"What a pile of crock," he whispered angrily to himself as he tossed and
pitched in his bunk. The old man had been right after all. Again, damn him.

Hindsight aside, Ozzie needed to decide on a course of action for the
present. Escape seemed like the best idea, but there were some definite
obstacles to that option. The Church's mountain quarters were so far away from
the rest of civilization that it seemed highly unlikely that he could elude
capture long enough to reach the nearest help. And that was assuming that he
could escape from the grounds in the first place. It was one thing to sneak
around the foothills for a few minutes without being missed or noticed. It was
an entirely different matter to make it all the way to the outer boundary
before the alarm was sounded and the pit bulls were put on his scent.

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What he needed was a foolproof plan. Something like stowing away in one of
the vehicles that came to the Holy One's palace in the middle of the night. If
he could manage that without being discovered, he would be spared the trouble
of trying to find the weak link in the border security.

Yeah, that was what he'd do.

Later.

Before making his escape, however, there were a few other things Ozzie wanted
to see to. More than anything, he wanted to compile as much concrete evidence
of the Church's abuses as he could, so that when he got to the authorities he
could get them to believe him. It wasn't enough for him to just bail out of
the Holy One's scam. He wanted to bring the church down, too, to expose it for
what it was and make sure that others wouldn't wind up like AI Rivera and
Isabelle Fiori. Whatever had happened to them wasn't good. Ozzie was sure of
it.

The night dragged on while Ozzie wrestled with these unsettling thoughts,
until finally he decided that it was late enough for him to slip out of the
barracks again. This time he wasn't interrupted by Randall, and he didn't need
the youth's unwitting assistance because the guard pulling the graveyard shift
had dozed off at his station between the two dormitories.

With practiced stealth, Ozzie once again slipped out the side window and
dropped to the ground before donning his shoes and running to the foothills.
Instead of approaching the palace, however, this time he headed in the
opposite direction, bypassing the lodge and remaining in the shadows as he
followed the path leading to the fields where he and the others had been
laboring most of the week. Peering through the darkness, he sought out the
subtle landmarks he'd made mental notes on the previous afternoon. There was a
cluster of boulders at one point that told him he was closing in on his
destination, and an off-kilter bend to the top of a tall conifer marked the
direction he should take when he strayed from the main path.

He inched through the bush, making as little noise as possible, trying to
keep the bent tree directly in front of him. After forging a few yards through
the foliage, Ozzie spotted a thin sliver of light up ahead. As he moved in
closer, he also began to hear the steady drone of an idling engine.

Something was going on at the camouflaged warehouse.

Ozzie slowed down even more, fearful that either the pit bulls or human
sentries might be out guarding the isolated building. When he passed a dead,
fallen tree, he crouched behind it for a moment to catch his breath and decide
whether or not to continue. He didn't have to think long about it. He'd come
too far to turn back now.

Before rising, Ozzie noticed a stray branch near his-feet and cautiously
picked it up. It was a thick limb, roughly the size of a baseball bat. For a
fleeting moment, he remembered putting down his old man for carrying a
nightstick as part of his police arsenal. Now he had an inkling as to why a
baton was such a prized possession for a cop. The mere feel of the stick in
his hand gave him more confidence and a greater sense of security. Clutching
the makeshift weapon, he proceeded toward the warehouse, which was beginning
to take shape in the darkness.

The sound of the engine became increasingly louder, as well, and finally
Ozzie reached the point where he could see a truck backed up to the

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warehouse's crude loading dock. The vehicle wasn't familiar to Ozzie, and it
was only a little more than half the size of the truck used in the field work.

Several deacons, along with some other men in jeans and dark shirts, were
busy on the dock, loading bundles into the truck. Even before the slight
evening breeze shifted enough for Ozzie to detect the unmistakable odor, he
knew that the cargo being transferred from the warehouse was marijuana. The
same marijuana the disciples had toiled so hard to harvest.

Of course. It made perfect sense to Ozzie now. AI Rivera had been right.

The Church had been behind the whole enterprise all along. The seeds had
probably been planted earlier in the year by another band of unsuspecting
discipleswho most likely had been told they were growing tomatoes or some
other legitimate cropand now the Holy One was using some bullshit story about
infidels bringing the demon weed onto Church grounds as a front for getting
another work force to ready the crop for sale. And to think the initiates had
all been naive enough to think the marijuana was going to be destroyed. It
made Ozzie furious just to think of how gullible he'd been.

The youth was still watching the transaction at the warehouse when he heard a
twig snap behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw one of the deacons
sneaking upon him with a gun in his hand.

"You!" the bald man hissed. "What are you?"

Ozzie swung his crude club at the older man's face with all his strength.
There was a sickening crunch as wood connected with flesh, bone and cartilage.
The deacon reeled backward from the force of the blow and fell limp to the
ground.

Frozen with fear, Ozzie stood in a half crouch, staring at the fallen man.
The yellowshirt lay still in the tall grass, blood trickling from his nose and
mouth, his eyes open but unseeing.

I killed him, Ozzie thought. I killed him.

The numbing realization held him rigid with fear for almost a minute, and
only then was he able to move. Looking back toward the warehouse, he saw that
no one on the dock had heard him over the sound of the truck's engine. If the
deacon he'd just killed had been wandering around the brush, it could be a
while before he was missed and the others came looking for him. Ozzie had
time. But to do what?

He looked back at the body, and his gaze locked on the gun. Slowly he leaned
over and extended his hand toward the gun. Then, as his fingers were about to
touch the weapon, Ozzie suddenly jerked his hand away. He didn't know how to
use a gun. And what about leaving fingerprints?

Retreat, a voice called out inside him. Get back to the barracks before they
find the body.

Other voices told him to take his chances with the gun, to try to shoot his
way to the truck and use it to make his getaway. But he was shaking too much
to attempt such heroics. Leaving the gun next to the body, he turned and, as
he had the night before, retraced his steps until he was back at the barracks.
The deacon on guard duty hadn't stirred all the time Ozzie had been away, and
he continued to snore as the youth hoisted himself up and through the window
leading back into the bunkhouse. Taking his shoes off, Ozzie carefully held
them up in the moonlight and cleaned them off with a piece of dirty laundry

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before returning to his bunk. No one else stirred.

Pulling the covers up over him, Ozzie curled into a fetal position and buried
his face in his pillow. And wept.

Wearing an ill-fitting maroon jogging suit, Sergei Karanov sat on the back
patio of his leased home in the La Jolla hills, sipping coffee as he stared
blankly at a small, black-bottomed swimming pool surrounded by a wooden deck
and huge ceramic pots containing bougainvillea with flowering orange petals
that resembled tongues of flame. It was part of the Russian's usual morning
regimen to swim laps in the pool before enjoying a full breakfast, but today
he was too preoccupied for such diversions. He hadn't shaved, and the thick,
dark circles under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. Although smoking
aggravated his system as much as coffee, he lit up a thin brown cigarette and
filled his lungs with a hot, stinging cloud of smoke, then slowly exhaled
through his nose.

The events of the night before had not been officially confirmed, but Karanov
sensed that the news would not be good. It would fit the pattern of this whole
wretched assignment. What was the term the Americans used? Murphy's Law? What
could go wrong, would go wrong. That was the way things had been for him since
he'd come to San Diego. For each small success there was an equal or greater
failure, another smear on his once-flawless reputation.

Why was it so difficult for the party to realize that some men worked best
alone? Sergei Karanov was not meant to be a mere functionary, one who oversaw
the doings of others. To be responsible for the competence of underlings was
foreign to him. He required a certain freedom and flexibility to be effective.
An independence from others. He had tried to impress that upon his superiors
in San Francisco, but the words had fallen on deaf ears. Those idiots assumed
that since they had become fat and lazy in their middle age, he should follow
suit and become a manager, content to give orders.

"This is not my fault!" he grumbled, blowing smoke at the bougainvillea,
painfully aware the plants were no more receptive to his complaints than
Stanislov or Petrovka would be. He could picture those two jowly bureaucrats
in their plush Nob Hill office, twin bookends of passionless disinterest,
staring at him with their dead-fish eyes as he pleaded his case. They would
let him have his say, then deride his failure and relate the terms of his
punishment. Would it be exile to some bureaucratic cubicle? Or to Siberia? Or
would they give him some false reassurance that he would be given another
chance, then send him on his way, knowing full well that any second he would
be confronted by the Service R goons and dragged off for a summary execution.

Karanov heard activity behind him and looked over his shoulder. Yuri was
inside the house, opening the sliding glass door that led to the patio. From
the chauffeur's expression, Karanov knew that his worst suspicions were about
to be confirmed. He flicked his cigarette into the pool and took a deep breath
as the younger man came out to join him. Like Karanov, Yuri had a beleaguered,
fatigued look.

"It is not good news, I'm afraid," he began.

"I already know that!" Karanov snapped. "I want the specifics."

Yuri took a seat across from his superior and laid out the whole miserable
story, as far as he had been able to piece it together over the previous few
hours.

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"I drove by, and both the cottages are cordoned off by the police. There was
much damage in the neighborhood, and when I asked around I found out there was
shooting in the night. An officer was killed."

"And what of our people?" Karanov wondered.

"All dead," Yuri confirmed, "except for the two prostitutes."

"What of Dr. Bates?"

"From what I was able to learn, she was shot by our own men when she tried to
surrender," Yuri replied.

"Then they have no one to question," Karanov mused, trying to look on the
bright side.

"One man, Vasili, was taken to the hospital with wounds from gunshots and a
car crash, but he died without regaining consciousness."

"Good," Karanov said. "You are sure of all this?"

Yuri nodded. "I checked with two of our people on the inside, and they both
had the same information."

Karanov rose from his chair and paced around the pool, snapping a sprig of
bougainvillea and twirling it between his fingers. He said, "They must be on
to this whole operation with the prostitutes. We will have to abandon it, at
least for the present. And to be safe we should leave here, as well. Who knows
what evidence they might turn up in the cottages?"

"There should be nothing there that would point to us," Yuri observed.

" Should be is not good enough."

"You think we should leave the area?"

"Not the area," Karanov said. He gestured at the house. "Just here. This
place. We can stay somewhere else temporarily, just until we tend to the loose
ends."

"Such as?"

"Such as the prostitutes," Karanov said. "You said they were not killed, and
I assume they weren't captured either, correct?"

"Yes, but"

"Then we must find them and see that they have not talked and that they will
not talk."

Isabelle Fiori awoke in a feverish sweat. Her teeth were chattering, and she
was doubled over with a cramping pain in her stomach. Her mind was in turmoil,
fogged and sluggish.

Where am I?

She was lying in shadow on a cold cement floor, having rolled off a makeshift
mattress of flattened cardboard boxes. A shaft of bright sunlight shone
through a small window set high in the wall across from her.

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Basement.

She had no recollection of having come to this place. In fact, she had
trouble focusing on any recent memory. As her eyes accustomed themselves to
the murky lighting, she gazed down at her skimpy dress and torn nylons. A pair
of shoes lay nearby, one with its two-inch spike heel dangling where it had
broken loose from the sole. She couldn't remember putting those clothes on and
had no recollection of ever having worn high heels.

Who am I?

The irritation in her stomach became increasingly harsh when she tried to sit
up. A uncomfortable tingle surged up her throat and down her jawline. Overcome
by nausea, she slumped over and retched violently. The exertion drained her,
and she barely had enough energy to crawl away from the pool of vomit. As soon
as she reached the spot where the sun was shining into the enclosure, Isabelle
collapsed and let the warmth wash over her.

More than three hours later, the young woman regained consciousness and found
herself once again in the shadows. The fever had passed, although she was
still shivering and her mind was clearer than it had been earlier. Sitting up,
she rubbed the back of her neck, kneading the tensed muscles.

She was still puzzled by her clothing and by the circumstances that had
brought her to these strange surroundings, but she knew who she was and could
think back to her last memory, that of struggling on a laboratory table while
an older woman had injected her arm with a syringe. How long ago had that
been?

Where had it been?

"The church," she whispered hoarsely. She'd been taken away from the church
in the mountains. By the deacons. They'd blindfolded her before taking her to
the laboratory. Someplace close by.

The palace.

The Holy One's palace was a laboratory?

Confused, still weak, Isabelle slowly rose to her feet and leaned against the
basement wall. As she drew in a series of deep breaths, she noticed a second
pair of high heels across the room, near another stack of cardboard boxes. Had
another woman been staying there with her?

Isabelle took a closer look and saw a small paper bag lying underneath an
unfinished wooden staircase leading up to the ground floor. She checked inside
the sack and found wadded fast-food wrappers. There were a few cold French
fries in the bottom of the bag, and she quickly devoured them, suddenly
conscious of her hunger.

Barefoot, she slowly climbed up the steps, leaning heavily on the handrail
for support. The door at the top of the stairs was closed, but there was no
knob and she was able to open it easily. She found that she was inside the
skeletal framework of a half-built house, and through the upright two-by-fours
she could see another eight homes in similar stages of construction on a level
plateau. Even the road linking the homes hadn't been completed, and there were
no vehicles in sight except for an untended bulldozer.

She was in the mountains somewhere, far from any other housing development.
The sun was directly overhead, burning brightly in the clear sky. Isabelle sat

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down on the front porch of the house, trying to make sense of things. Was this
another part of the Church? Was she even in San Diego?

If no one was around, she guessed it had to be Sunday. Should she wait a day
to see if workers came?

"No," she said, forcing herself to her feet. "Need food. Help."

She staggered across the unseeded lawn and onto the dirt cul-de-sac leading
away from the plateau. Each step was an effort, but she forced herself to
continue. The isolation of the abandoned development was frightening, somehow.
The thought of being alone any longer terrified her. She felt that she had to
find someone, anyone, to get some answers.

A name came to her out of the blue, and with it the image of a familiar face.

"AI," she cried out. "AI, help me!"

The hills ignored her cries.

Soon the dirt road pitched sharply downhill, and Isabelle found herself
breaking into an uncontrolled run, like a car whose brakes have failed. She
sobbed hysterically, flailing her arms. "AI!"

When the road turned to follow the bend of the mountainside, Isabelle was
unable to stop herself or change her course. When her headlong momentum
carried her off onto the softer soil of the road's shoulder, the young girl
turned her ankle and lost her balance. With a scream of horror she toppled
over, rolling sharply over the steep ledge of the mountain slope. Her cry
lasted a few seconds longer as she tumbled down the weedy incline, crashing
through small shrubs and tearing her clothes on the manzanita. She came to
rest on flat ground thirty feet below the level of the road. Her body was
racked with pain, and she was dizzy from the fall. Tears continued to fall
down her face, and she whimpered a few moments longer, then was silent.

"We've got enough chefs here to spoil the broth ten times over," Ike Ebsen
complained as he paced the crowded office of San Diego Police Lieutenant Avery
Howe, who headed up the department's homicide division. Representing the
county sheriff's office was Joe Krebbs, while the FBI had sent in field agent
Monica Farrell to cover the Bureau's interests. And of course, Able Team was
in on the conference, as well, although the three men were doing all they
could to steer clear of the political wrangling that had taken up most of the
group's time since it had convened more than an hour before.

"Well, now, Ebsen," Lt. Howe said in a deep, booming voice, "since it was our
boys that handled the forensics at the scene, I have an obligation to follow
through on their input. Not to mention the fact that the shoot-out was within
our jurisdiction."

"If the Soviets are involved, that makes it Bureau business," the lean
redhead in the woman's business suit asserted. "We have priority in all
incidents of domestic terrorism."

Ebsen retorted, "And I say this isn't a terrorism issue per se, Ms Farrell.
It's an internal Navy matter, and we're the ones who've been on top of this
whole thing from day one."

Lyons had finally heard enough. He got up from the two-drawer file cabinet
he'd been sitting on and cleared his throat to get the group's attention.
"Look," he said, "we can play pecking order all day and get nowhere.

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Meanwhile, there's Commies out on the prowl under our noses, provided they
haven't taken advantage of the time we're wasting and split for some other
city where they can do the same thing all over again.

"How about if we just sort of cut through the crap and handle this like a
team? You know, pool our resources and pitch in for the common good. I know it
sounds kind of corny, but who knows, it just might get us somewhere."

"That's a rather simplistic notion, don't you think?" Howe drawled cynically.

"You want simple?" Lyons reached across Howe's desk and picked up the phone,
his finger poised above the dial. "Give me five minutes and I'll have myself
put in charge of this circus and tell you all to go take a flying"

"Easy, Ironman," Pol interjected. Blancanales had earned his nickname of
"Politician" for his ability to defuse almost any potentially explosive
situation through a combination of charm, guile and persuasion. He motioned
for Lyons to step back and give him the floor. Eyeing the group, he laid out a
suggested compromise. '

"Let's slice this pie as evenly as possible, so everybody gets their own
little bit to chew on without having to worry about the other guy, okay?

"Like the good lieutenant says, his people handled the bodies and gave the
cottages a good forensics workup. I say we let them run with that until they
have results, then we'll divvy up leads. So far so good?"

Blancanales scanned the room, looking for dissenters. Not finding anyone
willing to speak up, he eyed the only woman in the group and went on, "Ms
Farrell, I think that if you and Mr. Ebsen put your heads and files together
you might make some headway as far as the Soviet angle's concerned.

"And Mr. Krebbs, since your partner was killed last night, it seems only fair
that you have dibs on trying to bring in the guilty parties"

"The guilty parties are already dead," Krebbs reminded him.

"The men who pulled the triggers, maybe," Pol said. "But what about the two
women responsible for setting the whole sorry mess into motion? They're still
out there"

"Yeah," Krebbs conceded. "But vice isn't really County's strong suit, you
know"

"I can put you in touch with our people," Howe offered. "We've got at least
half a dozen full-timers, and between them there's gotta be someone who's
dealt with these two women at some point down the line."

"There we go," Blancanales said.

There was a light knock on the door, and a uniformed officer walked in just
long enough to hand Lieutenant Howe a manila file folder. The homicide
detective opened the file and began skimming through its contents while Pol
continued, "My guess is the younger girl couldn't have been more than
seventeen or eighteen. Might be she's new to the streets. I can run a check
with the juvenile authorities"

"And I'll tap into Missing Persons and the runaway network," Lyons said,
adding, "I've got a little unfinished business on that front, anyway."

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Howe spoke up, indicating some of the findings in the file he'd just
received. "I think I can save you a little time, Mr. Lyons. Our dust boys
lifted some good prints at the bungalow. Got an ID on the young girl."

"Yeah?" Blancanales and Lyons said simultaneously.

Howe referred to one of the sheets in the file as he talked. "Name's Isabelle
Fiori. Long record for petty crimes, in and out of Juvenile since she was
twelve. Comes from a broken home. Mother split to the East Coast, and the old
man has a drinking problem. Says here he beat her a few times. She ran away
twice, didn't come back the last time. That was a month ago. Supposedly got
religion with a boyfriend and ran off to get a halo. Obviously didn't work
out."

"Got religion?" Lyons said, feeling a prick of recognition at the story. On a
hunch he asked, "Where's she from?"

Howe scanned the sheet. "Escondido."

"Bingo," said Lyons.

When the disciples were roused from sleep an hour earlier than usual, Ozzie
feared the worst. Surely the fallen guard had been discovered and both a
search and an interrogation were about to take place. He'd taken every
possible precaution to cover any tracks leading to him, but he was afraid that
in his panic and his rush to return to the barracks he might have left some
incriminating evidence out there. Footprints, fingerprints, the smell on his
clothesthe more he thought back on his clandestine trip to the warehouse, the
more astonished he was that the deacons hadn't already found him out and
dragged him off for whatever punishment they might choose to inflict upon him.

But there was no inspection, only barked orders for the initiates to dress
quickly and hasten to the lodge because only five minutes were being allowed
for breakfast instead of the usual ten. Along with the other youths, Ozzie
hurried into his clothes and strode to the mess, again paranoid that perhaps
in the lodge he would be confronted for his misdeeds.

He ate quickly, barely able to keep the food down because his stomach was in
knots. As Ozzie joined the others in formation for the anticipated long,
grueling hike to the fields, he glanced back at the barracks and noticed some
of the deacons looking over the exteriors of both structures, paying
particular attention to the areas around the windows.

They know, Ozzie thought. They have to know. He felt a weakness in his knees,
and he sucked in deep breaths to fight off a sudden surge of nausea. Forcing
himself to glance away from the barracks, he looked through the ranks of the
disciples for either Isabelle or AI Rivera, finding neither.

"The Holy One has declared that today you will be allowed to ride to the
fields," one of the yellowshirts called out to the workers as two other men
pried open the rear doors of the large truck. "Give thanks for the Holy One's
compassion as you climb aboard!"

"Praised by the Holy One!" Randall cried out, scurrying to be the first up
into the truck.

"The Holy One is compassionate!" another intoned.

It's a trap, Ozzie thought as he climbed up into the truck. The strong scent

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of marijuana still lingered in the vehicle from the earlier loads. He vaguely
recalled one of his high school history classes, when he'd learned about the
Holocaust and the way the Jews had been crowded into freight cars like cattle
so they could be hauled away to the death camps. He felt that the Holy One was
deluding them just so that they would peacefully pile into the truck. He
looked around at the others, heard them chanting with smiles of gratitude on
their faces at being granted such supposedly kind consideration by their
leader. Idiots, Ozzie wanted to scream at them. Fools, don't you realize we're
all being used? Once they've had their fun with us, they'll get rid of us and
bring in another batch of lemmings.

"Hey, Ozzie."

It was Randall, wriggling past the others and sitting down next to Ozzie as
two deacons closed the back doors of the truck, immersing the disciples in
darkness. Ozzie mouthed a mindless prayer and pretended he didn't noticed the
younger boy beside him. The truck's gears meshed, and the chanting continued
as the vehicle started down the ragged pathway leading to the fields. Already
the enclosed back of the truck was becoming hot and stifling.

"Ozzie," Randall repeated, tugging at Tower's shirt sleeve to get his
attention.

"What?" Ozzie snapped angrily, jerking Randall's hand away from him.

Because of all the noise inside the truck it was difficult to carry on a
conversation, and Randall had to lean forward for Ozzie to hear him. He had a
hurt expression on his face. "You don't have to yell at me," he said, pouting.

"Sorry," Ozzie said, struggling for patience. "What do you want, Randall?"

"I just wondered where you were last night, that's all."

Ozzie stared hard at the boy. "I don't know what you're talking about," he
lied.

"I had trouble sleeping and I saw you get up and tiptoe into the side room,"
Randall said. His whisper was low enough that only Ozzie could hear him. "I
went to see what was up and you were gone."

"You must have been dreaming, Randall," Ozzie said. "I didn't get out of bed
last night, and I didn't go anywhere, either."

"But I saw"

"You didn't see anything," Ozzie insisted, staring at Randall. "Understand?
You were dreaming."

Randall mulled over Ozzie's words as the truck continued to rumble toward its
destination, jostling the workers crowded into the back. The heat was
increasing by the minute, and sweat began trickling down the youthful faces.
Most of them ignored the discomfort and continued to recite prayers to the
Holy One. We're like the illegal aliens that suffocate trying to cross the
border, Ozzie thought bleakly.

"I even went to check your bed, and it was empty," Randall whispered to
Ozzie.

"If you weren't dreaming, then you're lying," Ozzie accused. "Do you remember
what the Holy One says about lying?"

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Randall was stunned by the tone of Ozzie's voice. He nodded weakly. "I
remember."

"Then you should think twice about making up these stories," Ozzie said. "You
don't want me to have to go to the deacons about this, do you?"

Randall shook his head. "No, no," he pleaded. "Maybe I was dreaming but it
just seemed like I was awake."

"It happens like that when you're real tired, Randall." Ozzie softened his
voice, trying to soothe the younger boy. He hated himself for lying, but there
was no way he could risk taking Randall into his confidence. He patted the
youth on the shoulder. "Come on, let's join the others."

They chanted along with the rest, and before long they had reached the
fields. Hot as it was outside, when the doors were opened and the disciples
climbed out of the truck', it was like stepping out of a sauna. Ozzie gulped
the mountain air greedily.

The deacons arrived with the pit bulls in four separate Jeeps and parked in
the nearby shade. One of the Jeeps was pulling an open trailer filled with the
harvesting tools.

"The Holy One wants this scourge cleared from the land today," the deacon
with the bullhorn told the workers. "It is imperative that you be strong and
industrious, to be soldiers in the cause of righteousness." He pointed to the
fields. "There is our enemy. Go, work hard, and cut the cancer away!"

Ozzie understood now why they'd been awakened early and allowed to ride in
the truck to the field instead of walking. To gain time. The deacons wanted to
clear out the rest of the marijuana as soon as possible, no doubt to conclude
the transaction he'd witnessed the night before. And that was why they hadn't
bothered with an interrogation yet. Why lose a good worker before the job was
finished? No doubt they intended to wait until the crop was harvested and the
exhausted workers were back at the camp. Then they would find him out, if they
hadn't already.

As he picked up tools at the trailer, Ozzie averted his gaze. He was wary of
looking into the eyes of the deacons, for fear that he would either betray his
guilt or see that they knew he was the one who'd killed the guard. Clutching
his tools, he stayed close to Randall as he ventured into the fields, knowing
he would have to keep a close eye on the boy.

To Ozzie's surprise, half the deacons shed their yellowshirts and took to the
fields, as well, lending a hand in the harvesting. The others were even more
vigilant in overseeing the disciples, and Ozzie quickly dismissed any notion
of trying to escape. He would have no better luck than AI Rivera had, and if
by some miracle the deacons didn't yet know he was the one responsible for
last night's deed, he would only be signaling his guilt with any attempt to
flee.

As before, one of the bald men used the bullhorn to indoctrinate the field
workers with more of the dogma of the Church of the New Word. The recitation
grated on Ozzie's nerves, and he thought that the pressure was going to become
too much for him. Seeing the holstered guns of the shirtless deacons, he was
filled with an irrational urge to charge one of them and try to get his hand
on a weapon.

Don't freak out, he told himself. Be calm, be strong.

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Like the old man.

Bill Towers peered out the window of the small Beechcraft Bonanza as it
taxied off the runway toward a row of light aircraft parked at the county
airfield just outside Escondido. The Dodge van he'd been told to expect was
parked next to the closest hangar, and Carl Lyons climbed out of the auto as
the Beechcraft came to a halt. Towers quickly deplaned, and the two men met
and traded handshakes on the hot tarmac.

"You sure got here in a hurry," Lyons observed.

"Damn right," Towers said. "I started pulling strings the moment you called.
No way was I going to stay up there biting my nails with all this going on."

Lyons had called Towers at the West Valley police station just a little over
two hours earlier, mentioning the Escondido connection with the case Able Team
was working. The cop had said he would be right down, and Lyons had
volunteered to drive up from San Diego to meet him at the airport.

"You had a chance to talk to the girl's father?" Towers asked as the two men
headed back to the Dodge, which still bore visible scars from the incident the
previous evening.

Lyons shook his head. "Just got here myself." He got in on the driver's side
of the van and leaned across to unlock the passenger door for Towers. "I was
on the phone awhile trying to track the guy down and make sure he'd be
around."

"I sure as hell appreciate you giving me a ring right off," Towers said as he
strapped on his seat belt.

"Well, just remember we don't have any proof yet that Ozzie could be tied up
in any of this." Lyons backed up onto a service road that horseshoed around
the airfield. "This could wind up being a dead end."

"I know," Towers conceded, "but it's worth it for me to be here. Hell, I
should have got on the case from the start instead of leaving it to others.
That boy's worth my best shot, damn it."

Lyons pulled out onto the main road and headed for one of the older parts of
the small California town, passing long stretches of farmland dotted with
avocado trees. He glanced at his former partner, noticing the glum,
preoccupied look on Towers's face. It wasn't a good look for a cop to have.
Lyons jabbed him lightly on the shoulder. "What the hell, Bill, we're on the
same beat again, eh?"

"Yeah, how about that?" Towers forced a grin. "Of course, back then we had a
better set of wheels than this rattletrap."

"And a lot better times, too."

"We sure ran into our share of characters," Towers admitted.

"Ain't that the truth?" Lyons said with a laugh. "Remember chasing that
souped-up pickup outta Pacoima?"

"Oh, shit!" Towers howled at the memory, slapping the dashboard. "Ninety
miles an hour on the freeway and some guy in back starts heaving bags of steer
manure at our windshield. Man, you goosed that gas line and we zoomed by so

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fast he fell over trying to turn to keep up with us."

"With the bag of fertilizer splitting open over his head," Lyons said.

On cue, both he and Towers shouted the punch line. "Whatashithead!"

The men shared a much-needed laugh and recounted other shared exploits. The
diversion helped pass the time until they reached a run-down housing tract
that immediately reminded Lyons of the neighborhood where Able Team had
clashed with the KGB the night before. There was a rural flavor to the area
here, however, with larger lots and orchard-lined hills in the background
instead of skyscrapers and bustling jumbo jets.

Checking a slip of paper to confirm the address, Lyons pulled into a gravel
driveway that led up to a cramped one-story home. Several old cars, in various
states of disrepair, were parked on the unmowed front lawn. An overfed mongrel
with yellow teeth yelped threateningly as Lyons and Towers headed up the walk,
but both men could see that the dog was chained to the rusting front bumper of
a '57 Chevy that looked as if it hadn't budged since fins had gone out of
style in the early sixties.

"Nice doggie," Towers said. "If I was as ugly as you I'd complain about it,
too."

Before the men could mount the front porch, a screen door swung outward and a
man in his late fifties, every bit as homely and overweight as his dog, took a
few tentative steps forward. The man took care to remain in what little shade
the porch provided. He had a thick, sallow face with the color and consistency
of wax left out a few minutes too long in the sun. He wore a baggy pair of
slacks cut off just above the knee and suspenders to hold them up.

"Mr. Fiori?"

"Who are .you?" the man demanded. His voice was incredibly high-pitched for
someone his size.

"Lyons from Missing Persons," Carl lied. "I'm the one who called about your
daughter. This is my partner, Bill Towers."

Fiori looked past the men and shouted at his dog, "Shut yer yap, Clarence!"
The mongrel got off one last bark, then whined and backed away, crawling under
the Chevy. Fiori shifted his gaze to the parked van in the driveway and asked,
"You brung her back?"

"No," Lyons said patiently. "Like I told you on the phone, we were hoping you
might be able to help us find her."

Towers quickly added, "Perhaps we could come inside a minute? It's a little
warm out here, Mr. Fiori."

Fiori remained standing in the middle of the porch, rocking slightly on his
feet. Even though he was in the shade, both the other men could see Fiori's
eyes were bloodshot, and not from lack of sleep.

"Go away," he said.

"You said you'd help us."

"I changed my mind. Now beat it!" Fiori told Lyons.

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Lyons shook his head. "Sorry, Mr. Fiori. It's not that simple."

There was a toolbox resting on the porch railing, and Fiori reached into it
for a foot-long plumber's wrench. He wrapped a fist around its cast-iron
handle and glared at Lyons and Towers.

"I ain't gonna tell you again. Scram!"

Towers reached inside his coat and came out with his service revolver. "Put
the wrench down, Mr. Fiori."

Fiori stared blankly at the gun, then made a sour face and leaned to put the
wrench back in the toolbox. At the last second, he shifted his position and
flicked the wrench at Towers. His reflexes were slow, however, and Towers was
easily able to duck the flying projectile, which ended up striking the old
Chevy and rousing Clarence for an encore.

Lyons cleared the steps in one long bound and caught up with Fiori before the
fat man could get his hands on a ball peen hammer. Up this close, the Ironman
could smell the man's breath. Fifty-proof. He jerked Fiori off his feet and
onto a porch rocker, then waited for Towers to join them.

"Okay, Mr. Fiori, let's try it again," Towers said. "But first tell that mutt
of yours to shut up."

"Clarence ain't no mutt!" Fiori protested.

"I don't care if he's a goddamn purebred, tell him to shut up!"

Fiori obeyed, sending the mongrel back into hiding beneath the Chevy with a
firm command. That accomplished, he looked at his two interrogators and then
broke down. "I want my Isabelle back! She can't leave me alone like this! Not
like her ma!"

"When you reported her missing," Lyons said, "you mentioned something about
her getting involved with some kind of religious organization, is that right?"

Fiori rubbed tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand and sniffed hard
until he was able to bring himself back under control. "If she'd only have
listened to me. I'm her father! I know what's best for my little girl!"

Towers felt an uncomfortable kinship with him, but he tried his best to
ignore it. "Your little girl is seventeen years old, Mr. Fiori," he said as he
put away his gun. "She's a woman now."

"Not Isabelle, she's just a kid"

"She's grown up, damn it!" Towers snapped. "Maybe if you'd laid off the sauce
and taken a good look at her you'd"

"Ease off, Bill," Lyons said. In this case, the good-cop-bad-cop bit they'd
used so much as partners seemed a little too authentic. Carl suspected that a
lot of the anger Towers was heaping on Fiori was really meant for himself.

"I know I got a drinking problem," Fiori retorted. "I don't need you rubbing
my face in it, okay? I was doing good before she ran away. Now I"

"Mr. Fiori," Lyons said quietly, "we're not here to go into that. How about
if you tell us a little bit more about this church your daughter got involved
with."

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Fiori drew in a few deep breaths and rocked slowly in his chair. It seemed to
calm him slightly. He fished a cigarette from his pockets and lighted it. "She
started hanging out at some kinda mission place down on Main Street. You know,
soup kitchens and a cot for the night, long as you sit through some damn
sermon."

"Was it Salvation Army or something run by the city?" Lyons asked.

Fiori shook his head. "No. Some private church with a lotta Chinks running
around in yellow shirts. They got some kinda bogus name. Church of the New
Way, something like that"

"New Word," Towers said, suddenly vibrant, like a puzzle player who'd found
the missing piece. "The Church of the New Word."

"Yeah, that could be it," Fiori conceded.

"And you say they run a mission downtown?" Towers asked.

"Yeah."

Towers stood up and backed away from Fiori, signaling to Lyons that he was on
to something. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Fiori. You've been a big help."

Fiori eyed the men in surprise. "You're not going to arrest me for that thing
with the wrench?"

Lyons shook his head and told Fiori, "Just do everyone a favor and get back
on the wagon, okay?"

"You're gonna find my kid?"

"Maybe," Lyons said. "Maybe."

Sergei Karanov finished packing his third suitcase and set it with the other
luggage, which included two large steamer trunks. How disgusting, he thought.
When he'd been a top agent he'd prided himself on being able to live out of a
small attache case, always ready to move on a moment's notice. Now he was
burdened by possessions, many of them necessitated by his supervisory duties.
Weighed down. Slowed down. Sluggish.

"Why me?" he muttered angrily, kicking one of the large trunks.

Yuri Ostrovich drifted into view in the doorway, looking at Karanov with
concern. "Is there something wrong?"

Karanov eyed the younger man with unrestrained envy and hatred. Oh, to be
young and virile again. Karanov knew how to please a woman, and from the
moment the KGB had established contact with the woman who called herself the
Holy One he had been secretly enraged by her affair with Yuri. Didn't she know
that Sergei Karanov had had more women during any one year of his prime than
this witless stud of a chauffeur would have in his lifetime?

"Just get these things loaded so we can get out of here!" Karanov snapped,
grabbing one of the suitcases.

Yuri nodded, deliberately choosing the largest of the suitcases and picking
it up effortlessly with his right hand before grabbing the remaining one with

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his left. He looked at Karanov with a straight face and told him, "If you can
get the doors"

Karanov turned his back on Yuri and stormed down the hallway, bypassing the
meager furnishings that had come with the house. He shoved the side door
outward and set down his suitcase to hold it open. Parked behind the Mercedes
in the parking lot was a rented Toyota pickup. Karanov lowered the truck's
tailgate and withdrew a two-wheeled hand dolly while Yuri loaded the suitcases
in the truck bed.

Together they returned to Karanov's bedroom and jockeyed the heavy steamer
trunks onto the dolly, then slowly rolled the load through the house. Yuri
bore most of the weight, while Karanov steadied the trunks whenever they
rounded corners.

"Remember what I told you," the older Russian advised Yuri. "No word of these
recent troubles to the Holy One. Even if she pumps you for information in
bed."

"I understand," Yuri said, with a smirk.

Karanov ignored the younger man's expression. Outside, the two men carefully
transferred the steamer trunks to the pickup truck. While they were securing
the luggage with lengths of rope, a taxi rolled to a stop in front of the
house.

"What is this?" Karanov whispered, alarmed. Preparing for the worst, he moved
to the other side of the pickup, using it for cover as he placed his hand on
the barrel of the Walther PPK holstered inside his coat. The PPK had been a
mainstay of the German army during World War II, and Karanov's was a souvenir
given to him by his older brother Boris, a Russian spy during the conflict.
Karanov loved the feel of the gun and was pleased enough with its performance
to make it his firearm of choice. By his estimation he'd slain more than forty
men with the gun over the years, and he suspected still more would die by its
lethal bite in the future.

Karanov relaxed slightly when he saw the woman who stepped out of the taxi
and sent the driver off. It was Anna, the prostitute who had been missing
since leaving the scene of last night's shoot-out near the airport. She looked
haggard and a little frightened.

"I guess we can stop looking for her," Yuri murmured to Karanov under his
breath.

"Yes," Karanov replied. "Let me tend to her. You go with the truck and
remember what I told you about the Holy One."

"You don't have to keep reminding me!" Yuri shot back. Furious, he circled
around and climbed inside the Toyota, driving off without so much as looking
at Anna.

"Anna!" Karanov said with relief, stepping forward to give the prostitute a
brief embrace. "We were concerned about you."

"I have been frantic!" Anna gasped, clutching a small purse to her side. "We
came so close to being caught."

"It's all right now," Karanov assured her. "Where is the other girl?"

"We took a taxi up into the canyons after we fled the bungalow," Anna

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explained. "Isabelle was very ill. I left her to sleep and came back to meet
with you."

"Good, good. You came just in time." Karanov pointed to the Mercedes. "For
now we must retreat to the Church."

"That's what I suspected," Anna said. "I was so worried I would get to you
too late."

Karanov opened the door of the car for the woman and motioned her inside,
then went around to take the wheel. "We must pick up poor Isabelle on the way.
You remember the place, I trust?" he asked as he pulled out of the driveway
and headed down from the La Jolla hills.

Anna nodded and gave him directions to a housing development in the canyons
just east of Miramar. As he drove, Karanov filled the woman in on the results
of the shoot-out that had prompted her to flee. He spoke smoothly and
reassuringly, doing his best to allay her worries.

"Did we do the right thing by killing those sailors? I didn't want them to be
able to talk," Anna asked when he had finished.

"You handled it very well, Anna. Like a professional."

"I'm so glad," Anna said. Her sense of relief was visible and pronounced.

It took them less than a half hour to leave La Jolla and pass through Miramar
into the canyons. By now it was midafternoon, and shadows were stretching
across the dry terrain.

"How did you know about this place we are going to?" Karanov asked as he
turned off the main street and started up a gravel road.

Anna smiled. "One of my sailor friends had a brother who builds houses. He
took me here. It's a very isolated place."

"So I see," Karanov said, scanning the scenery and seeing no houses or other
access roads where they were heading. The dirt path wound up into the canyons
for more than a mile, and then they found themselves at the deserted building
site.

"There," Anna said, pointing, "the house closest to being finished. That's
where we stayed."

"The taxi driver wasn't suspicious at being taken out here?" Karanov
wondered.

Anna shook her head, smiling again. "I made it worth his time. He even agreed
to come back and pick me up in the morning. He was late, though, and I had to
start walking."

"And Isabelle was too sick to come with you?"

"Yes," Anna said. "I think that the drugs you gave her were too strong. This
morning I thought she was dead."

"Well, let's see to her, then," Karanov said. He stopped the Mercedes in
front of the half-framed house. The two of them got out and crossed the dirt
yard, then entered and went down the steps to the basement.

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"She's gone!" Anna gasped, staring at the abandoned enclosure. "I can't
believe it!"

"Goddamn it, where is she?" Karanov was livid. He took a step toward Anna.
She quickly retreated from him.

"I don't know. I swear it!"

Turning his back on the woman, Karanov stomped back up the steps and out of
the house, looking for footprints in the dirt. He found two sets, both of
women's bare feet, heading in the same direction. As he began to follow the
tracks, Anna meekly brought up the rear.

"I am sorry," she whined. "I thought for sure she would"

"Shut up!"

Karanov's anger swelled inside him as he continued down the road, eyes on the
ground. He could tell Isabelle's footprints from Anna's, as the younger girls'
gait had been less surefooted, more erratic. Finally, at the sharpest bend
leading down from the work site, he saw where the tracks led from the road.
Going to the shoulder, he leaned over and glanced down the deep slope.

Fifteen feet down the hill, Isabelle was slowly crawling back up, mewling
with pain each time she moved. Her face and arms were bloody from scraping
against the brush, and she seemed oblivious to anything but the monumental
task of scaling the harsh terrain. But when she happened to glance up and see
Karanov standing above her, she collapsed against the incline and held her
crimson-stained hands up to him in supplication.

"Please," she moaned weakly. "Help me!"

"Yes," Karanov called down to her. "We are here."

He pulled out his Walther and calmly took aim, then fired three of the
weapon's seven .32 ACP rounds. Isabelle took two of the shots in the face, and
the third buried itself in her chest. She slumped into the brush and tumbled a
few yards back down the slope before coming to a stop.

Behind Karanov, Anna screamed hysterically.

He turned toward her and slowly raised the weapon. She turned to run, but
another three shots slammed into her legs, and she spun awkwardly before
falling to the earth. Karanov had deliberately aimed in such a way as to wound
the woman without killing her. As she writhed in agony on the ground, he
walked over to her.

"Quiet, Anna," he whispered. "You won't suffer for long. I saved one last
bullet."

While Lyons and Towers were pursuing leads up in Escondido, Schwarz and
Blancanales remained behind at the police station in San Diego, helping the
emergency task force try to get a handle on the whole KGB prostitution
operation. Thanks largely to Pol's diplomatic prowess, the ego clashes and
territorial squabbles had been brought under control, and with a greater
cooperative effort progress was being made. The local police and several
sheriff's officers, including Joe Krebbs, conducted a thorough canvass of the
neighborhood where the previous night's shootings had taken place. They turned
up a few witnesses who had been missed during the initial sweep. Both an
elderly insomniac and a late-night disc jockey just coming home after his

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shift reported seeing two women running down the back alley that ran behind
the homes used for the prostitutes' operations. Their descriptions matched
those Blancanales had given of the women who had lured the two Navy officers
to their deaths. Further, the disk jockey had seen the women get into a cab on
Poplar Avenue, a block away, although he couldn't positively recall either the
color or the make of the taxi.

"We can work around that," Lieutenant Howe said once the news came in. "We'll
send men out to all the cab companies and run a check on the logs for that
time. Should turn up the driver."

As the lieutenant got on the phone to put those wheels in motion, a short
woman in a white lab coat accompanied Ike Ebsen into the cramped office. The
woman introduced herself to Schwarz and Blancanales as Harriet Sweeney from
the forensics lab.

"We ran a trace test on the few drops left in the sailor's drinks," she
reported. "Turns out to be a designer mix of Pentothal, Valium and a rare drug
called nomoephylene."

"Truth serum?" Schwarz guessed.

Sweeney nodded. "This combination isn't on record anywhere, but if I had to
lay money on it, that's what I'd say it was. The nomoephylene is primarily an
experimental drug being used in treating alias syndrome, but"

"Alias syndrome?" Blancanales said. "That's a new one on me."

"It's sort of a cross between an obsessive-compulsive complex and
schizophrenia," the lab technician explained. "Victims create new
personalities and try to rethink their past so it fits in with each new
identity. It's a very complicated condition."

"So the drug could be used for mind control as well as interrogation?"
Schwarz asked.

"Theoretically, I guess so," Sweeney said. "I know that it has a lot of
hypnotic applications. But who's to say what it'd do when combined with
Pentothal and Valium. I don't know of any studies that have researched that
particular combination."

"Which is where I come in," Ebsen reported, tapping a computer printout in
his hands. "We just ran a file check on the older woman who was killed in the
shoot-out. Her nameat least one of her nameswas Lana Bates, and before she
dropped out of sight two years ago she was on the verge of being arrested for
doing illegal research on mind control for some renegade arm of Italian secret
intelligence. She was supposedly working on a serum for use on terrorists, but
the feeling was that if the terrorists got hold of it first there'd be hell to
pay."

Schwarz digested this newest revelation and tried to put it into context. "So
it looks like the KGB came to her rescue and shipped her out here to ply her
trade."

"Sounds right to me," Ebsen said. "And from the look of it, she might have
been using this religious cult as a new base of operations."

"Of course!" Blancanales said. "If this cult's like most others, it's made up
of people who've dropped out of society and wouldn't be missed right off if a
test backfired and turned them into a vegetable."

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"Plenty of guinea pigs to try out the serum on before using it on Navy
personnel," Schwarz concluded.

"That's the way I see it stacking up," Ebsen said.

Blancanales thought aloud. "Now we just have to find out where this cult's
hiding out. Might be Lyons and Towers are already on to it, but we should
check a few things out just in case. Ms Sweeney, if that experimental drug's
restricted we might be able to find out who got their hands on it recently,
right?"

"We're a step ahead of you," Ebsen interjected, referring to another
printout. "Here's a list of the distributors in southern California. There's
only three of them. I've got men out with orders to impound sales records. The
stuff isn't supposed to be given out unless there's proper FDA clearance. With
any luck we'll get an address for wherever this Dr. Bates was working."

"Maybe," Schwarz said, "but my guess is she went through some dummy
foundation."

Lieutenant Howe hung up the phone and called out, "We just tracked down the
cabbie who picked up the women last night," he said. "Got an address of a
possible hideout in the canyons out near Miramar."

The Escondido City Mission was located in what had earlier been an
avocado-packing plant at the edge of town. Only the most superficial changes
had been made to the facility, and under the glare of the afternoon sun it was
still possible to see the Esco-Avo advertising logo beneath the thin layer of
white paint that had been slapped across the outer walls. Old wooden skids
were stacked high in the lot behind the building, and some of the larger
pieces of packing equipment had been left inside to gather cobwebs. A wooden
sign nailed above the massive garage doors had been hand-painted by someone
who hadn't known what he was doing. The letters on the right side were cramped
together far more than those on the left, but there was still barely enough
room to declare that the mission was run by volunteers from the Church of the
New Word.

Carl Lyons and Bill Towers pulled up to the site just as the first of five
daily food lines was forming outside the building. Many of those in line were
Hispanics with sun-baked skin and the slightly stoop-backed posture of
underpaid migrant workers; others had the weakened, overwhelmed look of the
homeless. Several teenagers were present, as well, some standing arrogantly
with cigarettes in their mouths and chips on their shoulders, other showing
fear and vulnerability, coming to the mission hoping for nothing more than a
free meal and a bed for the night. Towers and Lyons quickly realized Ozzie
wasn't among them.

"Line looks nearly as long as the ones you see in photos of the depression,"
Towers said, torn by bitter emotion. "My father stood in one of those lines,
and he spent the rest of his life making sure no one else in his family would
ever have to. And now I'm here looking for my son."

"I guess there's still a few kinks in the trickle-down theory," Lyons said.
"Surprise, surprise."

"Yeah, right."

A woman in her early thirties was walking down the line, passing out leaflets
to those waiting for the kitchen to open. She was thin, almost anorexic, and

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had her dull brown hair pulled back into a tight bun.

"You're all welcome here, of course," she told the group in a pleasant voice,
"but we ask that you observe certain rules of courtesy while in the mission.
No smoking or profanity, of course, and absolutely no weapons. These pamphlets
are in both English and

Spanish and spell out all the other terms. Please realize that the rules are
intended for the benefit of us all."

The woman was about to hand a pamphlet to Lyons when he shook his head.

"Sorry, lady," he told her, "but we aren't here for food or salvation."

Bill Towers flashed his badge. "We have some questions about a couple of
teens who might be part of your church."

At the sight of the badge, a handful of people casually broke from the line
and drifted away from the mission as fast as nonchalance would allow. The
woman with the pamphlets noticed the defections, and she nodded at Towers's
badge with a look of barely concealed annoyance.

"If you could put that away before you frighten off anyone else, I'll be glad
to give you what help I can, Officer."

Towers pocketed his identification. "How about if we go someplace we can talk
without spoiling the party?"

"This is hardly what I would call a party," the woman chided. "These people
are God's children and in need of help."

"It was just an expression, Miss"

"Hope. Valerie Hope," the woman said. Flashing an unexpected and disarming
smile, she quickly added, "And if you make any wisecrack that my name should
be Charity, I'll have to ask you to leave."

Lyons smiled back at the woman. "Fair enough, Miss Hope."

"Good. Then if you'll just follow me"

Valerie led the two men inside the mission, which was a large open-air
enclosure sectioned off by chalkboards containing daily words of wisdom, some
taken from the Bible, others attributed to the Holy One. Half the building was
set up as a chapel, with rows of mismatched folding chairs. facing a makeshift
altar fashioned out of disassembled skids from the back lot. There were a few
people kneeling in front of their chairs, reciting prayers to a large, crudely
fashioned cross nailed on a wall behind the altar.

Others sat at tables near the far windows, playing checkers, reading
newspapers or watching an old black-and-white television set in the back
corner. The kitchen was in an adjacent room, linked to the main area by a
large square opening knocked out of the wall. Lyons and Towers detected the
pungent smell of homemade applesauce and some kind of vegetable soup bubbling
in pots on an old gas stove. One kitchen worker watched the pots while another
laid out trays of day-old bread and slightly bruised fruit.

"Most of our food is donated by local supermarkets," Valerie explained. "We
get the things that they can't put out on the shelves and turn it into
nourishment for people who would otherwise go hungry. On the average we serve

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more than fifty people each sitting."

"I see," Towers said.

There was a door next to the kitchen entrance, and the woman opened it for
Lyons and Towers. "We can talk in here."

The room looked as if it had formerly served as a storage closet for the
packing plant. There was barely enough room for the three of them and what
little furnishings Valerie had scrounged. There were two folding chairs, a
card table with one back leg missing, a phone and local directory, a pad of
paper, a four-drawer file cabinet and a small bookcase containing more than a
dozen Bibles of various kinds and a wide selection of books on psychology,
self-help, motivational techniques and Eastern mysticism.

"Your office?" Lyons asked, leaning against the file cabinet and gesturing
for Towers to take the second chair.

Valerie nodded as she sat down at her makeshift desk. "My needs are small. I
spend most of my time out there with the people, anyway."

"Then you're in charge of the Church?" Towers asked.

"No, no." She laughed lightly. "I only run this mission. We have others in
San Diego, San Clemente, and up in the San Fernando Valley."

Towers reached into his pocket for a pair of snapshots. "Well, if you spend
most of your time out there, then maybe you've seen these two kids here
recently."

Both men eyed Valerie as she looked over the photos of Ozzie Towers and
Isabelle Fiori. There was a spark of recognition in her eyes, but no trace of
alarm or discomfort. "Yes, I do remember them. They were here at different
times. Nice kids, as I remember. The girl wanted to join our staff, but she
wasn't willing to give up smoking, so we couldn't take her."

"How long ago was this?"

"The boy was just in a week or so ago," Valerie explained. "The girl goes
back a little longer."

"But they haven't been in recently?" Towers asked.

Valerie shook her head. "It's not that uncommon. We get a lot of kids who are
mixed up. They just spend a little time here sorting things out, then they're
off."

"Did either of them indicate where they might have gone from here?" Lyons
said.

"Afraid not." Valerie gave the photos back to Towers. "I wish I could be of
more help, but that's really all I can remember about them. My impression was
that they wouldn't be out on the streets for long. If they're runaways, I'd
tell the parents to just be a little patient and not too judgmental if they
get a call about coming home."

"I'll keep that in mind," Towers said, pocketing the snapshots. "By the way,
Miss Hope, who is the head of your little church?"

"The Holy One."

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"The Holy One?" Lyons wasn't convinced. "What's the guy's name on his
driver's license?"

"The Holy One's neither a he or a she," Valerie said.

"Beg pardon?" Lyons said.

Valerie pointed to a framed ink drawing of the Holy One on the wall beside
her. "That's really just an artist's representation." Valerie leaned to one
side and pushed the outer door closed all the way. "You see, the Holy One is
really just a concept."

"A concept" Lyons deadpanned.

"Yes. Our aim at the Church of the New Word isn't so much to convert people
to some new religion as to make them more comfortable with whatever beliefs
they feel they want to adhere to." Valerie pointed at the bookcase beside her.
"We incorporate Catholicism, Judaism, Baptist teachings, Taolittle bits from
most religions and even some therapies and other movements. The Holy One just
represents the amalgamation of all these ideas."

"Oh," Lyons said. He was still looking at the poster on the wall. "So you're
saying this person up here doesn't really exist."

"That's correct."

"Then you haven't answered my question," Lyons said. "Who runs this Church?
Where's your Vatican?"

"I'm afraid that's privileged information," Valerie replied. "Even I don't
know the answer to that."

"Well," Towers said, standing up, "do you have some records here we could
look through, or would you rather we come back with a warrant?"

Valerie sighed and rose from her chair, as well. "If you're so intent, I
certainly won't stop you. Here, look around all you like. Just close the door
behind you when you're through. I have to go see to the people."

The woman strode out of her office, leaving Lyons and Towers alone.

"What do you think?" Lyons asked his former partner.

"I think she's lying through her pearly-whites," Towers said as he opened one
of the file drawers and thumbed through a few files filled with makeshift
contracts with local supermarkets and the bakery that provided its day-old
bread to the mission. "And I also think there's not going to be anything
incriminating here or she wouldn't be so damn cooperative."

"You think this place is a front?"

"Exactly," Towers said, anger vying with his frustration. "I think they wear
their little halos here and do the city a favor by feeding a few people, and
then when they find some poor kid who looks ripe for a little indoctrination
they ship him off somewhere out of sight to find out what this church is
really about. I think they turned Isabelle into a whore for the KGB, and one
way or another, I want to find out what they did with my son."

Lyons did a quick search for secret compartments in the cramped room. Finding

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none, he reached for the door. "I'm with you, Bill. No sense wasting our time
here. Somehow we're going to have to get them to tip their hand, and I don't
think leaning on Miss Hope is the way to do it."

"Agreed," Towers said. "Let's book."

Valerie was out near the kitchen opening, supervising the ladling-out of
rations to those in the food line and showing them where to sit. Lyons and
Towers thanked her for her cooperation and said they were convinced their
search for the missing teens would have to take a different course.

"If there's any other way we can be of help, please let us know," Valerie
said.

"Will do," Lyons told her. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a poster
showing a different likeness of the Holy One. The face had been rendered by a
different artist and from a slightly different angle. Lyons moved in for a
closer look.

"Something the matter?" Towers asked.

"I don't know," Lyons said, eyes riveted on the poster. "Something about this
guy looks familiar, but I can't quite get a finger on it."

"You're surely mistaken," Valerie said, having overheard Lyons. "Remember
what I told you."

"Yeah, right," Lyons muttered. "He's like Betty Crocker, right?"

"Or Santa Claus," Towers added cynically.

"Good day," Valerie told the men.

Leaving the mission, the two men got into the Dodge van. "I still get this
feeling I know that face," Lyons said.

Towers started up the engine. "Stranger things have happened, I guess."

"Hold on a second, would you?"

While Towers idled the Dodge, Lyons got out long enough to retrieve a
pamphlet that contained the same likeness of the Holy One he'd seen on the way
out. He got back in the van and stared at the pamphlet while Towers pulled
away.

"I guess we could try to smuggle in some undercover," Towers speculated as
they left town for the Highway 15 interchange. "But who knows how long it
would take to line up a kid who can really infiltrate."

"Who's to say they take only kids?" Lyons countered. "We can track down their
other branches and try a shakedown, but I bet they've got their tracks covered
at them, too. I think undercover's going to be our best shot."

The radio under the dash came alive with a dispatch from Gadgets Schwarz.
"AT-2 to Dodge City, over."

Lyons grabbed the microphone. "Dodge City, over. No big breakthrough here.
How about you guys?"

"We found Isabelle Fiori," Schwarz reported. His voice was somber. "Fiori and

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the other prostitute were gunned down out in the canyons a half-hour south of
you. Seven hits from a Walther. Not a pretty sight."

"Shit!" Lyons snarled. "No idea who did it?"

"Guys from Forensics are just taking a look." Behind the wheel, Bill Towers
tried to blot out a sudden image of his son, slain and abandoned on some
lonely hillside. He swallowed hard and pressed his lips tightly together as he
kept driving.

"Yes, yes, of course you were right to warn me, child," said the Holy One.
"And you handled things perfectly. You will be rewarded. Goodbye."

She hung up the phone and stared contemplatively out the window. First the
bad news from her people in San Diego, and now word from Escondido that the
Church was coming under direct scrutiny. All this on top of the matter with
the deacon who had been slain behind the warehouse. Not a good sign. Not a
good sign at all.

Slipping into her robes, the Holy One left her conference room and walked
purposefully down a hallway every bit as elaborately adorned as the passageway
leading from her bedroom. So many possessions, so much to take away. The
prospect of moving seemed far more improbable than it had the previous night.
How could she have been so naive as to think she could have possibly folded up
her proverbial tent and slipped into hiding without leaving a trace? It was
ludicrous. An empire, however small, weaves its roots around the emperor. No,
unlike Yuri Ostrovich and Sergei Karanov, who were on their way to the
mountains with only a small truckload of belongings, she could not flee at a
moment's notice without losing most of what she had acquired since christening
herself the Holy One. It was too much to give up.

Too much.

Taking her time and walking slowly through the gilded mansion, the Holy One
tried to think of some way to wriggle clear of these latest problems without
having to sacrifice her sprawling domain.

One thing at a time, she told herself.

The living room of the palace was an opulent chamber with tiled walls and a
prized collection of African carvings. One of the older deacons was seated in
a leather chair, leaning over a low table examining a large topographical map
of the land owned by the Church.

"Kyen Ti," she called out to the bald man as she joined him. "Have you
prepared the defenses?"

"I am almost finished with the layout," Kyen Ti said, motioning for the woman
to look at the map. He pointed out various strategic areas as he spoke. "We
have enough claymores to mine the outer periphery if we spread them out in
this manner and use punji sticks and C-4 explosives to cover the areas in
between."

"And how soon can this be done?"

"As soon as you need it."

"I need it done tonight."

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Kyen Ti hesitated a moment. It was an outrageous demand, but he knew better
than to voice his disapproval. There were shallow graves in the far fields
that contained the bodies of unwise deacons, as well as fallen disciples. He
thought quickly, making the necessary calculations.

"Lo Phang radioed twenty minutes ago and said they were almost through with
the harvesting," he told his leader. "If they are back soon, we will still
have three hours of light. Yes, we can do it, though some of the work may last
into the night."

"Whatever it takes," the Holy One said.

"Who is it we are defending against?" Kyen Ti asked.

"An old enemy," the woman replied. "I was given descriptions by our people in
Escondido. There was a man I have unfinished business with. Going back to the
early days, when we were in New York, Kyen Ti."

"New York?" Kyen Ti was astonished. He looked hard at the woman. "From the
People's Army days?"

"Exactly."

"Le Van, you cannot be serious!" Kyen Ti exclaimed. "After all these years?"

"It's true," the woman said. "I can feel it in my bonesthose same bones that
ache from the wounds the blond one inflicted on me."

Kyen Ti fell silent, stunned. At last the past had come back to haunt them.

More than six years before, when the Holy One had been known as Le Van Thanh,
she and Kyen Ti had been part of the People's Army of Vietnam, one of several
splinter sects spawned by the lengthy war in Indochina. One of the group's
missions had involved them indirectly in a plot by the Puerto Rican FALN to
bomb a New York skyscraper. It had also marked one of the earlier assignments
for Able Team. Before defusing the bomb scare, the men from Stony Man had
exposed Le Van's treachery and seen to it that she was taken into custody,
although Kyen Ti and several others had escaped. In the process, Le Van had
been wounded by Carl Lyons. Although her robes hid the scars from the eyes of
others, she saw the reminders daily, and daily she had nurtured a vow to one
day find the man who had done this to her and see that she was avenged.

"If all goes well," Le Van mused, eyeing the diagram on the table, "he will
come to me and I will take my revenge."

Kyen Ti stood up as he spoke to the woman. "I will do my part to see to this.
But before I leave, what are your intentions regarding the youth who slew
Deacon Dguen?"

The Holy One smiled. "We know who he is and what he has done. If we question
him, he will no doubt deny his guilt. What better subject for one of our
experiments?"

Kyen Ti eyed the woman, confused. "But you told me earlier that our people in
San Diego said Dr. Bates was killed last night."

"True," Le Van said. "But her notes are still here, and so are most of her
supplies. When Ostrovich called, I asked him to pick up more nomoephylene on
his way. We will concoct a new serum and use it on both the Russian and the
youth."

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"You will use the drug on the chauffeur?" Kyen Ti was amazed. "But I thought
that you and he"

"He has become too close," Le Van said. "I mean to find out what he knows of
Karanov's doings. Then I can confront Karanov and barter to have the Russians
leave us alone. It is time we stood alone, Kyen Ti. We can make enough money
on our own without having to indebt ourselves to others."

"You will get no argument from me, Le Van," Kyen Ti responded calmly. "I have
told you this from the beginning. And I will tell you another thing."

"What?"

"I can set the mines as you ask, but it will not be enough to save this place
indefinitely."

Le Van sighed. "I know. I have tried to think of ways to hold on to this
land, but too much has happened." She put a hand on the shoulder of her
longtime confidant. "What do you suggest?"

"Tomorrow we sell the rest of the marijuana," Kyen Ti said. "When we have the
money, I say we load what is most valuable into the trucks, then leave.
Retreat to our land in Canada. There is no link between that estate and the
Church."

"But I have so many things here," the Holy One protested.

"Yes, things. And things can be replaced, Le Van. As the Americans say, it is
time to cut our losses and run."

Le Van nodded, smiling again. "That is what I knew in my heart must be done.
Trust it to you to make it clear. I should call you the Holy One."

"Perhaps if we start another church, you will."

The two Vietnamese looked at one another and laughed.

Sergei Karanov felt revitalized for the first time in years. Nerves tingling,
senses on the alert, blood thumping healthily in his veins. It was almost like
being young again.

He hummed along with the radio as he drove the Mercedes along Highway 78. A
classical station was playing Rhapsody in Blue , and Karanov took that as a
good omen. It was his favorite Gershwin piece, and it took him back to some of
his earlier assignments. He'd seduced a duchess with that music on a rainy day
in his London flat, wooed her with champagne, caviar and foreplay, so
endearing her to him that she eventually agreed to hire his 'nephew' as a
caretaker for her countryside. The nephew, had, of course, been a KGB
technician, and he had successfully bugged the entire estate to allow for
eavesdropping on confidential discussions held in the private den between the
duke and other members of Britain's aristocracy. And there was that female
NATO agent he'd bedded to Gershwin in her Paris apartment the first woman he'd
ever killed.

In Carlsbad, Highway 78 linked up with the San Diego Freeway and Karanov
headed north, away from La Jolla and San Diego, away from the Holy One and the
Church of the New Word. He was through with all that. From now on, Sergei
Karanov was going to look out for Sergei Karanov, and the KGB and the rest of
the world could look after themselves.

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The freeway passed the San Onofre Nuclear Power Station, where countless
power lines fed out from the plant, crossing the highway and stretching out
into the hills. There was another KGB agent, Oleg Petrovia, in charge of plans
to sabotage the plant, plans dating back to the Chernobyl disaster, when the
Soviets had wanted to see another country suffer a similar failure in the hope
of diffusing the worldwide scorn directed at them. One plot had come close to
succeeding, closing down one of the reactors for what the American people had
been told was "routine maintenance."

Perhaps Petrovia would be more successful the next time.

A few miles farther on, Karanov was momentarily shaken by the presence of two
Marine helicopters that appeared out of nowhere and seemed to be following him
from a parallel course out over the barren land flanking the freeway. But
then, far off to his right, he saw a group of Marines up in the hills waving
to direct the choppers toward them, and he realized it was just a training
exercise taking place on the vast acreage of Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps
base that stretched between Carlsbad and San Clemente.

Before coming into San Clemente, Karanov had one last obstacle to endure.
Traffic slowed to a grinding halt at a checkpoint set up in the middle of the
freeway, where officers from both the California Highway Patrol and the
Immigration and Naturalization Service gave each vehicle a quick once-over,
looking for traces of quarantined produce from south of the border and Mexican
aliens being smuggled north. Karanov relaxed behind the wheel of the Mercedes,
whispering to himself in his practiced Texan accent. He had false
identification proclaiming himself a Houston-based business executive, and
before leaving La Jolla he'd changed the Mercedes's registration papers and
license plates to conform to the new identity. There was even a collector's
permit for the Walther, which he'd transferred to the trunk of the car as a
precaution against possible arrest.

Waved through the checkpoint without any need to perform as a Texan, Karanov
proceeded north to Irvine, where he parked at the regional airport and then
went into the terminal. He'd stashed twenty-two thousand dollars in
nontraceable currency over recent months, skimming off expenditures from the
San Francisco desk, and he used some of the money to purchase a one-way ticket
to Miami. He had some personal, non-Soviet connections there, and after he
plumped his bankroll he figured he would fly to Rio de Janiero and enjoy
himself while he planned his next move. Of course, by walking out of the KGB
he was making himself a marked man. But that was a small price to pay for
freedom from the hell he'd been through in recent years. It was time for a
change, and if that meant being a man out in the cold, so be it.

While he waited for the boarding call, Karanov browsed through the gift shop,
acquiring a few toiletry items and a magazine to read on the flight. There was
also a display of luggage, and for several minutes Karanov looked over several
attache cases. He tried each of them out, testing to see which was the
lightest and most efficient in terms of holding necessities. Settling on a tan
pigskin model that reminded him of the case he'd used during his prime as an
agent, he paid with cash and filled it with the toiletries. Of course, he
couldn't hope to smuggle the Walther pistol inside it, but he could live with
that. After all, the world was full of guns. He would have no trouble finding
another. When the PA system announced that boarding was underway for his
scheduled flight to Miami, Karanov went to join the line. He engaged in a
brief, friendly discussion with the people ahead of him, trying out his Texan
accent. The others were readily fooled. For the first time in years, Sergei
Karanov was a happy man.

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Small as Escondido was, it loomed as a metropolis in comparison with
neighboring Ramona, a tiny community with only one major street, which ran
through the heart of town. For recognition, Ramona had some time ago awarded
itself the dubious title of Turkey Capital of the World. The gobbler
population was still considerable, but in recent years the town's population
had come to rely upon more than Thanksgiving appetites for their livelihood.

Halfway down Main Street, next to the busy Laundromat and across the street
from a reasonable facsimile of Ramona's first general store, Sunrise
Pharmaceuticals had its offices in a three-story building of stone and steel
that was the closest thing to a skyscraper within city limits. The company's
various wares were manufactured, packaged and distributed on the premises, and
there was a small storefront office where customers could pick up orders
directly.

Yuri Ostrovich pulled his rented pickup into a parking spot in front of the
building and hurried inside to pick up the special order supposedly placed by
a Dr. Ludwig Navarwal of the Advanced Psychiatric Studies Institute in Rancho
California, an hour's drive north of Ramona. There was, of course, no such
institute, and the real Dr. Navarwal had died under mysterious circumstances
in Boston a year ago. Karanov had arranged the death after thoroughly
researching Navarwal's background and his proposed plans to set up the new
practice in Rancho California. Using the paperwork to fabricate a fictitious
front and secure necessary FDA documentation, the Russian spymaster had
brought in Yuri to pose as Dr. Navarwal. It was through Ostrovich that Dr.
Bates had received the nomoephylene necessary to conduct her mind-control
experiments, and Yuri surmised that it was through him that the Holy One
intended to keep up the research although Bates had died.

While Yuri was filling out the standard order forms, the clerk hunched over
her computer and pecked away at the keyboard to access the company files.

"Hmmm," the young woman said, staring at the results that flashed on the
screen.

Yuri tensed a moment, instantly on his guard.

"It says here we haven't received your last batch of progress reports, Dr.
Navarwal," the clerk said, looking up at Yuri. "We're not supposed to issue
any new nomoephylene without evaluating the medical reports on previous
dosages."

"Oh, yes, of course," Yuri said, stalling for time. Dr. Bates usually put
together the forged reports and sent them in on a regular basis. It could be
that she'd sent the latest set out prior to her death, but he couldn't be
sure. The last thing he wanted to have to contend with was a snag with the
pharmaceutical company. Off the top of his head he concocted a likely cover
story. "The reports are a little late because we just switched over to
computers and much of the data was lost. We'll have no trouble tracking it
down again, but I'm afraid it may take some time. Meanwhile, I really can't
stop treatment on my"

"That's okay," the clerk said with a knowing smile. "When we went to
computers I was losing data all the time. Almost cost me my job."

"Then you know how difficult it can be"

"Of course." The clerk took the order forms and scribbled a quick memo in a
shaded area of the document marked For Official Use Only. "I'll just make a
note here and everything should be okay. Just try to get the reports in as

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soon as possible."

"Yes, yes I will," Yuri said, visibly relieved. "Thank you so much."

The nomoephylene came packaged in a small cardboard box plastered with FDA
warnings in both large and small print. For a seventeen-ounce bottle of the
serum, the fictitious Advanced Psychiatric Studies Institute was billed in
excess of fifteen hundred dollars. Fortunately, Dr. Bates had kept up with the
payments, which were issued through a bank account in Rancho California, where
the San Francisco desk of the Foreign Directorate routinely mailed deposits to
cover expenses for the mind-control experiments actually taking place more
than a hundred miles away.

Bidding the clerk good-day, Yuri left the building and pulled out of his
parking spot, casually waving to a few townsfolk exiting the general store.
Taking Main Street east, he was soon outside the city limits and bound for the
Church of the New Word, still another fifty minutes away. The two-lane road
was seldom used, and Yuri could feel himself relaxing as he slowly eased down
on the accelerator. A little over an hour from now, he would be alone with the
Holy One in her bedroom, playing a little tease-and-grind. After all the
tension he'd been subjected to, especially by that aging bull Karanov and his
petty jealousies, he was looking forward to another session with the Oriental
temptress. There was something about making love to someone others worshipped
that gratified him like no other

"Pullover!"

The voice came out of nowhere, startling Yuri to the point that he almost
lost control of the vehicle. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw that a
figure had emerged from the stacks of luggage in the back of the truck. A
blond man with a square, determined jaw pointed a magnaported Colt Python at
the small window separating the pickup's cab from the truck bed. Behind the
gunman, less than a quarter-mile down the road, he saw a Dodge van speeding
into view.

"Pull over!" Lyons repeated, raising his voice. He was braced between the two
steamer trunks, pressing his outer thighs against the bulky luggage to steady
himself. He'd managed to slip onto the truck back at Sunrise Pharmaceuticals
while Yuri had been detained by the clerk. He and Towers had been tipped off
on the location when Gadgets had called them with news of the deaths of the
two prostitutes. Towers had backed up the stakeout from a parking lot across
the street and had been following the Toyota from Ramona.

Yuri cast a quick sidelong glance at the glove compartment, where a mini-Uzi
was secreted beneath a thin layer of road maps. If only he could get the man
in back to take his eyes off him for a few seconds.

"Okay, okay," the Russian shouted back at Lyons, taking his foot off the gas
and looking for a wide strip of shoulder on the road ahead of him. He put on
his turn signal and slowed down, watching the van gain ground in the distance.
He didn't have much time to lose.

The moment he'd pulled the pickup off the road, Yuri slammed down the brakes
and leaned as far to his left as he could, just in case Lyons's gun went off
as he was thrown forward by the force of the sudden stop. When the small
window behind him didn't shatter, Yuri quickly shifted his right foot from the
brake to the accelerator and jerked hard on the steering wheel, swinging the
truck sharply around in a shower of gravel sprayed up the spinning tires.

Although he had been expecting such tactics, Lyons was still unable to brace

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himself adequately against the abrupt maneuvers Yuri put the Toyota through.
At first he lunged forward, going with the braking force and twisting his body
quickly so that he could use his shoulder to absorb most of the impact with
the back of the truck's cab. Then, just as he was righting himself and
preparing to fire a warning shot with the Colt, the Toyota's fishtailing
pulled him completely off balance and he fell over one of the steamer trunks,
turning his ankle when it became wedged between pieces of luggage. It was only
by dropping the Colt and grabbing wildly with both hands that he was able to
keep himself from falling out of the pickup.

"Ride 'em, cowboy," he said under his breath as he clung to the side of the
truck and struggled to climb back in.

By the time he had completed his brutal U-turn, Yuri had also managed to
reach into the glove compartment and haul out the mini-Uzi. A
blowback-operated submachine gun loaded with a 25-round box of 9 mm
parabellum, the mini was as efficient as the standard Uzi. Opened up on
full-automatic, the weapon spat its lead at a rate of 1200 rounds per minute.
Stopping the pickup in the middle of the road, Yuri used the mini's slight
barrel to smash the back window, then pointed at Lyons and fired.

The moment he heard the glass give way, Lyons knew what was next, and he gave
up trying to reboard the Toyota. Instead, he pushed himself away from the
vehicle, dropping from Yuri's view a split second before the first shower of
slugs zipped past the luggage and bit at the framework where Lyons had been
holding on for dear life.

Behind the wheel of the approaching Dodge, Bill Towers unholstered his
service revolver and shifted it to his left hand. He wasn't much of an
ambidextrous shooter, but for the moment his only intention was to keep Yuri
from gunning Lyons down in the dirt. As he continued to speed toward the
Toyota, the cop rolled down his window and stuck his left arm out, taking aim
as best as he could and pulling the trigger twice. To his amazement, his shots
took out the pickup's left headlight and the whole front windshield.

"Whaddaya know?" he said with a grin.

Yuri had already thrown himself across the front seat, and the showering
chunks of glass fell harmlessly over him. He rose just high enough to aim over
the dash and return a burst of gunfire that forced Towers to slow the Dodge
down. Then, shoving open the passenger's door, Yuri crawled headfirst from the
cab and dropped to the ground, the Uzi cradled in his arms.

Ten yards away, Lyons had deliberately rolled toward the shoulder of the road
where he'd dropped his Colt. The gleaming weapon lay just beyond reach. Even
as Yuri's blasting Uzi extended an invitation to the next world, Lyons threw
himself headlong to the side of the road, again avoiding the bite of the
bullets. He landed hard in the gravel, unwilling to lose any time by breaking
his fall with his hands, which were put to better use grabbing for the Python.
Rolling with the momentum of his fall, he got off his first shot while still
on his back.

Stung in the left bicep, Yuri turned slightly, taking his eyes off the man
who had shot him. A Russian curse spilled from his lips as he felt the burning
rush of pain.

The Dodge skidded to a halt parallel to the pickup, and Towers bolted from
the driver's seat, leveling his .357 at the Russian.

"Drop the popgun, comrade."

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Yuri let the mini fall to the dirt as he grabbed at his arm, trying to stanch
the flow of blood.

"I surrender," he gasped through his pain, feeling his fingers turn wet with
his own blood.

"That's nice to hear," Lyons called out from behind the Soviet. He rose
slowly, brushing cinders from the palm of one hand. "But if you really want to
play it smart, you'll tell us you want to defect. Capiche ?"

Yuri moaned, "Yes, I understand. I will tell you anything."

"What, no cyanide capsules?" Lyons said, grabbing Yuri by the collar and
pulling him to his feet. "Must be you really do like living. Well, this is
your lucky day, because if you play it straight with us, you just might be
around to see the sun rise tomorrow."

Kyen Ti had been Le Van Thanh's peer during their days with the People's Army
of Vietnam, and although the woman now enjoyed a position of greater privilege
as figurehead of the Church of the New Word, the bald-headed deacon did not
feel at all slighted by the arrangement. As handler of the marijuana
operations, which had been going since before the Church had first been
established, he was able to set prices and siphon off a considerable personal
profit before turning funds over to Le Van Thanh. He was, in fact, as head of
the deacons, a general with a small, able-bodied army under his absolute
command.

And for any general there is nothing more invigorating than the prospect of
impending war.

Leaving seven deacons behind with the pit bulls to watch over the disciples
upon their return from the fields, Kyen Ti led the other yellowshirts to the
warehouse in the woods. More than twice the size of the original structure,
which had been erected to store fire-fighting equipment, the warehouse had
room enough to hold the truck containing the just-harvested marijuana without
encroaching on the space set aside for munitions, most of them left over from
the heyday of the People's Army.

Kyen Ti had assembled quite an arsenal. The claymores and C-4 explosives he
had discussed with Le Van were but the tip of the iceberg in terms of the
firepower at the disposal of the deacons. There were also eight Atchisson
automatics, 12-bore shotguns similar to assault rifles but even deadlier when
they were loaded with 12-gauge shells containing a lethal mix of fifty
number-two and double-ought steel balls. More than a dozen Beretta 93-Rs were
earmarked as ready replacements for the handguns the deacons routinely toted
while on Church grounds. Those wanting a little more smack in their hands had
the option of going with any of the eight Smith & Wesson Model 19s neatly
stacked in a separate footlocker, each revolver individually wrapped in
oilcloth to preserve its gleaming finish. Somehow Kyen Ti had also managed to
get his hands on two rare Japanese NOE-29 assault rifles, precursors to the
deadly Heckler & Koch G-l1 caseless. Last and far from least, as booty from
slain American combat troops in Vietnam, there were a dozen M-16 rifles and
more than five hundred ammo magazines.

Like Sergei Karanov, however, the head deacon carried a Walther PPK. It was
his pride and joy, an original German model that dated back to World War II.
He already had the automatic holstered beneath his yellow shirt, and he
pocketed a few 7-round magazines from the ammunition hold before distributing

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some of the other weapons to his men. He had explained to them that there was
a chance of invasion before the perimeter could be mined, and the deacons
armed themselves with quiet resolve. Though they had all followed Le Van Thanh
and Kyen Ti with absolute obedience, there wasn't one among them who truly
believed that the Holy One and her teachings were anything but a means of
gaining followers to handle the more tedious and unpleasant tasks required to
sustain the Church's more clandestine operations. If anything, they were
surprised that the charade had lasted so long without intervention from the
outside world. Skepticism aside, their loyalty in terms of defending the
Church was beyond question. If Kyen Ti ordered them to march into the jaws of
hell, then march they would.

After seeing to it that his men were adequately armed, Kyen Ti directed them
to shed their white slacks and yellow shirts in favor of khakis and camouflage
vests. While the men were changing, he tacked a map of the region on a nearby
wall and went over his strategy for placing the mines. Since his talk with Le
Van Thanh, he had decided against the implementation of punji sticks, the
poison-tipped stakes that had been a Viet Cong specialty during the height of
the Vietnam war. The sticks were far less formidable than other weapons at the
deacons' disposal, and with time an important consideration, Kyen Ti felt it
best to concentrate on the quickest and strongest defenses possible.

The claymores had been readied for use months ago but had never been set in
place. Kyen Ti had feared that any number of wild animals prowling the
wilderness might inadvertently trigger the mines, not only raising false
alarms but, more seriously, signaling to the disciples and the outside world
that there was more to this isolated chunk of Eden than met the eye.

The men loaded the mines carefully in the Jeeps and set out for the distant
boundaries. With so much terrain to be covered, it was necessary to spread out
the claymores to cover the likeliest avenues of intrusion. They would use
random C-4 booby traps in other areas. The head deacon considered it fortunate
that one long stretch of Church land was bordered by the steep, imposing
Cuyamaca Mountains. He could leave most of that area untended and concentrate
on the flatlands and the perimeter nearest the marijuana fields. The latter
area particularly concerned him, because he was afraid that the dealers he'd
met with last night might be tempted to return hours before their scheduled
rendezvous in hopes of helping themselves to the rest of the crop without
having to pay the multimillion-dollar price agreed upon. Should that scenario
unfold, Kyen Ti wanted to be certain that the dealers found not only emptied
fields but also the flesh-shredding power of the claymores.

Since many of the deacons were fellow veterans of the Vietnam war, they were
no strangers to any of the three types of mines Kyen Ti had assembled. Once
they reached their assigned coordinates, the work went quickly. Blocking out
kill zones at strategic points just inside the already-imposing
cyclone-and-barbed-wire fence, the men either tucked the mines beneath small
mounds of loose leaves or else dug shallow trenches to set them in. Once
secured, the monofilament triggers were carefully stretched out, usually at
ankle level or angled to follow the general contour of rocks or shrubs
invading forces might be drawn to for cover.

For every thin skein of line that was eventually rigged to an actual mine,
there were two decoys to provide diversion in the unlikely event that a bomb
squad accompanied the intruders. And Kyen Ti's scheming didn't stop at that.
Although most of the claymores were designed with simple detonators that would
be triggered when the lines were snagged or brushed against, others worked on
a completely different principle and exploded only if the linking monofilament
was cut. A third variation, using either of the aforementioned triggers,
delayed detonation by intervals of between one and three minutes, on the

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theory that greater damage could be done after waiting for the arrival of
either bomb squads or others coming to aid those chewed up by the first blasts
of shrapnel.

Once the mines were set, the C-4 plastic explosives were affixed to areas
where they could trigger some sort of chain reaction, either by ripping apart
the tall limbs of a pine or dislodging boulders to create landslides in the
foothills. Composed of ten percent poly-isobutylene plasticizer and ninety
percent hexogen, the puttylike compound could be molded to fit contours and
could be detonated from a considerable distance. In their own way, they could
deal death as efficiently as the claymores.

The sky was changing hue in the wake of the setting sun by the time the booby
traps had all been laid, and as the first stars began to wink to life, the
deacons retreated from the peripheries and began staking out gun nests that
could be easily reached once a general alarm was sounded. Most of the posts
were situated on higher ground, utilizing knolls or clusters of boulders.

The full moon was glowing brightly when the men had finally completed their
task and headed back to the main grounds. Nine of them remained behind to pull
sentry duty, including the usual two-man force that guarded the only gateway
to the compound. Kyen Ti was proud of the job that had been done, and he felt
sure that no enemy would penetrate their boundaries tonight.

"Yes!" Gadgets Schwarz finally proclaimed after studying the pamphlet Carl
Lyons had retrieved from the mission in Escondido. He and Blancanales had
finally caught up with Towers and Ironman at the site where they'd traded
shots with Yuri. Other members of the task force were on hand, and they'd
taken over a nearby roadside produce stand for use as a makeshift headquarters
while they tried to put things into perspective.

"You recognize him?" Lyons asked.

"Not him," Schwarz said. "Her."

"What?"

"Hand me that pen a second, Pol, would you?"

With a few quick strokes, Schwarz added hair to picture of the Holy One.
"Think back a few years, Carl. New York, that time the FALN was going to blow
up the"

"Thanh!" Lyons exclaimed. "Le Van Thanh! Damn it, I knew she looked
familiar!"

"Who's she?" FBI rep Monica Farrell asked.

"Put a call through to your people and try to get an update on both a Le Van
Thanh and the People's Army of Vietnam. We put her behind bars a few years
back, and I think the Army crawled off into the woodwork," Lyons told her.

Farrell nodded. "I know about them. We had them on our active file of
domestic terrorist organizations up until a couple of years ago. We nailed
most of their hierarchy in a major bust, and there haven't been any reports of
new activity by them since."

"Now you know why," Blancanales told her.

"I'll call in on it right now," Farrell said, heading off to the small

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cluster of cars parked behind the produce stand. There was a house in the
background, and its owner sat nervously on the porch, watching the activity
taking place near his produce stand. The man had been paid double his daily
take to let the officials use the small enclosure, but he wanted to make sure
he didn't end up losing money due to the voracious appetites of those buzzing
around his fresh fruits and vegetables.

Lieutenant Howe was interrogating a handcuffed and bandaged Yuri Ostrovich
next to his police cruiser, trying to fill in a few missing pieces in his
investigation of the multiple murders the previous night. A promise of
immunity and consideration of his request for asylum had loosened the
Russian's tongue, and he'd already given considerable information regarding
his knowledge of the KGB's activities in San Diego County and their links with
the Church of the New Word.

Of most immediate concern to Able Team was the location of the Church's
secret mountain headquarters, and all three men expressed relief when they
spotted a county sheriff's vehicle pulling off the road and slowing to a stop
near the stand. Officer Joe

Krebbs got out and hurried over to the crude counter, waving a few sheets of
paper and a rolled-up map.

"Got a county topo map of the area and ownership records from the
courthouse," Krebbs said.

Lyons quickly skimmed the documents while Krebbs laid out the map. "PO box
for an address. Dummy corporation, no doubt."

Krebbs pointed out the tract of land covered by the deed in question. "It's
mostly rugged mountain country, miles from anywhere," he explained. "Used to
be a training camp for fire fighters. County sold it off for money to buy more
parkland closer to the city."

"Perfect place for that kind of setup," Schwarz said as he looked over the
map. "Isolated, hard to get to, plenty of places to hide if the heat comes
down."

Monica Farrell rejoined the group at the stand. "Well, I got through to
Washington. Le Van Thanh was released after serving two years. Violated parole
her first month out and hasn't been seen since."

"That settles that," Lyons said, turning his attention to the map. "I think
we better do some quick and thorough planning, then hit 'em as soon as we can,
because if she's got some of her old Army buddies backing her up like Yuri
said, that Church has more than rosaries and holy water to defend itself
with."

After showering upon their return from the fields, the disciples were treated
to a rare feast of chicken and vegetables, then told they could nap for three
hours before being asked to undertake what the deacons referred to as the most
important test of their faith in the Holy One. Most of the initiates were too
exhausted to give much thought to anything beyond the prospect of sleep,
however brief. For many of them, dinner had been the first time since arriving
at the camp that they had truly eaten their fill, and that in itself was cause
enough for gratitude.

As he lay in his bunk, Ozzie patted his flat stomach, guessing that he'd lost
more than ten pounds in the few days he'd been at the retreat. Was it really

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only that long? He couldn't believe it. It seemed as if his life were sharply
divided into two periods: before coming to the mountains and since coming to
the mountains. The latter period seemed much longer than a mere week. He'd
gone through so many changes, particularly in just the past few days. From
blind follower to doubting Thomas to challenger who had struck and killed a
man who was supposed to be his spiritual superior. It was quite a
transformation, and in ways Ozzie felt as if he'd made an even more
significant passage, from adolescence into adulthood.

He remembered his father telling stories of how he'd gone off to Vietnam when
he'd been Ozzie's age, and talking about what a difference the experience had
made in his life. Before, Ozzie had always thought the old man was getting
carried away with nostalgia, the same way his grandfather did when he talked
about his tour of duty in the Pacific during World War II and got all
misty-eyed. But now, having gone through his own variation on boot camp, Ozzie
had an idea of what both men had been talking about. He felt much older than
he had four or five weeks earlier.

And he also felt afraid.

There was no way that the fallen deacon could have gone unnoticed this long.
Someone had to know. All day in the fields he had stolen secret glances at the
deacons to see if they were paying particular attention to him, but if
anything their vigilance had been even more than it had the previous day, in
the wake of AI Rivera's attempted escape.

Troubled as he was, too little sleep over the past two nights finally took
its toll, and he soon drifted off in his bunk, lapsing into a deep slumber
that found him being chased through a thick forest by glowing humanoid figures
that floated just above the foliage that hindered his own flight. Ozzie was
unable to gain ground on his pursuers and the buzzing drone they made grew
louder as they moved closer to him. At first it was an incoherent sound,
vaguely like that of hornets stirred from their next, but eventually he was
able to make out words and realized the beings were reciting prayers as they
bore down on him. Prayers to the

Holy One. Suddenly he was forced to stop running, as the forest abruptly
ended at the edge of a precipitous cliff. It was a drop of nearly three
hundred feet to a strange, dark, swirling mass below. Ozzie looked down and
felt dizziness overcoming him. Afraid he would lose his balance and fall, he
quickly spun around to face his pursuers. The luminous creatures had likewise
slowed down, and they gathered in a semicircle at the edge of the forest,
staring at Ozzie with inhuman eyes that were more like burning jewels set in
their featureless faces. The chanting continued as they inched closer, forcing
him nearer and nearer to the edge of the precipice. Then, suddenly, the beings
fell silent and ceased to move, except for the two standing directly in front
of Ozzie. They drifted slightly to opposite sides, creating a gap in the
semicircle. Through that opening strode a familiar figure, dressed in flowing
robes. The Holy One stepped up to within ten inches of Ozzie. There was a
pause during which Ozzie tried to open his mouth and voice his fear, but he
found that no sound would come from his throat. Then, without warning, the
Holy One reached out and gave Ozzie a forceful shove. He keeled over backward
into space and felt himself falling, falling

He awoke in a sweat, his throat tight, his heart racing. Apparently he hadn't
screamed, because the others around him were still asleep. Slowly he lay back
on his bunk and took deep breaths, trying to bring his pulse under control.
His pores eventually closed, and he felt the trembling fade inside him.

Moments later he was given yet another start when the doors to the barracks

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opened and the inside lights flashed on. Two deacons appeared, commanding the
disciples to rise and change into clean clothes. They were given two minutes
to do so and fall in outside the bunkhouse.

As soon as the deacons left, the youths began changing. A few exchanged
excited whispers of anticipation at what lay ahead.

"We are going to be told we've passed our initiation," one ventured
excitedly.

"Yes!" another agreed. "We will take our final vows and be allowed to serve
in the community missions!"

Others, including, Ozzie, went about their business in silence. As commanded,
they were all changed and out the door inside two minutes. The female
disciples were in the process of departing from their barracks, as well, and
the deacons motioned for the two groups to form parallel, single-file rows
facing the palace across the clearing.

"The Holy One has decreed that it is time for you to be tested on what you
have learned these past few days," the tallest of the yellowshirts told them.
"As with every other group that has passed through this stage of initiation,
you will at long last go to the palace of the Holy One"

The deacon let his words trail off, allowing a moment for the inevitable
gasps of surprise and astonishment among the disciples, most of whom had spent
much time wondering about what lay behind the glorious facade that greeted
them each morning as they set out for the fields.

"There you shall face the test of faith!" the deacon proclaimed. "Now, with
heads bowed, march onward and recite the oath of devotion!"

Raising their voice in a fervent chorus, the disciples were led through the
moonlight to the great marble steps and up onto the once-forbidden grounds of
the palace. Ozzie mouthed the words along with the others, although he felt a
shiver of deja vu and was reminded of the dream he'd awakened from only
moments before.

A second staircase, as wide as the previous one was tall, led up to the front
entrance of the palace. A brilliant light spilled out from the opened doorway,
on the either side of which stood a deacon and a leashed pit bull.

"Silence!" one of the bald men called out to the disciples.

Almost immediately the young initiates stopped their praying. All of them
cast anxious eyes at the brightness inside the palace. Ozzie couldn't help but
be swept up by the drama of the moment.

"Inside these walls," the deacon intoned, "the Holy One has deliberately
filled room after room with priceless items of infinite beauty. What you must
do is to enter the palace in a state of untainted humility, then handle these
items, wrap them carefully in tissue even as you admire their wondrous
qualities. Then, once you have placed them in crates, you will be asked to
carry them out the back entrance and into the back of a truck.

"This act will represent the purifying of your souls, the achievement of that
treasured state whereby one can appreciate beauty without coveting it.

"Once the palace has been emptied of its possessions, you will return and
spend the night within the sacred walls. The Holy One will sleep among you in

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a gesture of trust and an expression of the belief that you, in having gone
through the purification rites, are more valuable and priceless than the
finest artwork. It will mark your entry into the realm of the truly chosen."

This pronouncement achieved the desired aim of filling the disciples with
both awe and trepidation. After all they had been through, their moment of
truth was now at hand. When the deacon commanded that they kneel and spend a
few moments in quiet reflection prior to entering the palace, the youths
hurriedly lowered themselves in unison. With silent prayers they begged to be
proven worthy, to resist any form of temptation or envy, and on a more
practical level they pleaded for the sure-handedness to avoid dropping
anything.

"Very well," the tall deacon called out several minutes later. "Enter the
palace of the Holy One and do as you have been told."

The youths slowly ascended the second staircase and stepped into the palace,
where they were immediately struck by the stunning majesty of the interior and
its lavish adornments. Several of the other deacons were already in the
process of wrapping items and placing them in the innumerable wooden crates
that covered the floors. As instructed, the disciples spread out into small
groups and began to help with the packing.

Ozzie remained close to Randall, and the two of them carefully took down a
thin porcelain vase from a pedestal and swathed it in thick layers of tissue
before handing it to a deacon standing next to the nearest crate. As they
turned to pull down a second vase, Ozzie and Randall were approached by two
other deacons. Randall was sent off to work with some of the other youths,
while the bald men took hold of Ozzie, one man grabbing each arm.

"We have other plans for you," they told the youth as they guided him down
the hallway and through a set of doors leading to a staircase. Ozzie tried to
struggle, but he was no match for the men, and soon he found himself in the
downstairs laboratory. The Holy One was waiting for him.

"I think we need to have a talk," she said to him softly.

Yuri drove the rented Toyota up to a deceptively nondescript gateway. The
gate was made of inch-thick interlocking steel bars, and there were several
small metal signs advising that the land inside the enclosure was private and
that trespassers would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, provided
they survived the defensive retaliation of armed guards. A larger sign hanging
above the gateway made no mention of the Church of the New Word. Instead, the
remote mountain parcel was known to the world as Cold River Ranch.

The gate seemed to be untended, but moments after Yuri aimed a small penlight
at a camera mounted atop one of the gateposts and flashed a brief coded
message, two figures came into view on the other side of the barrier. Deacons
in battle dress, each carrying one of the Atchisson automatics, stared through
the bars at Yuri.

"You were due here hours ago," one of them called out.

"I had car problems," Yuri said. "I called ahead to say I would be late
arriving."

The deacon countered, "Our people called every service station in the area
around Ramona, and no one said they worked on your vehicle."

"I worked on it myself," the Russian claimed, infusing his voice with

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indignation. "What is the meaning of this? Let me through or the directorate
will hear of your insolence!"

"Turn off the ignition and step out of the car!"

"I will not! Let me speak to Karanov and we will straighten this out!"

"Karanov is not here," the deacon informed him. "Now do as I said and get out
of the vehicle."

Yuri hesitated behind the steering wheel, uncertain how to proceed. Under his
breath, he whispered, "I have to do it."

"Go ahead, but try to keep talking," Gadgets Schwarz said. He was hunched low
in the cramped space in front of the passenger's seat. His Government Colt was
tucked in a belt holster and he was clutching a Beretta 93-R, modified for
Able Team use with a suppressor and machined springs that silenced the weapon
by allowing for the cycling of subsonic 9 mm cartridges. An added flash
suppressor further supplemented the weapon's prowess as a quiet killer.

Following instructions, Yuri turned off the Toyota's engine and got out of
the pickup, leaving his door open. Outside, the night sounds of crickets and
nocturnal birds reverberated through the wild, providing a tranquil
counterpoint to the tension unfolding at the gateway.

"This is inexcusable!" the Russian complained. "How many times have I come
here before without being subjected to"

"Silence!" one of the deacons commanded. "Place your hands on your head!
Now!"

"You will pay for this," Yuri promised as he complied.

Built into the main gate was a doorway wide enough for a man, and after it
was unlocked one of the deacons cautiously stepped out, Atchisson at the
ready. His cohort remained behind, framed in the opened doorway, shotgun
trained on the driver.

"Let us see what you have brought," the deacon said, heading for the truck.

"I already told the Holy One we were bringing things from La Jolla," Yuri
said. "This has all been cleared with her."

The lead deacon suddenly jerked in place, dropping his shotgun as a 9 mm
bullet ripped through his left eye and scrambled his brain motor functions on
its way out the back of his skull. Even as he was falling headlong into the
dirt, Gadgets shifted his aim and squeezed off a second shot, this one into
the throat of the second deacon. Schwarz was firing through the narrow gap
between the open door and where its hinges linked with the Toyota's chassis.

Unfortunately, as the second bald man died on his feet, a reflexive tug of
his trigger finger dislodged a blast of steel balls at the terrifying speed of
366 meters per second. Even though the man's aim had been forced slightly off
target, at such close range enough pellets found their mark that Yuri was
knocked off his feet by the sheer force of impact. His entire left shoulder
was obliterated, and his arm dangled by mere threads of bloody muscle and
tissue. He screamed and writhed in the dirt with what little life was left in
him, then lay still and silent.

"Damn!" Schwarz cursed as he crawled out of the Toyota and quickly frisked

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the body of the nearest deacon, looking for the special key Yuri had said was
used to work the gates.

Meanwhile, in the back of the pickup, the lids on the two steamer trunks
swung open as Pol Blancanales and Ike Ebsen climbed out of hiding. Like
Schwarz, they were dressed in dark clothes under which they wore protective
vests of Kevlar mesh, thick enough to stop most bullets yet thin enough to
allow for unhindered mobility.

"So much for Trojan horses," Ebsen muttered.

The plan had been for Yuri to get them through the gates and as close to the
palace as possible before blowing their cover. With the blast of the Atchisson
and Yuri's death screams, however, they'd lost any element of surprise.

"Take the wheel!" Schwarz called out to Ebsen as he ran on his still-tender
ankles through the open doorway and knelt beside the second deacon. The key to
the gate was dangling from a retractable chain attached to the dead man's
belt. Just as he was sliding the key into the lock mechanism, a series of
shots rang out behind him and he instinctively dived to the ground as bullets
slammed into the control panel next to the gate. Sparks flew and smoke began
to filter out through holes pierced in the framework. Schwarz had avoided
being hit, but he suspected the controls were the real target, and he wasn't
surprised when he tried the key and found that the gate would not open.

"We're going to have to foot it!" he shouted to Ebsen and Blancanales before
seeking cover from a second round of blasts coming at him from a point more
than fifty yards down the road leading to the Church grounds. From the sound
of the gunfire he guessed they were firing M-16s. The 5.56 mm cartridges were
lethal at far longer distances, and Schwarz respected the unseen sniper's aim
after the demonstration on the control panel. Staying put, he used his Beretta
to take out the halogen lamp that lighted the gate area.

In the ensuing darkness, both Ebsen and Blancanales slipped through the
narrow opening with weapons taken from the steamer trunks and spread out to
either side of the gate. They drew fire, and Blancanales was lucky enough to
catch a glimpse of several rifle flashes in the distance.

"Looks like a whole nest of 'em," he said as he crouched in a firing position
and employed the spotting rifle of the LAW 80 rocket launcher he'd packed for
the party. A disposable one-shot weapon, the LAW was cumbersome, but its bulk
was worth the trouble, as it was more accurate than other launchers in its
class. After waiting for another revealing round from the snipers, Pol
adjusted his aim slightly and fired the tube's 94 mm hollow charge.

Seconds later, there was a brilliant flash of light as the sniper's nest took
a direct hit and the two deacons were neutralized, along with their M-16s.
Taking advantage of the sudden flash, the three men inside the gates got a
clear glimpse of the road and each broke into a run, hoping to clear as much
yardage as possible before confronting their next obstacle. The siege was on.

Kyen Ti had been notified the moment Yuri's Toyota had been spotted near the
gates, and he had his army of deacons in place immediately, rightly expecting
the ruse by which the enemy hoped to make its first penetration. Now, with the
first blows having been traded at dire cost to his forces, the Vietnamese
warrior put a call through to the palace, demanding that more of the deacons
abandon their guard over the palace in favor of defending the fields.

The loss of the sniper's nest had been particularly devastating, as it had
foiled his hopes of keeping the gateway impregnable enough that the intruders

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would be forced to try breaking through the fences elsewhere on the grounds,
thereby falling victim to the claymores and C-4 charges. With an uncertain
number of foes already on the property, Kyen Ti felt it was his top priority
to plug the gate before others could slip through. Then, provided the
trespassers could be taken out of the picture, there was still a chance the
original strategy could work.

After ordering two of his men to head for the road and set up a second sniper
post, the Vietnamese slipped off into the shadows, determined to circle the
newcomers and then double back to the gates and seal off the open doorway. As
a seasoned veteran of the inhospitable jungles of Indochina, Kyen Ti knew the
secrets of stealth, and having the additional advantage of familiarity with
the church grounds he was able to move faster through the underbrush than the
invaders, all the while steering clear of the moonlight.

At one point, while shielded by a growth of wild ferns halfway to his
destination, Kyen Ti froze and held his breath. Less than six feet away, he
saw another figure crouched behind a boulder partially illuminated by the
moon. It was a black man in a dark outfit, armed with a service revolver. At
such close range the Vietnamese would have had no difficulty blowing the
intruder away with his Walther PPK. But that would have drawn too much
attention from any of the man's allies who happened to be hiding nearby.
Instead, Kyen Ti slowly reached to his waist, unsheathing a customized
throwing knife with a seven-inch blade. Years before he'd earned the
reputation as a superb knife-thrower, and his aim was still chilling in its
accuracy. With a quick, silent flick of his wrist, Kyen Ti sent the blade
spinning end over end toward its target.

Ike Ebsen heard the faint snap of a branch off to his left and began to shift
behind the rock to give himself more protection, but he was too late. The
knife's well-sharpened point pierced his left temple with enough momentum to
splinter a portion of the skull en route to his brain. With a groan, the
intelligence officer buckled over, brushing against the boulder before landing
on the grass at an angle that drove the blade in deeper.

Kyen Ti abandoned his cover long enough to confirm what he already knew. The
other man was dead. Retrieving his knife, the deacon resumed his approach to
the gateway, reaching it without further incident. Once he had successfully
closed and locked the gate's inner door, he sheathed his knife in favor of the
fallen guard's Atchisson. One blast had already been fired, but the weapon was
fitted with a 7-round box magazine, leaving him with plenty of hell to wreak
on whoever might next cross his path. Turning around, he started back toward
the palace, eyes probing the moonlit shadows, hoping that soon he might steal
up behind the others who had gained entrance to the Holy One's domain.

"You sure you're up for this?" Lyons asked Bill Towers.

Towers grinned at his ex-partner. "Damn straight I am. Up and at 'em, the
sooner the better."

"Fair enough," Lyons said. "Then let's get cracking."

They were at the base of the formidable mountain slope that marked the
northeastern boundary of the Holy One's isolated compound. The cliff top was
more than 160 feet up, and for most of the way the incline seemed to be at a
ninety-degree angle. The moon was at the men's backs, and in its glow they set
out, seeking outcroppings and any other deformities in the rock that might
support their weight. Unlike Ebsen, Blancanales and Schwarz, Lyons and Towers
had to forgo the luxury of Kevlar vests or any other protective amenities.
Dressed down in tank tops and shorts, they had blackened their limbs with

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charcoal before setting out on their long solo climbs to the top. Both had
holstered Colts, shifted around so that the guns were behind them and out of
the way.

"Are you sure we shouldn't wait for some equipment?" Lyons said as they
started up. "Some rope and pitons would come in handy."

"Don't wimp out on me, Lyons," Towers taunted, expertly keeping the bulk of
his weight out from the rock as he pulled himself up a few precious inches to
get a better foothold. "Hell, I've scrambled up worse surfaces than this back
in Chatsworth. Toughen up, dude!"

"Wimp, huh? We'll see who's the wimp, Valley boy!"

Moving away from Towers, Lyons sought out a separate course up the cliff.
They traded a few more insults, then were forced to apply all their
concentration to finding the next avenue upward. Several times both men were
forced to backtrack when they reached impasses.

Halfway up they both paused, hearing the distant, muffled sounds of
explosions and gunfire. They had no way of knowing who was firing and who was
being hit:not that they could do anything about it if they did know. Their
objectives were simple and immediateto keep moving and to keep from falling.
The farther they advanced, the greater the likelihood was that any false move
would give them a second or so of the exhilarating rush of being airborne,
followed by a quick and certain death on the rocks below. All in all, there
were worse ways to die, but neither Lyons nor Towers felt he'd wrung quite
enough life out of his battle-scarred frame yet. They wanted to be around when
that plump moon overhead trotted offstage to make room for the sun's daily
performance.

Of the two, Towers had the more experience, and when he finally crawled over
the lip of the clifftop and rested long enough to catch his breath, Lyons was
nearly ten feet behind and moving toward the same route Bill had taken. It
proved to be an unwise move, however, because the cumulative strain of a
second two-hundred-pound man was more than one of the narrow rock ledges could
sustain. With a sudden crumble the ledge gave way under Lyons's foot, and he
was thrown off balance. By some miracle he was able to keep from falling by
digging his left hand into the soft, root-laced earth where a small pine had
decided to grow outward from the cliff facing.

"Hang on!" Towers called down to his friend, instantly on the alert. He
tested the base of yet another pine growing atop the cliff, then grabbed hold
with both hands and swung his legs back over the ledge, dangling them down
toward Lyons. "Above you and to the right," he shouted.

With his free hand, Lyons reached blindly upward, unwilling to shift his body
weight so that he could tilt his head. He groped the air, at the same time
feeling his other foothold start to give away. At the last second, his fingers
brushed against Towers's boot. He shifted just enough to get a grip on the
ankle, then slipped sharply and fell away from the rock. In desperation, he
whipped up his other hand and grabbed Towers's other ankle to keep from
falling.

"Been eating out lately, Lyons?" Towers managed to wisecrack through his
clenched teeth. "Feels like you're pushing two hundred easy."

As he struggled to regain a foothold on the cliff, Lyons gasped, "Yeah, well,
I've felt skinnier ankles in my day, too, pal!"

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"Picky, picky."

Towers summoned his strength and tried to pull himself up, but the extra
weight around his boots was too much. All he could do was hold on and hope
that Lyons could get back to where he could support himself on the rock.

Once he had one foot resting on a weatherworn niche in the side of the cliff,
Lyons steadied himself slightly and looked for a place to put his hands. There
was an outcropping three feet to his right, and he leaned over to reach it.

"Shit!" Towers suddenly cried out, hearing a dull crack. "The tree's giving"

The pine he was holding on to had weakened under the combined weight of the
two men and was in the process of snapping in half. Towers couldn't let go
without falling into space and taking Lyons with him. By the same token, he
knew that it was only a matter of seconds before the pine gave way and the
same fate befell them.

"I hope you've learned how to fly recently," Towers told his friend, "because
I didn't pack a parachute and we're going down"

Joe Krebbs inched up to the cyclone fence and tossed a branch at the wiring
to see if the barrier had been electrically charged. When the stick bounded
off the fence without drawing sparks, Krebbs turned and summoned five other
county sheriff's officers to join him. All five were wearing dark night gear,
and each of them brandished the sturdiest wire-cutters available on the
market, ones capable of biting through the steel hasps of combination locks.
As the men began carving a twelve-foot-wide gap in the fence, four other men
in the distinctive uniforms of the Special Weapons and Tactics force moved in
with hacksaws to work on the upright posts supporting the fence.

More than a hundred yards away they heard the initial shotgun blast, followed
by the rapid barks of M-16s and the fiery direct hit of Blancanales's LAW
rocket.

"Speed it up!" Krebbs hissed at his cohorts, snapping the uppermost link in
the fence so that it could be peeled away from the uprights. Once the second
section was severed, the twelve-foot-wide strip was pushed inward so that it
fell flat across the weedy ground. The three posts were quickly sawed clean
through and removed, completing the creation of a gap.

The black-surfaced SWAT truck with its lights out rumbled into view, carrying
another fifteen menthe rest of the assault force that had been thrown together
at the last minute to storm the Church of the New Word. The men on the ground
stepped to one side as the truck rolled past them and onto the Church grounds.
Like fleas abandoning a dog, the officers aboard the truck began to drop to
the ground and spread out, each one taking a separate route toward the palace
of the Holy One, barely visible above the treeline less than a mile away.

Suddenly a wrenching explosion jolted the front end of the truck, ravaging
the tires and mangling the powertrain. As the vehicle lurched sharply to one
side, chassis digging into the loose dirt, there were screams of agony as some
of the officers were pelted by shrapnel either from the truck or the detonated
claymore.

In quick succession, two other mines were triggered by advancing SWAT
officers, adding to the casualties. When several C-4 explosive charges were
detonated by deacons in a makeshift bunker forty yards away, Krebbs shouted,
"Retreat! Retreat!"

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The deacons took aim with their M-16s, managing to cut down another handful
of men before the ruined truck had been left behind by the fleeing officers.

"Goddamn them!" Krebbs cursed once he'd taken cover behind a thick-trunked
pine outside the Church grounds. "They've rigged the whole grounds!"

"No way are we going back in there," the SWAT commander said, looking back at
where a small grass fire had ignited around the truck. As both men watched,
the vehicle's gas tank ruptured with an explosion every bit as powerful as the
previous blasts. There were more cries of pain in the night.

"Did we keep any walkie-talkies outside the truck?" Krebbs wondered aloud.

The SWAT commander nodded and reached to his waist, unclipping a
communicator. "Naval Air Station?" he asked.

"Yeah," Krebbs muttered angrily. "See when those birds of theirs are going to
show up. We're going to have to come in by air."

As the commander put through the call, he glanced in the direction of the
main gateway. "I pity those poor bastards if they squeezed through," he said,
referring to Blancanales, Schwarz and Ebsen. "Until we get some backup,
they're on they're own."

Though his feet throbbed, Gadgets Schwarz refused to acknowledge the pain.
Likewise, his almost unconscious understanding of the dire meaning of the
distant explosions failed to distract him. As he stole through the brush, his
mind was totally attuned to the moment, sorting through the night sounds,
placing those closest to him and determining whether or not they posed a
threat. Twice he had correctly anticipated the approach of armed deacons and
concealed himself until they were close enough for him to overpower, either
with a well-placed shot from his silenced Beretta or, in the latter case, a
flawless, effective display of monkey kung fu.

After the second incident he dragged his victim into the brush and changed
into the deacon's khaki-and-camouflage uniform. Fortunately, the bald men had
also donned olive-green berets as a protective measure, so Schwarz felt he
stood a reasonable chance of passing for the enemy.

Several years ago, at the urging of Hal Brognola, both Able Team and their
international counterparts, the men from Phoenix Force, had spent four weeks
on an Apache Indian reservation in Arizona. The descendants of the great
tribal warriors had taught them the secrets of tracking and stealth, and also
how to master the calls of the wild as a means of communicating without
technological equipment in the midst of the enemy. Of those in the group,
Schwarz and Blancanales had distinguished themselves as the most gifted in
these techniques, and it was upon those talents that Gadgets drew as he
continued to advance toward his objective.

As previously agreed upon, Schwarz mimicked the hoot of a night owl as he
deliberately headed into the most heavily forested area. To an untrained ear,
the cry was virtually indistinguishable from that of the real winged predator.
But Pol Blancanales, forty yards off to Schwarz's left, was able to discern
the subtle nuances and reply with his own coded message, which was delivered
as the sound of a mating cricket. Within minutes the two men were reunited.
Schwarz was not surprised to see that Pol had also managed to acquire a
deacon's war garb.

"I think they got Ebsen," Blancanales whispered to Schwarz as they resumed

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their penetration. "Back at that clearing near the edge of the forest."

Schwarz nodded gravely. "I thought I heard it, too. And it looks like the
SWAT force was waylaid."

"Yeah." Pol smiled. "Looks like we have to grab all the glory ourselves, as
usual"

"Shhh." Schwarz held an arm out to stop Blancanales. Both men peered through
the forest and saw the outline of the warehouse thirty yards ahead of them.
Falling silent, they quietly closed in on the structure.

Two Jeeps were parked outside the warehouse, their engines running, with two
deacons in each vehicle. The men not driving carried Japanese assault rifles.
Kyen Ti stood next to the Jeeps, pointing off in the distance as he discussed
strategy with his men.

Five men against two. And although the assault rifles packed only 4.7 mm
ammo, Schwarz and Blancanales knew they could be fired at a mind-boggling rate
of more than 1500 rounds per minute, a stream potent enough to chop the two of
them in half under the right circumstances.

Opting for the only feasible option, Pol and Gadgets took aim at the riflemen
and fired. When the shots hit their marks and the two deacons recoiled in
pain, Kyen Ti tried to ducked for cover behind one of the Jeeps to shoot at
the two men in the bush. Their Berettas on full-auto, Schwarz and Blancanales
emptied their clips with silent precision, leaving all five deacons slain
before warning shots could be fired.

After checking the bodies, Pol and Gadgets quickly inspected the warehouse
and discovered both the marijuana-filled semi and the partially depleted
armory.

"Gee, no Bibles," Blancanales remarked.

"Yeah," Schwarz said, surveying the cavernous enclosure. He lingered near the
arsenal, finally reaching in to pull out a small box filled with 40 mm flash
grenades. "Seems that a place like this would be big on that old-time
religion."

"I know what you mean," Pol said, stepping outside the structure and removing
the hose from a gas pump mounted on a cement block just outside the main
garage door. He squeezed the nozzle, sending a spray of gasoline spilling
across the floor of the warehouse. "What they really need is some real fire
and brimstone."

"Agreed."

The two men backtracked to the Jeeps and cleared away the bodies. While
Blancanales gathered up the two assault rifles and climbed behind the wheel of
the vehicles, Schwarz hurriedly rigged the other Jeep's accelerator to the
floor, racing its engine. He pulled the pin on the hand grenade, then dropped
it in the front seat and put the vehicle into gear.

Blancanales was already driving off, and Schwarz leaped into the back as they
fled the scene. The second, runaway Jeep plowed into the warehouse's armory. A
series of increasingly violent, deafening explosions shook the earth and
lighted up the night like an erupting volcano. A concussive shock wave
emanated from the disintegrating warehouse, giving the Jeep Pol and Gadgets
were in a tangible shove toward the main grounds of the Church.

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"Hallelujah!" Blancanales howled above the din.

The tremors unleashed by the warehouse explosion reached all the way to the
palace and were felt most strongly in the basement laboratory, where the
quaking rattled tables and sent beakers and test tubes smashing to the floor.

The Holy One and her two followers immediately stopped strapping Ozzie Towers
into place in a chair in one of the testing rooms. The youth knew the
disruption was probably his only chance to escape. Releasing his own pent-up
emotions and adrenaline, Ozzie broke away from the chair in a flurry of wild
swings and kicks. Although he seemed to be completely out of control,
somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled a few pointers he'd overheard
his dad mention when talking to fellow police officers. Ozzie remembered that
the surest way to win a street fight when your life was in jeopardy was to use
the body as a lethal weapon.

Ozzie's tormentors did their best to exploit their numerical superiority, but
they weren't prepared for the youth's full fury. The syringe filled with truth
serum went flying from one of the deacon's hands and smashed against the wall,
and a split second later Ozzie's knee connected with the man's groin, doubling
him over in agony.

Ozzie nailed the other man in the throat with the butt of his palm, a fierce
blow that crushed the man's windpipe, making it impossible for him to breathe.
As he sagged to his knees, Ozzie shoved the man aside and closed in on the
first deacon again, this time stabbing his arm fiercely forward, smashing the
heel of his fist against the man's nose at an upward angle, shoving cartilage
up into the brain.

Le Van Thanh, who had been stunned momentarily when shoved against the wall,
recovered enough to reach for one of her deacon's fallen automatics. However,
before she could use the weapon, Ozzie was on her and knocked the pistol
aside. Roughly the same size, they grappled on the floor in frenzied
desperation. In her prime, Thanh would have easily outmatched the youth, but
months of parading about as the Holy One and relying on others to do her
fighting for her had left her soft and out of shape.

"Liar!" Ozzie snarled as he fought the woman. "Killer! Cheat!"

He began to bleed from numerous deep scratches left by the woman's
fingernails, but he paid no attention to the pain. When Thanh finally
succeeded in getting him into a position where she could use a karate kick to
get him away from her, they found themselves at an equal distance from the
fallen gun. Ozzie's was the quicker hand, however, and he grabbed the weapon
from the woman's outstretched fingers. Clutching it in both hands, he grinned
at her, half-mad, and released the safety.

"Okay, Holy One," he cried out, his voice quavering. "How many holes do you
want?"

Upstairs, the surviving deacons were in a panic.

Looking out the mansion windows, they saw rising flames where the warehouse
had once been, and blinking in the night sky they also saw the lights of
helicopters sweeping across the countryside toward them.

Deacon Dguen, the man who had given the disciples their missions within the
palace, took charge in the absence of the Holy One and Kyen Ti.

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"Round up the initiates!" he bellowed at his peers, pulling out his Beretta
93-R. "Put them in the main hall so we can hold them hostage!"

The others followed his command and spread out to the other rooms and the
back courtyard, where they had been loading the valuables into another semi.
Dguen remained in the vaulted doorway of the main entrance, watching the enemy
approach. Searchlights cut through the night as helicopters circled around the
warehouse and the main grounds, looking for signs of activity in the church
and barracks. There were six choppers altogether, and five of them touched
down in the main clearing, deploying the men who had earlier been turned back
at the periphery, as well as reinforcements from the Miramar Naval Air
Station. The dark forms encircled the buildings before bursting in for a
closer inspection, then finally turned their sights on the palace. The sixth
helicopter was now hovering in tight circles overhead, directing its harsh
shaft of light downward.

"Infidels!" Deacon Dguen screamed, taking aim at the chopper and firing. His
shots missed their mark, and groundfire chipping at the marble steps forced
the deacon inside. He threw the doors closed and stumbled back to the main
room, where the terrified disciples were in the process of being herded into a
tight, defenseless group.

"Pray now, miserable children!" he ranted at the prisoners. "Pray that the
infidels will trade your worthless lives for ours! Otherwise this is where you
all will die!" To drive home his message, he strode across the bare marble
floor and grabbed young Randall by the arm, pulling him away from the others.
He pressed the tip of his pistol against the boy's forehead and laughed at the
horrified onlookers, shouting, "Watch how easily you can die!"

"Don't do it!"

Dguen glanced over his shoulder and saw Ozzie at the top of the stairs
leading up from the laboratory. He had Le Van Thanh in front of him, her arm
pinned behind her and a look of pain on her face. Like the deacon, Ozzie had a
gun to the head of his prisoner.

"You heard me," Ozzie said. "Let him go and throw down your guns, all of
you!"

The deacons hesitated, eyeing their captive leader uncertainly.

"Don't listen to him!" Le Van Thanh cried out. "Gun him down. He would have
already killed me if he had the nerve to do it!"

"I mean it!" Ozzie said. But his voice was trembling and his hands were
shaking. The mindless fury that had saved his life moments before had left
him, and in its absence he was struggling for nerve and courage.

"Kill him!" the Holy One commanded, her voice shrill with emotion.

Deacon Dguen shoved Randall aside and swung his Beretta so that it was
pointed at Ozzie. One by one, the other yellowshirts did the same. Ozzie
fought to retain control, but he was overcome by the moment, and Le Van Thanh
was able to take him by surprise when she suddenly twisted her body, unpinning
her arm and deftly throwing the youth over her shoulder. Ozzie landed hard on
his back on the marble floor, the wind knocked from his lungs. The Holy One
calmly picked up the automatic he had dropped and aimed it at his face.

"Insolent pup!"

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Before she had a chance to pull the trigger, there was a resounding crash as
a hurtling Jeep smashed through an elaborately designed stained-glass window
overlooking the courtyard. The vehicle skidded to a stop near the gathered
hostages, and Gadgets Schwarz stood up in the passenger's seat, leveling the
Japanese assault rifle at the deacons. Blancanales took his hands off the
steering wheel and cradled the other rifle in his hands, pointing it at the
Holy One.

"Sorry to be such gate-crashers, Le Van," Pol told the woman, "but this was
one party we didn't want to miss."

"You won't make jokes if I am forced to kill this boy," Le Van countered.

An unexpected shot rang through the palace, coming from the doorway to the
courtyard. Le Van Thanh flinched as a bullet gouged a hole in her gun hand,
forcing her to drop her weapon. Recoiling in pain, she glanced to her left and
saw Bill Towers enter the palace from the courtyard doorway.

"That boy's my son," he yelled.

Carl Lyons entered behind Towers. Lflce the cop, he was covered with
scratches and abrasions from his brush with death on the cliffs. He grinned as
he walked toward the bald woman who had been his and Able Team's nemesis.

"Long time, no see," he wisecracked, lapsing into a lousy Billy Crystal
impersonation. "Who does your hair, darling? You look mahhhhhhvelous!"

EPILOGUE

" and it's a safe bet the only church she's going to be heading up for the
next few hundred years will be one for fellow inmates in maximum security,"
Lyons reported, shifting the phone to his other ear.

He'd been on the phone with Hal Brognola for nearly an hour, filling Stony
Man's director of operations in on the details of Able Team's part in the
dissolution of the Church of the New Word.

"Good work, Carl," Brognola told Lyons from his desk half a world away. "Of
course, this turned out to be a little more than the low-profile operation we
were hoping for."

"So what else is new?" Lyons said. "Come off it, Chief. We're the bulls, and
you don't set us loose in a china shop unless you're looking for a little
broken glass, right?"

"No comment."

"Yeah, but we'll give ourselves a pat on the back anyway," Lyons drawled.

There was a short pause on the line, then Brognola said, "Not to burst the
bubble, Carl, but there still is the matter of Sergei Karanov. It seems to me
that he slipped through the net."

"So he did," Lyons confessed. "But I'm sure that's only a temporary
situation. As soon as he turns up again we'll take care of him."

"I'm sure you will. How's the Towers boy?"

"Just fine," Lyons said, picturing in his mind the tearful reunion between

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the youth and his father inside the palace of the Holy One. "I think they've
both given the other a little more credit. Ozzie's back home, looking to get
into some type of accelerated summer school program to make up for what he
missed when he dropped out."

"Glad to hear it," Brognola said. "Well, if you gentlemen have finished up,
you might want to fly back for a few days. Cowboy's come up with a neat little
trick for the Barrett M-82 and he's anxious to show it off to you."

"As a matter of fact, Chief, Pol and Gadgets are already on their way out
there. Should be in by suppertime."

"Oh? And what about you, Carl?"

"I've got a little unfinished business to take care of," Lyons said. "I'll be
in by the end of the week, though, okay?"

"Fair enough."

The two men traded farewells and hung up. Lyons was inside a public phone
booth outside a discount tire store on Topanga Canyon Boulevard, a busy
thoroughfare bisecting the west end of the San Fernando Valley. He went to the
corner and waited for the light to change, then strolled leisurely across the
street to Topanga Plaza, a monstrous shopping mall basking in the typically
blistering summer heat.

Inside it was cool, and he wondered how so many loitering teenage girls could
spend hours in such an environment wearing such skimpy clothing without
catching cold. He paused before a directory and placed the location of the
Orange Julius outlet. It was at the opposite end of the mall, and as Lyons
walked past the myriad shop he gazed idly at the shoppers, vaguely amused at
how seriously some of them seemed to go about their business. As if saving two
dollars on a shirt or buying fresh underwear were major undertakings in the
greater scheme of things. If only these people could imagine the kind of
life-and-death ordeals that took place daily beyond the range of their
complacent existences.

"Shit, Lyons," he chided himself under his breath. "Give 'em a break. Lighten
up."

Reaching the Orange Julius stand, Lyons took his place in line, watching a
teenage boy with close-cropped hair and a punk-rock T-shirt add ingredients to
a blender and then stir the fixings into a frothy drink, which he handed to a
customer. As the youth made change, Lyons took a deep breath, fighting back
the nervousness that had taken hold of his stomach.

"Can I help you?" the youth asked Lyons.

"Maybe," Lyons said, looking at the boy until he saw the spark of recognition
in his eyes.

"Dad?"

"Hi, Tommy," Lyons told his son. "Your mom said I could find you here. She
also said you were off work in an hour. I was thinking maybe we could get out
and do something together. Whaddaya think?"

Tommy was stunned at first, but slowly a smile came to his face, revealing
the braces on his teeth. "Yeah," he said. "That'd be great."

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