Texas Showdown by Don Pendleton, Dick Stivers Read Free Book Online

time the coast guard played tracer-tag with that yacht full of hippie dopers..."
    "Oh, man..." Blancanales laughed.
    "Were you there, Mr. Morgan?"
    "No."
    "How long have
you
worked with your friends?"
    "This year."
    "Tell me all about it."
    "Sometimes we're on boats. Sometimes we fly. Sometimes I get a G-3. Sometimes it's a Mattie Mattel. Always I got my Python. What else you interested in?"
    "Who you really are."
    Lyons didn't answer for a second. Gadgets looked out the window, watched the morning sun light the rocks. If Lyons couldn't handle this questioning...
    "I'm past that." Lyons spoke like an old man.
    "What?" Pardee looked piercingly at Lyons. "Just give me a straight answer."
    "I'm Carl Morgan. I've got a phony passport and a Colt Python with a magnaported six-inch barrel. Issue me a rifle, I'll carry it. What else can I tell you?"
    "You and me just might get along, Morgan," Pardee said. "Last night, I asked your pal for references. He said he couldn't talk about it. But you two will. I want the names of people you worked for. You're on the payroll, but until I check you out, you don't get weapons, briefings, nothing. Understand?"
    "No problem here," Lyons told him.
    "I understand," Gadgets agreed.
    The intercom interrupted them. "One minute until landing. One minute."
    The three men of Able Team looked out as the base flashed beneath them. They saw rows of steel prefab buildings, asphalt streets, gravel assembly areas, and a two-lane highway. The highway cut through the rocky hills around the camp, continued past the camp to a mansion set on the peak of a distant hill. Two fences surrounded the base. A blockhouse guarded the only gate.
    "There is something you should know," Pardee cut off their sight-seeing. "Texas has a whole different attitude about private property. Somebody goes someplace, and they ain't supposed to be there, that's trespassing. And like the sign on the fence down there says, 'Trespassers Will Be Shot.' " The Beechcraft's wheels touched the landing strip.
    * * *
    Below his office window in La Paz, waves of flowers rolled across the red clay tiles of the restaurant roof. Parrots squawked on the patio. The flowers attracted hummingbirds.
    Bob Paxton turned from his desk to watch the emerald-green birds flit through the flowers. Once, when ravens had raided the nests of the tiny birds, eating the eggs and chicks, Paxton had taken his silenced Ruger .22 and dropped the ravens, one by one.
    Now he held the Ruger under his desk. The footsteps on the creaky stairs continued to his door. Before the visitor knocked, Paxton crossed the office, his feet silent on the tiles except for the slight squeak of the ankle on his plastic leg.
    Knock. "Senor Paxton, this is Lieutenant Navarro."
    Paxton slipped the Ruger in his belt at the small of his back. He opened the door for the young lieutenant. The two men presented a contrast in military traditions: Paxton, the ex-gunnery sergeant with his beer belly and cocaine habit; Navarro, slim and formal in his tailored polyester. Yet Navarro respected the boozy retired non-com. Unlike Navarro, Paxton had distinguished himself in combat. Navarro knew he would never have the opportunity.
    "How can I help you, Lieutenant?"
    The young Latin handed him a folder. Paxton glanced through the eight-by-ten black-and-white blow-ups.
    "I need to know the names and nationalities."
    "I don't know about these three, I'll have to check my files," said Paxton. "But this man..." He limped to his desk, spread out the photos. "I can tell you who he is, right now."
    Paxton put his finger on the glossy black-and-white photo of Hal Brognola.

6
    A closed van waited only steps from the jetprop. Scanning the scene as they left the plane, they saw the concrete landing strip, strips of landing lights, the steel prefab hangars at the far end. Double chain link fences topped with razor wire encircled the area.
    "Move it!" Pardee shouted. "No tourism! In the truck."
    Sitting on the floor of the