The roar of the bus engine grabbed Pol's attention. The vehicle had backed up to get around Archer's station wagon. The Able Team sharpshooter tried to target on the bus tires. He was sent flying by a frightened cameraman fleeing the scene.

Carl Lyons's gun whispered sweet death and another graysuit fell to the ground, his head torn to pieces.

Gadgets did not even take the time to get off the ground before doing his job. He sighted between a pair of thrashing legs and squeezed a shot at a pair of gray legs. The last goon went down with a scream. But the bus had escaped.

Archer and the blond leader were grappling. The blonde landed a few blows to the Fed's face but the latter doggedly hung on. Another blow to the temple knocked Archer to the pavement.

The blonde reached for his gun. Picking it up, he jumped beside a wounded comrade. He pulled a grenade from a pocket. Three Able Team guns coughed. The tall man collapsed in a blood-smeared mess. The wounded man's status dropped to dead. The grenade fell to the roadway, its pin still in place.

Lyons bent and made a fast search of the blond man's pockets. He found a plain business envelope, sealed and addressed to the United States Olympic Committee. He put the envelope in his pants pocket, then retrieved the grenade the gunner had dropped.

"Russian," he said.

He straightened and found himself looking up the business end of a police revolver.

A sheriffs department car was parked on the elevated roadway. Two deputies, guns drawn, came out of the terminal.

"Where were you when the action was going down?" Lyons asked.

"Just put the gun down easy," the deputy replied.

Lyons locked eyes with the policeman, then slowly slid the Beretta back into its holster.

"I said put the gun down," the deputy snapped.

"Put out an all-points on that bus that just pulled out of here," Lyons ordered.

"Why the hell would I do that?" the officer spat.