"I'll have you for lunch," Lyons snarled as he booted the man in the ribs and thrust the letter into his face.

"Read it," he said.

Archer, sensing Lyons was now in the driver's seat, took charge. "Try to clear the crowd," he instructed the lawman.

Reporters were firing questions.

"Did someone try to shoot the Zambian athletes?"

"Yeah, but we got here first," Lyons said.

"What happened to the athletes?" another person asked.

"They got on a bus," Lyons snapped.

"Are they okay?"

Lyons held little love for the media. In his mind those involved in journalism were interlopers who always seemed to have their noses in the wrong places. "Ask them tomorrow," Lyons snapped.

By this time another car from the sheriffs department had managed to make it through the crowd and the traffic. The deputies slowly cleared the area of protesting reporters and curious onlookers.

From his seat on the road, the cop finished reading the letter of authority signed by the President.

"Now," Lyons said, speaking softly so that he could not be overheard, "maybe you'll get that all-points out. Athletes have been kidnapped and you're sitting on your ass."

The man ran for his car. He had an urgent message to deliver.

The members of Able Team climbed back into the station wagon and waited for Archer to drive them away. Gadgets dug into the wooden case for spare shells. Blancanales dressed the slight bullet crease on Carl's arm. Lyons opened the letter addressed to the Olympic Committee that he had found on the dead man. He read it and whistled.

"What now?" Archer asked as he started to pull away from the scene.

"Drop us off at UCLA," Lyons said. He passed the note to Pol. It read:

We are holding the black Zambian athletes until your committee officially recognizes South Africa. We are sick of your discrimination against the White Race. If our demand is not met, the athletes will die.