"Python's a helluva lot better than these popguns, but everything in this mission's been designed to limit any problems during crowd action. You guys also get Ingrams."
"Suppose you're packing a 40mm cannon," Pol said to Lyons.
"Damn right," he said, holding up an M-203 with an M-16 barrel and an M-79 grenade launcher in an over/under configuration. "We've got smokes, tear gas, HE and puke gas to use."
Politician, rifling through the cases, came up with some new death distributors. "Nice stuff," he said. "Damn nice stuff."
"They're custom made," Lyons said. "Take .458 Winchester Magnums. If we're forced to snipe, I doubt we could find a better piece to use. The sport shirts are to conceal this armor."
"Not a bad fit," Gadgets declared as he slipped the shirt on.
"We land in twenty minutes," Lyons announced.
3
Lyons, Schwarz and Blancanales stretched as they made their way off the jet at LAX. Bright sunshine greeted their eyes as they stepped down the ladder. A man and a woman stood waiting for them beside a station wagon.
"Nice," Lyons crooned, looking at the female half of the duo.
"Lacks meat," Gadgets said, not bothering to suppress a monster yawn. "I like my women with a little something you can hold on to."
The man stood surveying Able Team. He was a Caucasian with a slightly rounded face and a fit body wrapped in a lightweight gray suit. He looked like an accountant. He was a field agent. His short-fingered blunt hand reached out as Able Team came near.
"Identification please."
"Want a look at a mole on my ass?" Lyons asked.
The agent fell short of being amused. "ID please."
Lyons pulled a wallet from his hip pocket and produced a wrinkled envelope, which he handed to the agent. The man in gray extracted a single page, then read it.
"Okay," the agent said, obviously impressed with the President's signature anchoring the page. "What's next, sir?"