The foul scent of alcohol filled his nostrils. As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he heard snoring come from the back. Seeing a man curled on the floor, Lyons holstered his modified Colt.

He pushed the seat forward and lunged inside. He tore away the man's shirt, jammed it into his mouth and threw the suddenly awakened drunk onto his face. Lyons took plastic riot handcuffs from his web belt and secured the man's hands. An oily rag went around the drunk's head as a blindfold. Finding the keys to the Dodge in the drunk's pocket, he clicked on his hand-radio.

"I got transportation."

Minutes later, as the others crowded into the truck, Blancanales put the prisoner's jacket over his blacksuit. Then he drove directly to the building where the Iranian allegedly slept.

The Nicaraguan Communists had provided first-class quarters for their visiting comrades. Unlike the technicians and shipping crews who stayed in the barracks, the ComBloc officers enjoyed private suites and conference rooms. Their one-story bungalows boasted patios and landscaping.

Able Team knew the numbers of the rooms occupied by the Iranian and his group. Blancanales stopped the truck at the Iranian's bungalow. As the contraschecked their weapons, Lyons said to Blancanales, "Remind them that our targets are the Soviets and Iranians. They don't get paid extra for killing Nicaraguans."

Gadgets laughed softly. "Mercy for the Sandinistas? That don't sound like the blood-lusting, Commie-hating Ironman we know and love."

"What? I just don't want them wasting time making numbers for a body count. We're here for information."

"Oh. Ironman the efficient."

As Blancanales spoke to the Miskito contrasin idiomatic Spanish, Gadgets prepared claymores for placement. Lyons glanced to the shadowed doors of the bungalows. He screwed valved hearing protectors into his ears.