In a split second, Lyons, Blancanales and four contraswere out of the Dodge. In pairs, they went to three doors. Three kicks sounded and three doors sprang open simultaneously.

Behind them, Gadgets moved silently through the rain, placing claymores. He made no effort at concealment. In a few seconds, the alarms would sound.

Rushing through a bungalow, the modified-for-silence Colt in his hands, Lyons heard glass shatter. He kicked open the bedroom door and spun to one side as a pistol fired wild. He called out, "White light! Luce bianco..."

The contrapitched in a stun-shock grenade. Designed for antiterrorist confrontations, the grenade had no shrapnel. It exploded with a deafening blast and a blinding flash.

In the other rooms, stun-shocks boomed. A pistol fired, then two more grenades exploded.

Not moving, a dark-haired, narrow-faced Semitic man groaned in bed, his eyes fluttering. Then he collapsed onto the sheets. Lyons cinched plastic handcuffs around his wrists and ankles while the contrateenager gathered his papers. Lyons buckled a nylon harness around the prisoner's shoulders, waist and feet. The harness had loops providing handholds for carrying.

The papers in his wallet provided an identity: Ahmed Choufi, a Syrian with an international import-export company.

Jerking Choufi off the bed, Lyons dragged him through the broken glass. In the other rooms, autofire hammered.

Returning to consciousness, Choufi pleaded for his life, first in French and Arabic, then English. "I am no one, only a businessman... Why do you do this?"

"Shut up or you get a bullet," Lyons ordered.

"But I am no one political."

Dragging his prisoner into the rain, Lyons kneed him in the gut. Gasping, choking, the Syrian struggled to breathe. An AK-47 flashed from the end of the lane, slugs slamming into the bungalow. Lyons saw Gadgets brace his silent Beretta 93-R with both hands. The pistol recoiled once. Someone in the darkness cried out. The rifleman didn't fire again.