"Cut off his gear and uniform and boots. Put the claymore on his head."

"What?"

"I want nothing left of him except a stain."

"That's what he'll be."

As Gadgets stripped the dead man, Lyons found the Syrian's slacks and pocketed his identification. He kicked the slacks across the room.

Seconds later, they sprinted into the rain. Autofire came from both ends of the street. The contrasreturned fire with their M-16 rifles, Blancanales with his silent Beretta. Lyons and Gadgets dived into a muddy flower bed.

From the ends of the street, the muzzles of Kalashnikov rifles flashed. From doorways and corners, militiamen raked the intruders with full-auto fire.

AK slugs roared over the North Americans to shatter the bungalow windows, hammer the walls. A hail of 7.62mm ComBloc slugs punched through the stolen Dodge and whined away. Shattered glass fell around them. Gadgets surveyed the street, noting the positions of the Sandinistas. He shouted to the contras, "Mata las luces!" He pointed to the streetlights.

"Inmediatamente!" one teenager answered.

Shifting their aim from the Sandinistas, the contrasplinked out the lights one by one. Globes shattered, darkened, the crashing sound loud even amid the cacophony of shouts and shooting and whining slugs.

High above, on the third floor of the barracks, a silhouette appeared, a pistol popped from a window — fatal mistake. Three contrassighted and fired. The silhouette disappeared.

Gadgets surveyed the dark street. He called, "Ready to go?"

"Quinze segundos." Several voices answered.

He turned to Lyons. "Watch this magic trick."