The Porsche was careening down the hill, Washington behind the wheel, Bolan leaning against the opposite door with the radio in his hand.
That's Bloodbrother, dead ahead," Washington pointed out.
Bolan jerked his head in a nod. "Stay on him," he said; then he spoke into the radio. "Horse! Dump and bail out! You have no chance in that jobby!"
"We got a better idea," Blancanales' voice reported. "We're gonna try a D and D."
"Negative," Bolan snapped. "Jump ship! Let it go!"
"Sorry, Sarge. It's a D and D. Our decision."
"What he talking about?" Washington asked, rolling his eyes toward Bolan. He quickly swung his attention back to his driving chores as the Porsche leaned into a sweeping ninety-degree turn.
"Dummy and Divert," Bolan muttered. "They're trying to lead off the blues."
"Think they can do it?"
Bolan sighed. "I don't know. They're gonna get themselves racked out, that's what. Just might swing the track from everyone else, though." He spoke again into the radio. "Where away, Horse?"
"Route Two and leveling. Gadgets found their new web. Stand by for intel."
"Route Three is maintaining," Zitka advised. Then: "Uh-oh. Trouble at the crossroads."
"Whatisit,Zit?"
"Roadblock! Damn—lookit that! They're running it !"
"Break!"
A brief silence; then: It's Route Three, Junction Two. I am avoiding, resuming track beyond."
Bolan swore under his breath. Washington chuckled and sent the sports car into another squealing turn. "You said tonight's the night, and that's the last thing anyone believed," he told Bolan.
The voice of Gadgets Schwarz came through the radio, speaking in a rapid monotone. "Okay, here's the lay. Containment around periphery. Looks like a hole on Route Four, though. All exits at Routes Two and Three are sealed. Avoid. Run wide on Four. Out."
"Okay, that's great!" Bolan snapped into the radio. "Now, dammit, bail!"
"Negit," Schwarz replied. "D and D is bearing fruit. Will exercise options."
"Roll call!" Bolan commanded.
"Eagle is out and splitting wide on Four," from Bloodbrother Loudelk.
"Track's back on and streaking for skinnytail," said Zitka.
"Comin" 'round the mountain and closing," reported Boom-Boom Hoffower.
"Angling and running for Four," Gunsmoke Harrington sighed.
"I've got Horse in sight," said Flower Child Andromede. "Will cover all possible."
A brief silence followed. Bolan glanced at Washington, punched the transmitter, and barked, "Chopper! Where away?"
"He's away in a lay on the Beverly clay," Andromede reported in a flat voice. "He says spend his pension on the kids in Jersey."
"Confirm!" Bolan snarled.
"He's free, brother, and that's as confirmed as he's going to get."
"Run careful, dammit," Bolan muttered into the radio. The price has already got too high."
Captain Braddock smacked a fist into an open palm and cried, "Get that hole plugged on the Golden State. That's the Route Four they're yakking about!"
The dispatcher waved an excited hand at Braddock and said, "Another gunfight. Pacific Coast and Beverly! The roadblock. Two more cars damaged. I got no nearby units to replace 'em."
Braddock lunged toward the console and quickly surveyed the map set into the glassed top of the desk. "Send these over," he instructed, his index finger circling a flagged area. He moved over to stand in front of an intercom. "Andy, what's the word up there?"
Lieutenant Andy Foster, on the roof with the special intelligence team from the U.S. Navy, responded immediately. "They're scattering like the pieces from an explosion. They've located the new Hardcase net, too, you know."
"Yeah, dammit, I know. I've been listening. What's that stuff about a horse?"
"A rolling control center, we gather. Probably the van."
"Stay on them. Let me know when a definite route of travel can be established." Braddock sighed and turned back to the dispatcher. "Let's swirl south," he said. "Start 'em moving."
"They don't even know what they're looking for, Captain," the dispatcher replied in a low voice.
"Dammit, I know that. But get 'em moving anyway."
The dispatcher nodded and turned back to his console. "Zone Four," he announced, "Zone Five, Zone Six—all units, commence ..."
Braddock turned away with a heavy frown and walked toward the coffee service. It was happening, the thing he'd feared most. The drag that had been activated for Bolan was engaging the fleeing Mafia vehicles first—and blood was flowing in L.A. streets. The captain sighed and half-filled his cup with coffee. He knew, somehow, that tonight was to be the climax to the Bolan affair. One way or another, blood-washed or otherwise, the L.A. streets would be a lot cleaner on the morrow.
The petty officer in charge of the navy team grinned at Andy Foster and said, "Is this the guy they call The Executioner?"
"That's the guy," Foster replied sourly. "Can't you get a better fix?"
"This is RDF, you know, not radar," the sailor said. "We get an automatic triangulation every time we get a signal, but our receivers don't scramble out and identify each different voice that comes across. The only thing we can do is block track. You know—we can say, five minutes ago, they were all in the Beverly Hills area. At this moment they seem to be slightly south of Beverly Hills—but there's a fox out there, Lieutenant. I think it's the one they call Horse, and there is more than one voice involved, possibly two or three". He's running a diversion pattern and transmitting frequently, and we're getting no meaningful grouping on our fixes because of that. It will take at least another five minutes before we can identify a definite pullaway of the main group. Whoever this horse is, he damn well knows what he's about."
Another petty officer sitting close by removed a headset and joined the conversation. "I think I'm getting the same guy on Hardcase, too," he declared. "He's really screwing things up. Listen to this." He flipped a switch, throwing his monitor onto a loudspeaker.
"Zone Five Units, disregard last and stand by further," an officious voice commanded, on the Hardcase radio network.
That's not your dispatcher," the navy man pointed out.
An exasperated voice blared in immediately to deny the validity of the previous announcement. A loud squeal immediately overrode that transmission, effectively blocking it. The navy men were grinning at each other.
"He's even jamming you," the leader told Foster.
"What can we do about it?" Foster demanded angrily.
The sailor shrugged. "You should have a contingency plan."
"Zone Six, Zone Six, disregard swirl and close on Alpha Three, that is Alpha Three, and stand by further."
"That was not..." Foster recognized it as Braddock's voice just before another ear-splitting squeal knocked him off the air.
The navy men were now laughing openly. Foster whirled to the intercom and shouted, "You've gotta get that damn horse!"
"Will you drop dead?" Braddock's tired voice came back.
Julian DiGeorge's massive Cadillac was eating up the Golden State Freeway. He was hunched over the wheel, heart pounding, mind whirling, and every snick of his tires seemed to be repeating, idiot, idiot, idiot ... Deej had goofed—oh had he goofed! He had been so reluctant to return to the "old ways." Sure, sure, why not? Deep down in his brain he must have known that there was no returning to old ways. Old ways are dead and gone; there's no way to get back to them. Deej had tried to step backward twenty years in one small step, and he'd just about landed in the grave of those dead old ways.
Times change, they change, and a guy has to change with the times. Sure, he knew that now. Try fighting a war nowadays using the same old weapons of the World War. Yeah, that's what Deej had done. Times had changed, war had changed, and Deej had tried to step back into the old ways. He'd thought he could scare Bolan off with a show of strength, and bastard Bolan had shoved that show right back through his teeth. Just a plain guy, huh? Plain hell!
Well, it was all lost now. The legitimacy, the respect, the comfortable floating with the cream of society—yeah, it was all gone now. The cops, the newspapers, the feds—everybody would start digging into the DiGeorge empire now. And the truth would out. Julian DiGeorge, nee Julio DiGeorgio, would be another name on the racket busters' lists. They'd investigate his banks, his ships, his politics—everything would get the big eye, and Deej would have to labor again. He would have to labor to his dying day.
Well—okay. Deej had always known, deep down, that he didn't really belong in the puking mass of social respectability. Deej was, by God, a laborer—and he wasn't ashamed of it. To hell with Beverly Hills. To hell with the bright boys with the phony smiles, and to hell with the hot tramps with the itching asses. To hell with it all. Deej was a laborer, and he was now headed for that laboring man's castle down in Balboa, the family home, a place where a man could stretch out and thumb his nose at the miserable cops and the puking social climbers and lunatics like soldier boy Bolan. Deej hoped Bolan would find Balboa. God, he hoped the miserable bastard would find it. He wouldn't find a bunch of foolish old idiots, trying to step into the past. No. Bolan would find the twentieth-century brotherhood at Balboa. He would find the Black Hand of God, by God, and in all its fury and potency.
"This is Horse, signing off, final transmission. Good luck, Sarge. Hope you win the war."
"Gadgets!" Bolan snapped. "Gadgets?"
Flower Andromede's calm tones came through. "Guess he can't hear you, Maestro. They're buzzed by the fuzz. No chance, no chance. I'm breaking. Scratch one politician and one ohms lawyer."
"Is it P.O.W., Flower?" Bolan inquired anxiously.
"Affirm. A quiet surrender. Where do you run? I'm rejoining."
Bolan's voice was heavy with a mixture of sadness and relief. "We run true. Your option, Flower. Head for the hutch if you'd rather."
"Neg. We're already three too few. I'll find you."
"I'm in clover," Zitka came in. "Are you on?"
"I'm on," Bolan assured him. "Guns? Where away?"
"Parallel to track and running true," Harrington reported.
"Roger. Guess we're clear. Keep running true."
"I couldn't hear Horse and Flower," Zitka complained. "What's happening?"
"The blues corralled the horse," Bolan replied. "Flower is rejoining, and just in time—it sounds like we're running beyond the radios."
"Maybe we broke outta the radio trap, then," Zitka observed soberly.
"Maybe so. But keep it minimum, just in case."
"Roj."
"Where do you run, Boom?"
"Closing on Gunsmoke right now," replied Hoffower"s quiet voice.
"Okay. Let's try to tighten it up. Give me a fix, Zit, so I can verify track."
"I'm coming up on Victor Four," Zitka said.
"Mark your passage."
"Roj ... stand by ... mark."
"Okay. I am ... two minutes light and closing. Let's all fall in now."
"I have you in my rear view, Maestro," Loudelk reported.
"Roger, I see you. Let's try to flock now. All birds, pull it in."
"Man I am flying in," Andromede's faint voice advised.
"There's still a straggling pip or two, but they seem to be heading down the Golden State," Foster reported excitedly. "And we're losing them fast."
"You'd think, with half the mobile units in town on the job, we could have plugged that damn ..." Braddock fumed. He was reaching for his hat and stuffing things into his pockets. "Get my car ready! Extend the alert all the way to Oceanside and try to pull in Riverside, Redlands, Banning, San Jacinto, and anybody else you can get into that fan. Ask the CHP to seal Oceanside solid, and I mean solid."
"How far you figuring to chase these guys, Cap'n?" asked a uniformed officer.
"I'll chase 'em clear to Tijuana if I have to," Braddock roared.
The track ended a few miles above Balboa, on one of the irregular outjuttings of California coastline. They had left the interstate route some minutes back to proceed along a twisting and torturous blacktop road that swept down to the sea, skirted a small inlet, then climbed several hundred feet to the rocky promontory.
Bolan rolled to a halt behind Loudelk's vehicle. Zitka's chase car, a little MG, was not in sight, but Zitka himself was jogging quietly down the road toward the clustering cars of the Death Squad. Bolan stepped out onto the ground just as another vehicle pulled up on his rear bumper. Loudelk had slithered out to join Zitka; the two of them walked on to Bolan's Porsche, where they were joined by a grinning Gunsmoke Harrington. Washington opened his door and stepped out, then leaned across the roof of the Porsche with a sober smile. A few scudding clouds were passing low overhead, intermittently blocking out the faint nightlight.
Zitka had been busy lighting a cigarette. A stiff coastal wind was making the job difficult. He dragged hard on the cigarette and said, "End of the line."
Bolan nodded. He was gazing out onto the long promontory, mentally calculating the length, breadth, and height. A large house at the far end loomed grimly foreboding against the horizon. Lights were showing faintly on all three floors of the structure. Is it sealed at this end?" he asked Zitka.
"You better believe it. Stone wall, about ten feet high, runs across the entire front. About a hundred yards wide. Big iron gate right in the center. Brick gatehouse just inside. Maybe four guards in there. I figure a thousand yards from the gate down to the house. There's a guy walking the wall with a shotgun."
"Conclusions?" Bolan asked tersely.
"It's a fortress."
Bolan nodded. "It figures. This is their hard site."
"Eighteenth-century mentality," Harrington put in.
"Maybe so," Bolan said, "but we have to figure a twentieth-century way to get in there."
Loudelk had walked to the far side of the road to gaze along the sheer drop to the ocean. "Almost straight up and down as far as I can see," he observed quietly. "And I'd hate to fall. Looks like nothing but rocks down below."
Bolan swung his gaze onto Harrington. "Wasn't Boom just behind you?"
"He's spotted back at the turnoff," Harrington yelled, "to make sure Flower doesn't get lost."
"I'm glad we have the benefit of Politician's last bright idea," Bolan said musingly. "Looks like we might need it."
"We going to bust on in?" Harrington inquired, smiling brightly.
"Might have to," Bolan replied. He turned to Zitka and Loudelk. "Give the place a thorough recon," he told the seasoned scouts. "Pay particular attention to the cliffs at the other side. Find a hold—any kind of hole."
Zitka and Loudelk exchanged glances, then slightly withdrew. Bolan watched them out of sight, then spoke into the radio. "Boom. Situation."
"Flower just arrived," Hoffower immediately responded. "On our way."
Bolan laid the radio on the hood of the Porsche and told the others, "Let's check the weapons."
Washington pulled the keys from the ignition and went to the rear and opened the trunk. Harrington was walking quickly to his vehicle, playing with the snapaway straps that held his six-shooters in place. Moments later, when the other vehicles joined them, an assortment of automatic weapons and ammo clips were neatly arranged on the roof of the Porsche.
Hoffower was driving to a small panel truck and towing what appeared to be a low canvas-covered trailer. He pulled the rig even with the Porsche and immediately cut the motor. Andromede halted his vehicle, a late-model Fury, just to the rear.
Bolan gave them a brief rundown of the situation.
"Guess you're gonna need my tagalong, then," Hoffower observed.
Bolan jerked his head in a curt nod. "Pull on ahead of me, Boom, and get it unhitched. Give 'im a hand, Flower, and get that weapon ready to go. After you get unhitched, Boom, get your explosives ready. How many satchel charges do you have in there?"
"Six," Hoffower replied. "I can make a few more right quick if you think you need 'em."
Bolan shook his head. "Six should be enough. And break out four grenades for every man." He swiped at his nose and added in low tones, "Seven of us left—twenty-eight chunks, Boom."
Hoffower nodded, started his engine, and pulled off the road ahead of the Porsche. Andromede walked along beside the trailing vehicle, slashing at the ropes of the canvas with a knife. Washington stepped over to help him strip back the canvas and uncover the jeep. Hoffower was between the vehicles with a wrench, releasing the tow bar.
Andromede swung up behind the fifty-caliber mount, removed the dust cover, and busied himself with an ammo box.
Zitka and Loudelk materialized from the shadows along the road, and Zitka reported, "Not a hole anywhere, Mack. It's right up the middle or not at all."
Bolan had obviously been prepared for such a finding. "Okay," he said. He spread his arms at shoulder height and waved both hands. "Gather 'round and let's go over the footwork. Time check first." He stared at his watch. "One-oh-seven ... right ... now. Boom, I want you to drape a satchel charge over the hood ornament of Zitka's vehicle. At precisely 1:15, Boom, you send that car against the gate. Give yourself plenty of room to drop clear. Flower, you on the fifty and Deadeye driving, right behind the battering ram. Hold back at about fifty feet and open up with that big mother. Rest of you deployed along the wall, and raise as much hell as you can without actually exposing yourself. Toss some grenades or something. Boom, I want four of those satchels. Now—nobody comes in. You're providing diversionary fire only, and I want you..."
"Just a damn minute!" Zitka protested. "You're going in there alone?"
"One man can do it, Zit," Bolan argued. "If you can pull everybody toward that gate, I can be over the wall and halfway to the house before anyone begins to wonder what's happening."
"With four damn satchel charges!" Harrington put in disgustedly.
"You're not leaving us standing around on the outside, Mack," Zitka said. "Look, we're all sorry about Chopper and about Pol and Gadgets. But we made the decision back at camp. We're going all the way."
"It's our war too, man," Deadeye Washington murmured.
"Boom?" Bolan queried, his eyes grim.
"Hell yes," Hoffower replied quietly. "This's no time to get faint."
"As a squad, we'll shoot our wad," Flower Child intoned.
Bolan's eyes dropped. When they came up again, he was grinning. "Okay. We're still the Terrible Ten. Maybe Chopper's wild-ass charge was what sent all these bunnies hopping along the trail. His effect is right here with us. Pol and Gadgets provided the police diversion that got us here. So ..."
"So the squad's all present and accounted for," Andromede said. "Now let's go show those cats what a firefight looks like."
"Deal the cards again, Sarge," Harrington said.
"Okay. We still use the satchel on the MG, but Zitka drives. It'll give just as much punch on that gate as any tank, and it's light enough to be moved out of the way. Blower, Deadeye, and Gunsmoke in the jeep. Swing wide just outside and provide covering fire while we clear that gateway. Boom, use your truck and ram right on through. Try to push the MG inside and out of the way. If you still have wheels under you then, stand by to fall in on the procession. If not, get clear and join the first vehicle you can.
"Deadeye, swing that jeep in right behind Boom's truck but wait until the way is clear. Flower, after penetrating the gate, keep your fire to the left of the road and fire at anything that moves or looks like it could move. Gunsmoke, I want you in the front, beside Deadeye. Get your big chopper— you're sweeping the right side and the road ahead. Bloodbrother, you fall in behind the jeep. Pick up Zitka and punch right on in. I'll bring up the rear in the Porsche. Boom, you better just plan on leaving the truck and joining me. I'll need a rear gunner.
Now this will be a punch in, pure and simple. No telling how many active troops we'll be leaving behind us. We'll have to punch right back out again probably, and if the blues show, we're going to be in a hell of a tight situation. So let's keep it fast and furious, and the sooner we get moving the better.
"Let's get everything out of the truck and into the punch vehicles. Let's get moving, let's go go go!"
Sergeant Carl Lyons slowed his car to a leisurely pace and snatched up his hand mike. "CHP says no movement into Balboa, Captain," he reported. "I just passed a road running off toward the cliffs. Think I'll investigate."
"I'm only a couple minutes behind you now," Braddock's unhappy tones came back at him. "Wait for us there."
Ten-four." Lyons threw down the mike and swerved abruptly across the median in a fish-tailing U-turn, then powered into the northbound lanes. A moment later he was leaning into a curving exit and passing beneath the highway in an easy glide toward the beach. Over in the darkness he could detect a rugged point of land rising to the horizon. He braked to a halt and swiveled about in the seat for a view of the highway, then spoke again into the microphone. "Right where the highway breaks slightly inland into the hills," he directed. "A small cove to the right, narrow blacktop leading down."
"Okay," Braddock replied.
Lyons was gazing toward the promontory. Faint lights shone over there, on the far end of the outcropping. Then a bright flame shot up high into the air, toward the beginning of the promontory, and an instant later the explosive roar reached Ly-ons's ears. He was already stepping on the accelerator as he told Braddock, "Paydirt! You can't miss it now! Just follow the flames!"
Zitka leaped from the speeding MG and hit the ground in a tight roll. A man ran out of the gatehouse just as the careening vehicle smashed into the steel gate with an instantaneous clap of thunder and whooshing flames. The jeep swung in a tight arc past Zitka as he scrambled to his feet and sprinted back down the road. The deep rattle of the big fifty mingled with the secondary explosion of the MG's gas tank and the excited cries coming from beyond the flames.
Harrington raised his gun to track onto a man who was running along the wall; the gun burped briefly, and the running man disappeared beyond the wall.
The panel truck swerved around the curve and cautiously approached the flaming wreckage in the gateway; then gears meshed, and the deep whine of low gear propelled the truck into the crackling pile. Harrington had scrambled out of the jeep and was standing against the wall, his gun chattering, to cover the maneuver. The truck whined on through the debris, pushing it along in a grinding scream of protesting metal, while the jeep circled about and fell in to the rear. Harrington leaped aboard and remained standing in the front floor, his weapon raking the gatehouse in an incessant sweeping. Men were running and shouting, and the sound of gunfire issued from deeper inside the grounds. The windshield of the jeep shattered, and Harrington abruptly sat down.
Two men stood behind the gatehouse, firing at the truck with revolvers. They crumpled and jerked to the ground under the heavy staccato of the fifty caliber. Flames were shooting from the hood of the truck as Hoffower flung the door open and bailed out. The jeep moved swiftly along the narrow drive. Loudelk's sedan spurted through the gateway and quickly closed on the jeep; then Bolan's Porsche roared in. Hoffower had darted across the drive and was kneeling in the grass, his .45 spitting flame toward the wall. The Porsche slowed momentarily, and the door swung open; Hoffower jumped in and slammed the door, and they spun out with a shriek of rubber.
The jeep was leading the fast-moving procession, its automatic weapons rattling angrily. Tracers were leaping out from the big fifty, probing the terrain ahead. Shouts and curses could be heard on both sides, rising above the explosive reports of gunfire.
If Beverly Hills had boasted a company, Bolan was thinking, this place easily supported a battalion. The window just behind his head shattered. Hoffower immediately announced, "I'm hit," in a quiet voice. He swiveled in the seat and pushed the .45 out the window in his left hand and began firing at running, shadowy figures on their right flank. Bolan risked a glance at his partner. A red groove traversed one side of his face, oozing blood.
"Grazed," Hoffower amended as he ejected a spent clip and snapped in a replacement.
The jeep was now running about, broadside to Bolan's travel, and the fifty was tracering up Bolan's left flank. They had reached the circular portion of the drive, in front of the house. Bolan swung in behind the sedan just as Loudelk and Zitka bolted from the vehicle. Flame was spitting at them from several basement windows, and Harrington's chopper was replying. The death squad was caught in a cross fire, with enemy reinforcements gathering quickly to both sides of their soft position.
"Take the house!" Bolan cried.
Loudelk and Zitka sprinted to opposite corners of the house, grenades in their hands. Bolan stepped to the ground with a chopper in one hand and a satchel charge in the other. He twirled the charge overhead, then let it fly. It hit the massive doors at the front of the house with a deafening roar, and licking flames immediately brightened the landscape. Bolan tossed another charge into French doors on the second floor, and the explosion blended with lesser ones coming simultaneously from the sides of the house.
Harrington was dueling with enemy fire from both floors and the basement; Andromede was checking the advance on their rear with the big fifty. Deadeye Washington had snatched up a chattergun and was making a run for the front door. A burst of fire from an upstairs window caught him full in the chest, and the big fellow went to ground with his weapon chattering. Bolan, also in motion toward the door, had to spin past Washington's failing body. A pain shot up from his heel, and he realized that he was hit also, but he was up the steps and charging through the flaming doorway with Harrington pushing close behind, and the heel was forgotten. He charged into a large room just as a clump of men were descending a circular stairway. Bolan chopped at them; two fell, and three more raced back up the stairs.
Harrington's burper was swinging toward an arched doorway at the rear, and another two men were flung to the floor. The burper went silent; Harrington shook it, then tossed it aside and released the straps of his six-guns as he moved swiftly toward the stairway.
Bolan glanced at him and snapped, The basement!"
Harrington nodded and swung back to Bolan's side. The house was burning, the flames beginning to roar on the top floor. They found the basement stairs in an alcove beyond the main room, just as a pair of men ran into the house through the front door. Harrington said, "I'll cover!" and stepped out with both guns blazing. Bolan wondered vaguely about the other four of his squad and about the fact that two enemy had managed to get inside, but there was no time for speculation. He was already halfway through the doorway to the basement stairs.
He dodged back as a bullet thwacked into the wood alongside his head, then leaned around the curve and dropped a grenade over the staircase. He followed the explosion with a headlong plunge down the stairs, sweeping indiscriminately with the chopper. There was no return fire. A bookcase along one wall burst into flame, eerily lighting the underground scene. Dead bodies were flung about, and nothing moved. At the bottom of the stairs lay a man who Bolan had watched earlier that night through his sniperscope. Deadeye had said, "That's Varone there, the little one."
Bolan swung back up the stairway and erupted into the alcove. Gunsmoke Harrington lay there on his back, his chest wetly red and his lips flecked with red foam. "Look out, Sarge," he said faintly, and died.
A white-haired man loomed up in Bolan's side vision. A shotgun roared just as Bolan flung himself toward the corner. Bolan felt the sting of several straggling pellets, and he knew that the main charge had missed him. He was twisting about to bring the chopper up, when DiGeorge flung the shotgun at him and darted for the front door. The discarded gun flanged against Bolan's weapon and diverted his aim. He scrambled to his feet and gave chase, reaching the steps just as the whine of police sirens bored in on his consciousness.
The house was engulfed in flames now. Bolan staggered down the steps, his mind numbed, and walked stiffly through Incredible carnage. Bodies littered the drive in front of the house, and there was no movement anywhere Bolan could see. He gazed down at the grotesquely curled caricature of what had once been Deadeye Washington. Several yards away lay the remains of Boom-Boom Hoffower. Flower Child Andromede was crumped atop the fifty.
Bolan threw back his head and yelled, "Zitter! Brother! Regroup!"The sirens were screaming up the blacktop—almost to the gate, Bolan figured. He jogged around the corner of the house and immediately found Zitka. The fierce little fighter was clutching a machine pistol and snarling, even in death.
Bolan found Bloodbrother Loudelk at the rear. Half of his head was missing. Otherwise, he looked very peaceful. In life, Bolan thought, so in death. He wearily returned to the Porsche, wondering where all the enemy had gone, and tossed the chopper onto the rear deck, then slumped into the seat. He was sealed in, and the rest of the squad was dead. Who the hell cared about the enemy? What a hell of a mess he had made of things. They should have aborted. They should, at least, have lain back and figured out some better way to make this strike.
The sirens were swinging through the gates now, starting the short journey down the promontory. Bolan started the Porsche and wheeled it around into the grass. His heel hurt like hell, and he was slowly discovering other nicks and scrapes in tender places. He gunned away from the sirens and drew up at the low wooden railing that marked the end of land, then got out and unhurriedly studied the drop to the ocean below. Blood-brother had been right; it looked like nothing but rocks below. No chance of diving for it—he'd never clear those rocks. Unless ...
Bolan got back into the Porsche, securely fastened the safety belt, and gunned back to the driveway. He could see the flashing bubble-gum machines on top of their cars now. Quite a parade. He sighed. The Death Squad was a dead squad now. He'd offered them wealth and glory and given them only death in a war that nobody cheered for. Like 'Nam. Yeah, just like 'Nam.
He double-checked the safety belt, then screamed around in a wild U-turn, straightening out into a full-power run toward the wooden railing. His tires slipped a bit on the damp grass, but the needle kept climbing in a steady movement toward the end of the speedometer. He nipped a glance into the rear-view mirror. The parade had arrived at the front of the house, and bluesuits with riot guns were pouring out everywhere. A lone vehicle was tearing on after the Porsche.
The needle was vibrating at 120 when he felt the slight resistance of the flimsy barrier, and then he was floating free, arcing out into a beautiful dive over the blue Pacific. "Roll call," he muttered. The entire squad was sitting there with him; they had all brought him here, each one, through gallantry above and beyond the call. And he was taking them with him, in effect anyway, in this final, desperate, gallant fling through this hell called life.