Death Squad

lower wall.' Bolan's smile grew. 'Are they actually going to return our fire?'

A popping and crackling arose from the distant estate. Washington turned to Bolan with a broad grin and said, 'Shi-iit.'

Bolan tossed the glasses to Washington. 'Now watch the fun,' he told him. He thumbed the button on his transmitter and said, 'Now, Flower, go!'

A loud, faraway blast echoed Bolan's words. He grinned at Washington. 'Damn, he was primed, wasn't he? What's the reaction?'

Another blast sounded. 'They were all running up from the rear,' Washington reported. 'Now they're standing and gawking at each other. Now they're starting back, but slow—damn slow.'

'Let's keep them see-sawing,' Bolan said. He was making good use of the rifle as he spoke. The grenade blasts were coming at ten-second intervals. The DiGeorge grounds were in pandemonium, flames sprouting up here and there, puffs of smoke drifting aimlessly about, men running everywhere. Bolan squeezed off calculated shots down the long range, and Washington joined in.

Minutes later, the heat from Bolan's rifle was becoming decidedly uncomfortable for the flesh of his face. Deadeye Washington stopped firing and pushed himself away. 'This is worse than 'Nam. This is just jail. I lost my stomach for it, Mack.'

Bolan raised off the hot rifle, his face set in grim lines. 'The mighty Mafia,' he intoned soberly. 'Okay, Deadeye. Break the pieces down. It's time to get out of here.' He spoke into the radio. 'Horse. What's up?'

'Nothing,' came the immediate response. 'One call on the general net and then nothing. It smells. Hardcase is silent.'

'Break off!' Bolan snarled. 'Stand by to track!'

'God damn!' Schwarz cried. 'I been ECMed!'

'How do you know?'

'I just know.'

'Get rolling out of there!' Bolan commanded. 'Move it! All units, break away and forget the track!'

'Negative,' came Zitka's cool tones. 'I'm on one and I'm sticking.'

'Blue movement, coming up south,' Loudelk's calm whisper announced.

Washington had the rifles in his arms. His eyes were flaring with excitement. Bolan jerked his head toward the crest of the hill, and his partner moved out immediately.

'More blues, coming west,' Loudelk said, 'and I'm breaking.'

Bolan was sprinting up the slope behind Washington. Zitka's voice was coming through the small speaker. 'Route Three, it's a line-up. This's paydirt. Suggest break and re-form on me.'

'All who can,' Bolan added. 'But evade blues at all cost.'

'I can't find Chopper,' Andromede declared woefully.

'Break, Flower! Get the hell out!' Bolan had reached the road and was transmitting as he ran for his vehicle.

'Chopper doesn't have a radio. He don't have the word!'

'Get... the... hell... out!'

'Goddammit, goddammit.'

* * *

DiGeorge had made a hasty and careful check of the dead. Eight of the family had fallen, and there was unbelievable carnage among the hired hands. Only four of the twelve nephews who had come to the council survived, and still the raining bullets were richocheting off the flagstones, tearing through the table and slamming into the cement blocks of the back wall. And now a new note had been added—the explosions and the chattering of machine guns out back.

'Get out of here!' DiGeorge screamed. The four survivors of the ruling council turned frightened eyes onto him. Through the house! Call your boys and blow! You hear? Blow!'

'Where we gonna go, Deej?' Zeno Varone whined.

'Get to Balboa! I'll meet you. But get going! Through the house!'

Varone nodded meekly and dragged himself across the flagstones. He had been nicked in the arm and was bleeding. The others quickly followed after him. 'Now get to Balboa!' DiGeorge shouted. 'And dig in, dammit, as soon as you get there!' He waited until they had cleared the patio; then he scrambled to his feet and zigzagged in a low crouch to the protection of the cement wall. He stepped through the shattered glass window and ran toward the rear of the house, colliding with his personal bodyguard, Lou Pena, in the kitchen. 'What're you doin' in here?' DiGeorge snarled.

'There's a nut walkin' around out there with a machine gun,' Pena declared breathlessly. 'I come in ta get the lights.'

DiGeorge snatched the pistol from Pena's hand, pushed him aside, and stepped out the back door, then dropped to a crouch and made a run for the garage. When he was halfway there, all the lights went out. DiGeorge swore under his breath, then flung himself to the ground as a machine gun began chattering nearby. A cloud of smoke was drifting toward him; from out of the cloud stepped a squat figure wearing a black outfit and carrying a spitting machine gun. DiGeorge raised Pena's revolver and fired three rapid shots. The guy slumped to his knees without a sound, still holding the big gun. It continued to spit sporadic flame, but now it just chewed up the ground. The gunner was trying to bring the muzzle up, but it kept dropping lower and lower until it was resting on the ground. It ceased its chatter, and the guy dropped back onto his butt, then slumped forward.

DiGeorge scrambled to his feet and resumed his trip to the garage. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The guy in the black suit was still sitting there, a shadowy blob in the darkness, still trying to pull the gun out of the dirt.

DiGeorge tugged frantically at the garage door. There was no telling how many more guys like that one were wandering around his grounds. Beverly Hills had ceased to be a safe place for Julian DiGeorge. There was a better place. He bad to get there—and the sooner the better.

* * *

Andromede had fired his first grenade even before Bolan's signal had been completed, and he was reaching for his third reload when he heard Chopper's chattergun go into action. Groups of Maffianos were racing madly about the DiGeorge grounds, shouting curses and instructions. One of them had yelled, 'On the wall! —and that was when Chopper cut loose.

Andromede could see the steady muzzle flashes licking out from Chopper's weapon, and the screams and shouts that immediately arose beyond the hedges told of his effect. The Puerto Rican had just fired his fifth round, when he saw that Chopper's muzzle flashes were now beyond the hedges and advancing.

Andromede screamed, 'Chopper! Get back! Chopper!'—knowing, even as he did so, that his voice was lost in the explosive confusion of the DiGeorge grounds. He loaded his sixth grenade, leaped to his feet, and ran to the end of the wall. He had Chopper in sight now. The squat Italian was walking slowly but steadily across the grounds, firing from the chest in short bursts and scattering the enemy in a panicky retreat. Andromede could count about twelve men running toward the large house, their backs to Fontenelli—in full flight. He raised his grenadier, sighted beyond the heads of the fleeing enemy, and let it fly. The flame and smoke of the explosion momentarily obscured the landscape directly in front of Fontenelli. He halted and turned back toward Andromede.

'Get back!' Andromede shouted, rising to his toes and frantically waving an arm.

Fontenelli sent a figure-eight burst in Andromede's general direction, then spun about and disappeared into the smoke. Andromede slung his weapon and launched himself into the air. He cleared the hedge and hit the soft ground of the DiGeorge estate with a jarring impact just as all the lights flashed off. He paused to get his bearings, then had just stepped off in the direction Fontenelli had taken, when his radio came alive. He continued a cautious advance and listened to the exchange between Bolan and Schwarz, then stopped stock still at Bolan's 'Break off' command. All was silent about him. A vehicle was gunning down the curving driveway, heading out in a squeal of tires. A muted burst of fire that sounded much like Chopper's weapon sounded from the smoky darkness ahead. He moved on, calling out softly for his partner.

'Evade Blues at all cost,' Bolan's voice was telling him.