Deadeye Washington slid hastily down the grassy slope, heavy binoculars strapped about his neck, and called out, "Okay, they just left. Two cars. Big black one in front, Lincoln or something, and a big white limousine, two chauffeurs, man. Sure making it easy to track."
Bolan smiled tightly and slipped a jaunty plaid beret onto his head. "Maybe two damn easy," he said. He leaned into the Corvette and came out with a compact two-way radio. "Trackers," he announced into the mouthpiece, "Eagle says they're loose." Bolan glanced at Washington.
The Negro mouthed the word, "Bloodbrother."
Bolan nodded and continued the announcement without interruption. "One rich Detroit black, one white millionaire close behind, on Track Two."
Loudelk's soft voice purred back immediately. "Affirm. Passing Track Two . . . right . . . now! Track Two now on quarry. Here's the count. Five in Detroit black. Four in big English white tank, repeat, tank. Track Two on target and going away fast."
Zitka's clipped tones leaped in. "Roj, roj, Track One going 'round for pickup at Point Delta."
"Track on loose," Bolan commanded. "It smells, repeat, smells."
A faint "Wilco" came in from Loudelk, followed by a loud retort from Zitka. "Bluesuits on," he yelped. "Tearing toward Track Two. Beware, beware."
"Affirm, Track Two is being wary," replied the cautious Indian voice.
"Close only on signal!" Bolan commanded. He laid the radio on the seat of the Corvette and slid in behind the wheel, made a sign with his fingers to Washington, and spun the little car about in a jouncing circle, then hit the pavement and sped down the hill.
Washington was sprinting toward an idling Mustang parked in a shelter of trees some yards off the street. He climbed in on the passenger's side, rolled his eyes toward Blancanales, and panted, "Okay. Keep 'im in sight."
The Mustang leaped forward. Washington braced himself with his feet and swung the binoculars into the rear seat, lifted the corner of a blanket, shoved a clip into the long Mauser, and settled back with a sigh.
"Bloodbrother says they got a tank," he reported.
Blancanales was whipping the Mustang along the curving downgrade. He raised an eyebrow and said, "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Must be one o' them tailor-made bulletproof jobs. Just looked like a big white limousine to me, through the glasses."
"Sounds like it's going to be a ball."
"You don't know nothing yet. Sarge smells an ambush, and Zitter says cops has joined the parade."
"I take it we're trailing loose, then," Blancanales observed. His right hand fumbled on the seat for the radio. He thrust it at Washington. "You'll have to stick the antenna out the window," he instructed. "Find out what the hell we're doing."
The radio became operational just in time for them to hear Bolan's voice command, "Flanks, report in. Flanks."
"Flander Two here," Gunsmoke Harrington drawled. "Flanker One also. We're together and following the play in the Horse."
Blancanales nodded his silent approval. "Good," he whispered.
Bolan was replying, "You're not in sight. Where do you run?"
"We run starboard to track. Will join up at straightaway."
Washington grinned. "Sounds like a Dixie Horserace," he snorted.
"That horse is too conspicuous up here," Blancanales muttered. "But it'll blend in okay on the freeway."
"What if we don't take the freeway?" Washington wondered aloud.
"Doesn't everybody?"
Bolan was now replying, following a brief silence on the radio. "Okay, Flank. Good thinking. Track one, position report."
"Track One is right on bluesuits," Zitka snapped back.
"Are they in official vehicle?"
"Neg, neg. Plainjanes, brown Pontiac. But they're fuzzy, no mistake."
Another brief silence, then: "Okay, and another parader is right on you, buddy-o. Now who the hell?"
They could hear Zitka's carrier wave idling for several seconds before his voice clipped in. "I dunno, but it's a big black and it's got a five count."
"Uh-huh, that's great," Bolan said. "It figuresa delayed rear guard. Okay, Break away, Track One, with caution, and come around on me."
"Roj. Approaching straightaway now. I'll make my move up there."
"Track Two is on station and maintaining," Loudelk reported. "Instructions!"
"Maintain track!" Bolan snapped.
"Affirm."
Blancanales and Washington exchanged solemn glances. They had a good view now of the fiery Corvette ahead. In the distance, they could see the ramp rising to the freeway and the white limousine ascending. Washington craned about to inspect the road behind; then he pressed the transmitter button and spoke into the radio. "Backboard. It's clear to the rear," he reported.
"Roger, Backboard," Bolan replied. "FlankerI believe I have you in sight now. Can you identify bluesuiter?"
"Brown Pontiac? 'Firmative. One, two, uh, three up off you, Maestro. The field is getting thick, though."
"Yeah. Uh ... can you safely detain them?"
"Not without getting detained myself. Unless you want 'em zipped."
"Hell no, no zipping!" Bolan replied. "Intercept. Repeat, intercept and delay only."
"Gotcha," Harrinton said. "Will intercept on straightaway. Can somebody help us build a box?"
Zitka's voice chimed in, "I'm natural for that. During my breakaway. Okay, Maestro?"
"Affirmative," Bolan said, "Play it cool. Arouse no suspicion."
"Roj."
The Mustang was climbing the ramp now, Blancanales tensing at the wheel to merge into the swiftly moving traffic of the freeway. The Corvette swerved across two lanes, accelerating in a full-throated power shift. Blancanales swung in moments later, several cars behind and in the outside lane. He watched his rear view cautiously, then angled across to the inside lane, picking up speed and interlaning to regain position on Bolan's rear. As they headed into a long curve, Washington muttered, I think I see the horse up there, 'bout mid-curve. Isn't that it? Outside lane?"
Blancanales was hunched over the steering wheel and squinting through the windshield. "Looks like it," he replied. "How'd they get so far ahead?"
"Musta come down the perimeter, got on ahead of us," Washington surmised.
Harrington's voice crackled through the radio at that moment, confirming the tentative indentification. "We're leading the parade," he reported. "Have the grand marshal in view, coming up on my rear, middle lane, big Detroit black, English white right behind. I'm starting to throttle back. Get set for that box, Tracker."
"I'm moving up," Bolan announced. "Hold the box until I'm through. Backboard, where the hell are you?"
"Right in your blind spot, Maestro," Washington reported.
"Okay, all units except Tracker Two, well all join the box and try for a grand slam. Listen carefully, there's only time for this once, so get it straight the first time around. Number the lanes 1, 2, 3, and 4left to right. The interchange is about three minutes away. Lane 4 leaves us there and swings toward the Harbor. Quarry is holding steady in Lane 2, my guess is for either the Santa Ana or the San Berdue. All right, here are positions. Backboard, you come up on my..."
Washington was listening to Bolan's calm instructions with a feeling of vague unreality. It just did not seem for real. Here they were, barreling along the damn Hollywood Freeway at better than a mile a minute, practically bumper to bumper in an endless stream of cars moving four abreast, on ramps and off ramps looming up in an almost monotonous recurrence, and in all this, Bolan was trying to set up a traffic trap for two of those hurtling objects. He shook his head and glanced at Blancanales. His partner was listening attentively to the instructions, his eyes flicking in an endless circle, right, left, dead ahead, into the mirror, right, left ... It made Washington feel a bit light headed.