"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 figures—a 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. "Flanker—I 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 4—left 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.
"Okay, Horse," Bolan was saying, "start your move. Drop down to fifty ... good ... good ... one minute to interchange ..."
Washington saw the red Corvette squirt across two lanes of traffic and weave back into their lane several positions ahead. A huge van semitrailer, the vehicle referred to as the horse, was laboring along just ahead, in the far right lane. Three cars that had been following the horse reacted to its sudden slowing by whipping into the second outboard lane and passing. Washington caught a glimpse of the vehicle that was maintaining the "hole" between the two lanes of traffic—it was Bolan's Corvette. He grinned. The two cars now between Bolan and Blancanales were the police vehicle, first, and the third Mafia car. The driver of the Continental was beginning to cast anxious glances to his left and right. Washington could visualize what was going to happen next, and his grin broadened.
"Backboard, on station!" Bolan commanded.
Blancanales stomped the accelerator and whipped the Mustang into Lane 3, pulled quickly abreast of Bolan, and stayed there.
"Okay—Zitter."
The Mercury wagon being piloted by Zitka moved almost sideways into the extreme inboard lane, and now the four of them—Zitka, Blancanales, Bolan, and the diesel horse—were pacing the traffic into the interchange at a leisurely fifty miles per hour.
The next few moments were tense ones and would have proved less anxious if one more vehicle had been available to maintain a two-car gap directly behind the horse. Split-second timing had made the insurance unnecessary, however, and they glided into the boxing zone with the trap perfectly set. The police car, seeing daylight between Bolan and the horse, and with the Giordano vehicle rapidly disappearing into the interchange, whipped over suddenly behind the horse. A puff of smoke belched from the twin exhausts as the Pontiac's passing gear kicked in and it leaned toward the hole between Bolan's right front fender and the left rear corner of the van.
The Mafia rear-guard Continental had swung into the Pontiac's wake, with the obvious intention of following right on through the slot. The slot, however, suddenly ceased to exist as Bolan eased forward with his front bumper directly abreast the horse's rear wheels.