"Why not?" Braddock muttered. "Why shouldn't he think of radios? They're as much a military tool as a gun. And hell, you can practically buy them in dime stores nowadays." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "We have to completely revamp our strategy. Let's see if we can't find a way to intercept their radio signals. Andy, I'm making that your responsibility. Electronic intelligence gathering is a sophisticated science, so you'll have to dig up some expert assistance. Try the FCC—hell, try the army and the navy, and the CIA, if necessary—but let's get something working on this angle."
This is a smoothly oiled machine we're going against. These guys are going to make us look like monkeys unless we ..." He left the statement dangling and turned worried eyes to twenty-four-hour Rickert. "Well, Chuck, it looks like you've called the play on this thing. Let's learn all we can about these vehicles they're using. Get the information to all units as quickly as possible. Shake as many people as possible onto this semitrailer. A thing like that must be hard to conceal if it isn't in motion or parked in a terminal. Check out every possible lead, anything and everything unusual regarding the use or the location of a van-type semi. Follow up on the weapons angle, Carl. You just don't pick up bazookas and machine guns at the neighborhood hardware store. Look into recent purchases of sophisticated radio equipment. I want an around-the-clock effort. I want every..."
"It's nearly midnight, Tim,'' Foster reminded the captain. "Some of our people have logged fourteen straight hours already."
"I'm getting you some more poeple," Braddock assured him. "I want this thing covered. I want it..."
He was interrupted again by the same uniformed officer charging through the doorway. "They're at it again!" he reported breathlessly. "Just hit Tri-Coast Records in Burbank!"
"A recording company?" Braddock seemed stunned. "What makes you think it's Bolan? I don't get the—*
"I don't know about that," the officer said. "It's at the distribution warehouse out on Studio Way. They just said some guys are running around out there throwing firebombs and shooting up the place with choppers. Sounds like a Hardcase to me!"
Braddock was already out the door, the officer on his heels, the group of lawmen following close behind and spilling into the special Hardcase control room. Braddock spun on them and barked, "Get going! Ill feed you via radio!"
The detail leaders about-faced and jogged into the corridor, heading for the garage. Braddock, at the control console, depressed a button and bawled, "Dispatch. Hardcase alert, all available units. Code 7-10 and double it! Burbank Studio City, Santa Monica, Glendale, converge on Alpha that is Alpha Four, and stand by further."
He did not wait for an acknowledgement from the central dispatcher but flipped another switch, picked up a pedestal-type microphone, and began hurling instructions into the Hardcase special network.
Sergeant Carl Lyons, jogging down the long tunnel toward the garage at the side of Lieutenant Foster, said, Is this guy for real? Three hits in one day! He moves fast!"
Foster was getting winded. "Makes you wonder why we haven't won the war in Vietnam, doesn't it?" he panted. "And I'm getting the feeling that we're losing this one."
"Well get 'im!" Lyons snapped. "I just want to meet the guy face to face, that's all."
"Myself, I think we oughta call in artillery and air support. This's no job for cops. That bastard might have a Sherman tank out there. He might have a goddamn B-52, and I wouldn't be a damn bit surprised."
Lyons chuckled and split away. They had reached the garage. He sprinted to his car, which his waiting partner already had in motion. Lyons hoped they would catch Bolan in the net this time. He wanted to meet the clever bastard face to face. He wanted to thank him for making a total idiot out of the quote most promising young detective sergeant on the force, unquote. He wanted to thank him with a bullet up each nostril.
"Okay, break off!" Bolan yelled into his radio. The warehouse was blazing furiously, great mushrooms of roaring flames boiling high overhead and turning night into day for a hundred yards in all directions, intense heat generating into an inpenetrable barrier surrounding the long structure.
"Yea, man!" Chopper Fontenelli sang back. "Listen to it sizzle. Whatta they make these records out of, anyway?"
Bolan was jumping for his vehicle, parked along the fence at the back of the lot. He jumped inside, clipped the radio to a fixture above the dash, and fishtailed along the graveled back lot in a full-power swoop tow;ard the warehouse office at the far corner. There he collected Boom-Boom Hoffower, who had been standing a casual guard over a small collection of warehouse employees, evacuated just prior to the incendiary attack. Hoffower swung the door open and nonchalantly slid into the seat alongside Bolan.
"And I forgot to bring the marshmallows," he sighed.
Bolan grunted into the gears and sent the little speedster whining along the macadam drive. They flashed through the open gateway and skidded into the street, then straightened in a full-throttle roar toward the distant line of hills. They were free and clear. Bolan tensed over the wheel and poked a finger at the transmitter button. "Chopper! Where away?"
There was no response to the query. Bolan's foot held steady on the accelerator. Hoffower fidgeted, then reached for the radio. Just as his hand closed on it, Fontenelli's voice came through in a breathless wail. "Sarge! Fuzz all over the place!"
Bolan muttered something under his breath. His hand and foot moved in concert, the hand toward the radio, the foot heavy on the brake. The Corvette was still sliding to a squealing halt when he barked into the radio, "Situation, Chopper!"
Fontenelli's excited voice flashed back immediately. "My gas tank blew! Vehicle's burning! I'm hurt. Fuzz crawling heavy. Gate blocked. I'm sewed in!"
The Corvette was spinning into a U-turn across the country road, Bolan twirling the wheel with one hand and operating the radio with the other. "Get to the northwest comer of the fence and lay low. I'm coming after you."
"Make it damn quick."
"Cool it! Just cool it and watch for me! We'll get you out, Chopper!"
Carl Lyons could see the flames leaping high above the valley floor. The wail of sirens and the heavy gut-rumble of fire trucks were lacing the night and adding to the unreality of the scene. His driver tramped the accelerator pedal and leaned into the curving approach to the warehouse area just as the radio crackled and Captain Braddock's crisp tones joined them. "Hardcase units 1, 3, 5, and 7, attention—Hardcase alert—Zone immediate! Divert and stand by further."
"Christ, they're hitting in Hollywood, too," Officer Evers commented, glancing at Lyons. His foot faltered on the accelerator.
"Forget it, we're on this one now!" Lyons snapped. They were threading between a line of parked patrol cars. Uniformed officers in white helmets and carrying riot guns could be seen moving cautiously on from hi the compound. A fire captain was vigorously waving Lyon's vehicle through, to clear the drive. Firemen were darting about in the intense heat, dragging hoses and other paraphernalia.
Braddock's voice had returned to the air. "... screen across all Zone 2 intersections between King Five and King Nine. Close and apprehend. Unit 3, acknowledge."
Evers stared morosely at Lyons. "Are you going to acknowledge?" he asked tightly.
The sergeant was leaving the vehicle. He leaned tensely back through the doorway and said, "You acknowledge, if you want to. Tell him we're already here and I'm out of the vehicle."
"I better acknowledge," Evers replied, reaching for the mike. Lyons was even then out of earshot, moving swiftly into the confusion.
George Zitka was pounding along a narrow alleyway, a canvas bag suspended from his shoulder. Deadeye Washington loped along at his heels, the long legs moving in an effortless stride, an automatic weapon riding across his chest, a smaller bag dangling from a huge hand. They angled across a deserted parking lot, passing to the rear of a taco house, and spurted across Vine Street. A Ford sedan eased around a corner, moving slowly. They ran alongside the Ford for a short distance, passing weapons and other burdens through the open windows; then the doors opened, and Zitka and Washington flung themselves inside, the car already picking up speed.