"Evade Blues at all cost," Bolan's voice was telling him.
He punched his transmitter button and cried, "I can't find Chopper!"
"Break, Flower! Get the hell out!" Bolan commanded sharply.
"Chopper doesn't have a radio. He don't have the word!" Andromede protested.
"Get... the ... hell... out!"
"Goddammit, goddammit," he said despairingly, then released the transmission switch and yelled, "Chopper! Break off, dammit. Regroup!"
A string of vehicles was whining along the drive now. Andromede wavered, then ran into the smoke.
He found Fontenelli seated on the ground about halfway between the street and the house. He was slumped forward and leaning on his weapon, the muzzle of which was dug into the turf. The front of his nightsuit was warmly wet and sticky, and his eyes stared unseeingly toward the ground. Andromede's quickly exploring fingers found three chest punctures. He laid his friend down alongside his weapon, closed the glazed eyes, and quickly walked away.
Chapter Fifteen
Grand Slam
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.