Max had noticed that the man next to Mike Carst was the one he'd seen murder the Secret Service agent. That was the man who'd spoken by radio with the Outlaws, who did not care too much about the "petty bourgeoisie" of Catalina. Max decided to channel the fury of his fellow citizens toward the traitor, to distract them.
"He's a spy of the Outlaws!" he yelled, pointing at the startled individual. "He has a radio in his pocket. Grab him. Make him tell us what the Outlaws plan to do! Grab him!"
John Severine struggled to escape. But thirty men and women had seized him. He punched at them and kicked. But they were hammering him with fists, and they knocked him to the floor and held him down.
"Here's the radio! He was a spy!"
They dragged the bloodied, dazed Severine to Max. Watching from the side, young Jack Webster saw Max take a Colt automatic from under his jacket and slam the traitor across the face. His nose spurted blood.
"Spy! Murderer! You would have burned us alive, now tell us when they plan to do it! When!"
Jack Webster broke from the crowd and ran for the exit. Behind him, he heard Max call to him: "Stop. Jack, stop."
He ran to the lone Outlaw guarding the exit. He screamed: "Help me, they're going to kill me. They're going to rush you and break out. Tell Horse I've got names. I've got names!"
18
A cool, moist breeze from the bay made the plastic of the hang-glider's wings snap and ripple. In his roll-necked blacksuit, Lyons gripped the crossbar. He glanced up at the aluminum struts.
"You don't have to do this," Gadgets told Lyons. "It was my idea. Look at you, man, you can hardly breathe..."
"On my way. Stand back."
"Let Pol give you some local for your ribs..."
"Forget that. Half hour from now, I'll be relaxing in a hot tub. Take some pain killers yourself and relax! Hey, Politician," Lyons called.
On his belly at the edge of the clearing, Blancanales was watching the Outlaws below. Spread-eagled out on either side of him, Glen Shepard and the two teenagers listened as Blancanales pointed out their targets. He left them, went to Lyons.
"So is it clear?"
"Sure you don't want me or Gadgets to make the jump?"
"Either of you ever hang-glided?" he asked. "I have. Take my word for it, this isn't a beginner's hill. Do they know their targets?"
"Yes," confirmed Blancanales. "I'll take Glen Shepard, the teenagers will go with Gadgets. We'll leave them on the hillside, and they'll cover the road when we rush the Casino. Glen Shepard had Advanced Infantry school. He'll use the Starlite.
"They'll hold their fire until the shooting starts. They'll kill everything with an Outlaws jacket. Those three are motivated fighters — they hate those psychos. Told me if we wanted to take prisoners, we'd have to go it alone."
"And Severine won't be dressed like a biker," pointed out Lyons, still testing his grip. "So we've got a chance to take him. Gadgets, what about the Feds?"
"LAPD assault teams are in the helicopters, ready to go. Just incase."
"Great."
"Good luck, mister," one of the teenagers called out.
Lyons waved, smiling at the man with the broken teeth who seemed to be responsible for the boys.
He quickly checked the gear strapped to him — his shoulder-holstered Magnum, the silenced Beretta, the Ingram, and his combat knife. Then he began his sprint against the light breeze. Lyons did not stop running until his feet pedalled in the air.
Airborne! Soaring, the wind rushing against him, he kept his eyes on the center of the Casino roof three hundred feet below him. Crosswind carried him sideways. He leaned into the wind, pain searing his ribs. He ignored it, braced for the impact as the roof rushed up at him at remarkable speed.
He landed, very gently, and tried to run but had to double over with the agony that tore at his ribs. He hit the roof with his shoulder. He lay there gasping for a moment, the glider akimbo above him. Forcing himself to his feet, he carried the clumsy hang-glider to the turret, lashed the crossbar to one of the terra cotta columns to keep it out of the way, and pulled his combat knife.
Beer cans and cigarette butts littered the turret. Lyons smelled urine. Stepping carefully through the trash, he tried the access door. The knob turned.
Steel stairs led down. Dim fluorescent lights illuminated a cavernous area crowded with huge air conditioning and heating units. Creeping down the stairs, he smelled gasoline. He scanned the maintenance area. In an aisle between machines, he saw piled gasoline cans. A voice squawked from a walkie-talkie.
Moving silently but fast, Lyons approached the noise. He peeked around a machine and saw the shoulder of an Outlaws jacket. The walkie-talkie lay on a crate. A tank eight feet high bore the stenciled identification: EMERGENCY RESERVOIR/FIRE SPRINKLERS/BALLROOM. A ladder leaned against the tank.
He came up behind the Outlaw slowly, holding his knife low. Then he saw that the jacket was hung over an empty chair. Lyons heard boots behind him.
As the machete came down, Lyons stepped aside, guiding the long blade past him with a touch of the combat knife. He whirled and literally stepped into the biker, jamming his knee into the man's down-thrusting arm, breaking the elbow backward. Simultaneously he chopped him in the throat with his left hand, then grabbed him and threw him down on the back of his head.
Lyons collapsed against the emergency reservoir, panting for breath, fire in his ribs twisting his body.
The Outlaw was struggling to pull a pistol with his flopping arm. Lyons lunged forward and stomped the man in the throat. The Outlaw's face turned blue. The double attack on his throat had killed him.
"Mack!" the walkie-talkie called. "Turn on the pump and get down here. These people are rushing us."
Lyons keyed the radio. "Doing it!"
Finding the valve and pump, he closed the valve, then jimmied off the conduit connected to the pump motor, cut the wires. Defused the bomb.
He put on the Outlaws jacket and rushed down to the ballroom.
Creeping down the dark hillside, the teenagers in position behind him, Gadgets heard a buzz in his earphone. For silence, he had plugged this plastic earphone into the Outlaw walkie-talkie he carried. The voice screamed in his ear:
"Mack! Turn on the pump and get down here. These people are rushing us." A voice answered, "Doing it!"
The voice of Horse blared. "Everyone to the ballroom. They think they're going to rush the doors."
Across the road, the three Outlaws guarding the Casino entry rushed inside. Gadgets keyed his hand-radio. "Now, Politician. We got to get up to the ballroom, now! Lyons didn't make it..."
Both of them broke from the brush, sprinted to the entry.
Throwing the doors open, Horse entered, Stonewall on his right, Turk on his left. Other Outlaws followed. The bayonet of his shotgun fixed, Stonewall sneered at the wall of townspeople. The crowd closed ranks, a shoulder-to-shoulder wall of men and women facing the bikers.
Other doors flew open, bikers entering, weapons ready. The murmuring crowd fell quiet. Fifty feet of open floor separated the ranks of the prisoners from the Outlaws near the doors.
"Back, sheep," Horse shouted. "You miserable creatures. Which one of you is Max Stevens?"
No one answered.
"Which one of you?"