Death Squad

by Don Pendleton

  “So the squad’s all present and accounted for,” Andromede said. “Now let’s go show those cats what a firefight looks like.”

  “Deal the cards again, Sarge,” Harrington said.

  “Okay. We still use the satchel on the MG, but Zitka drives. It’ll give just as much punch on that gate as any tank, and it’s light enough to be moved out of the way. Flower, Deadeye, and Gunsmoke in the jeep. Swing wide just outside and provide covering fire while we clear that gateway. Boom, use your truck and ram right on through. Try to push the MG inside and out of the way. If you still have wheels under you then, stand by to fall in on the procession. If not, get clear and join the first vehicle you can.

  “Deadeye, swing that jeep in right behind Boom’s truck but wait until the way is clear. Flower, after penetrating the gate, keep your fire to the left of the road and fire at anything that moves or looks like it could move. Gunsmoke, I want you in the front, beside Deadeye. Get your big chopper—you’re sweeping the right side and the road ahead. Bloodbrother, you fall in behind the jeep. Pick up Zitka and punch right on in. I’ll bring up the rear in the Porsche. Boom, you better just plan on leaving the truck and joining me. I’ll need a rear gunner.

  “Now this will be a punch in, pure and simple. No telling how many active troops we’ll be leaving behind us. We’ll have to punch right back out again probably, and if the blues show, we’re going to be in a hell of a tight situation. So let’s keep it fast and furious, and the sooner we get moving the better.

  “Let’s get everything out of the truck and into the punch vehicles. Let’s get moving, let’s go go go!”

  Sergeant Carl Lyons slowed his car to a leisurely pace and snatched up his hand mike. “CHP says no movement into Balboa, Captain,” he reported. “I just passed a road running off toward the cliffs. Think I’ll investigate.”

  “I’m only a couple minutes behind you now,” Braddock’s unhappy tones came back at him. “Wait for us there.”

  “Ten-four.” Lyons threw down the mike and swerved abruptly across the median in a fish-tailing U-turn, then powered into the northbound lanes. A moment later he was leaning into a curving exit and passing beneath the highway in an easy glide toward the beach. Over in the darkness he could detect a rugged point of land rising to the horizon. He braked to a halt and swiveled about in the seat for a view of the highway, then spoke again into the microphone. “Right where the highway breaks slightly inland into the hills,” he directed. “A small cove to the right, narrow blacktop leading down.”

  “Okay,” Braddock replied.

  Lyons was gazing toward the promontory. Faint lights shone over there, on the far end of the outcropping. Then a bright flame shot up high into the air, toward the beginning of the promontory, and an instant later the explosive roar reached Lyons’s ears. He was already stepping on the accelerator as he told Braddock, “Paydirt! You can’t miss it now! Just follow the flames!”

  Zitka leaped from the speeding MG and hit the ground in a tight roll. A man ran out of the gatehouse just as the careening vehicle smashed into the steel gate with an instantaneous clap of thunder and whooshing flames. The jeep swung in a tight arc past Zitka as he scrambled to his feet and sprinted back down the road. The deep rattle of the big fifty mingled with the secondary explosion of the MG’s gas tank and the excited cries coming from beyond the flames.

  Harrington raised his gun to track onto a man who was running along the wall; the gun burped briefly, and the running man disappeared beyond the wall.

  The panel truck swerved around the curve and cautiously approached the flaming wreckage in the gateway; then gears meshed, and the deep whine of low gear propelled the truck into the crackling pile. Harrington had scrambled out of the jeep and was standing against the wall, his gun chattering, to cover the maneuver. The truck whined on through the debris, pushing it along in a grinding scream of protesting metal, while the jeep circled about and fell in to the rear. Harrington leaped aboard and remained standing in the front floor, his weapon raking the gatehouse in an incessant sweeping. Men were running and shouting, and the sound of gunfire issued from deeper inside the grounds. The windshield of the jeep shattered, and Harrington abruptly sat down.

  Two men stood behind the gatehouse, firing at the truck with revolvers. They crumpled and jerked to the ground under the heavy staccato of the fifty caliber. Flames were shooting from the hood of the truck as Hoffower flung the door open and bailed out. The jeep moved swiftly along the narrow drive. Loudelk’s sedan spurted through the gateway and quickly closed on the jeep; then Bolan’s Porsche roared in. Hoffower had darted across the drive and was kneeling in the grass, his .45 spitting flame toward the wall. The Porsche slowed momentarily, and the door swung open; Hoffower jumped in and slammed the door, and they spun out with a shriek of rubber.

  The jeep was leading the fast-moving procession, its automatic weapons rattling angrily. Tracers were leaping out from the big fifty, probing the terrain ahead. Shouts and curses could be heard on both sides, rising above the explosive reports of gunfire.

  If Beverly Hills had boasted a company, Bolan was thinking, this place easily supported a battalion. The window just behind his head shattered. Hoffower immediately announced, “I’m hit,” in a quiet voice. He swiveled in the seat and pushed the .45 out the window in his left hand and began firing at running, shadowy figures on their right flank. Bolan risked a glance at his partner. A red groove traversed one side of his face, oozing blood.

  “Grazed,” Hoffower amended as he ejected a spent clip and snapped in a replacement.

  The jeep was now running about, broadside to Bolan’s travel, and the fifty was tracering up Bolan’s left flank. They had reached the circular portion of the drive, in front of the house. Bolan swung in behind the sedan just as Loudelk and Zitka bolted from the vehicle. Flame was spitting at them from several basement windows, and Harrington’s chopper was replying. The death squad was caught in a cross fire, with enemy reinforcements gathering quickly to both sides of their soft position.

  “Take the house!” Bolan cried.

  Loudelk and Zitka sprinted to opposite corners of the house, grenades in their hands. Bolan stepped to the ground with a chopper in one hand and a satchel charge in the other. He twirled the charge overhead, then let it fly. It hit the massive doors at the front of the house with a deafening roar, and licking flames immediately brightened the landscape. Bolan tossed another charge into French doors on the second floor, and the explosion blended with lesser ones coming simultaneously from the sides of the house.

  Harrington was dueling with enemy fire from both floors and the basement; Andromede was checking the advance on their rear with the big fifty. Deadeye Washington had snatched up a chattergun and was making a run for the front door. A burst of fire from an upstairs window caught him full in the chest, and the big fellow went to ground with his weapon chattering. Bolan, also in motion toward the door, had to spin past Washington’s falling body. A pain shot up from his heel, and he realized that he was hit also, but he was up the steps and charging through the flaming doorway with Harrington pushing close behind, and the heel was forgotten. He charged into a large room just as a clump of men were descending a circular stairway. Bolan chopped at them; two fell, and three more raced back up the stairs.

  Harrington’s burper was swinging toward an arched doorway at the rear, and another two men were flung to the floor. The burper went silent; Harrington shook it, then tossed it aside and released the straps of his six-guns as he moved swiftly toward the stairway.

  Bolan glanced at him and snapped, “The basement!”

  Harrington nodded and swung back to Bolan’s side. The house was burning, the flames beginning to roar on the top floor. They found the basement stairs in an alcove beyond the main room, just as a pair of men ran into the house through the front door. Harrington said, “I’ll cover!” and stepped out with both guns blazing. Bolan wondered vaguely about the other four of his squad and about the fact that two enemy h
ad managed to get inside, but there was no time for speculation. He was already halfway through the doorway to the basement stairs.

  He dodged back as a bullet thwacked into the wood alongside his head, then leaned around the curve and dropped a grenade over the staircase. He followed the explosion with a headlong plunge down the stairs, sweeping indiscriminately with the chopper. There was no return fire. A bookcase along one wall burst into flame, eerily lighting the underground scene. Dead bodies were flung about, and nothing moved. At the bottom of the stairs lay a man who Bolan had watched earlier that night through his sniperscope. Deadeye had said, “That’s Varone there, the little one.”

  Bolan swung back up the stairway and erupted into the alcove. Gunsmoke Harrington lay there on his back, his chest wetly red and his lips flecked with red foam. “Look out, Sarge,” he said faintly, and died.

  A white-haired man loomed up in Bolan’s side vision. A shotgun roared just as Bolan flung himself toward the corner. Bolan felt the sting of several straggling pellets, and he knew that the main charge had missed him. He was twisting about to bring the chopper up, when DiGeorge flung the shotgun at him and darted for the front door. The discarded gun flanged against Bolan’s weapon and diverted his aim. He scrambled to his feet and gave chase, reaching the steps just as the whine of police sirens bored in on his consciousness.

  The house was engulfed in flames now. Bolan staggered down the steps, his mind numbed, and walked stiffly through incredible carnage. Bodies littered the drive in front of the house, and there was no movement anywhere Bolan could see. He gazed down at the grotesquely curled caricature of what had once been Deadeye Washington. Several yards away lay the remains of Boom-Boom Hoffower. Flower Child Andromede was crumpled atop the fifty.

  Bolan threw back his head and yelled, “Zitter! Brother! Regroup!” The sirens were screaming up the blacktop—almost to the gate, Bolan figured. He jogged around the corner of the house and immediately found Zitka. The fierce little fighter was clutching a machine pistol and snarling, even in death.

  Bolan found Bloodbrother Loudelk at the rear. Half of his head was missing. Otherwise, he looked very peaceful. In life, Bolan thought, so in death. He wearily returned to the Porsche,, wondering where all the enemy had gone, and tossed the chopper onto the rear deck, then slumped into the seat. He was sealed in, and the rest of the squad was dead. Who the hell cared about the enemy? What a hell of a mess he had made of things. They should have aborted. They should, at least, have lain back and figured out some better way to make this strike.

  The sirens were swinging through the gates how, starting the short journey down the promontory. Bolan started the Porsche and wheeled it around into the grass. His heel hurt like hell, and he was slowly discovering other nicks and scrapes in tender places. He gunned away from the sirens and drew up at the low wooden railing that marked the end of land, then got out and unhurriedly studied the drop to the ocean below. Bloodbrother had been right; it looked like nothing but rocks below. No chance of diving for it—he’d never clear those rocks. Unless …

  Bolan got back into the Porsche, securely fastened the safety belt, and gunned back to the driveway. He could see the flashing bubble-gum machines on top of their cars now. Quite a parade. He sighed. The Death Squad was a dead squad now. He’d offered them wealth and glory and given them only death in a war that nobody cheered for. Like ’Nam. Yeah, just like ’Nam.

  He double-checked the safety belt, then screamed around in a wild U-turn, straightening out into a full-power run toward the wooden railing. His tires slipped a bit on the damp grass, but the needle kept climbing in a steady movement toward the end of the speedometer. He flipped a glance into the rear-view mirror. The parade had arrived at the front of the house, and bluesuits with riot guns were pouring out everywhere. A lone vehicle was tearing on after the Porsche.

  The needle was vibrating at 120 when he felt the slight resistance of the flimsy barrier, and then he was floating free, arcing out into a beautiful dive over the blue Pacific. “Roll call,” he muttered. The entire squad was sitting there with him; they had all brought him here, each one, through gallantry above and beyond the call. And he was taking them with him, in effect anyway, in this final, desperate, gallant fling through this hell called life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE REVERSE WALK

  Carl Lyons had left his car at the blacktop and walked down to the water’s edge. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. If he’d been in that hurtling vehicle, Lyons reasoned, and if he’d been still alive when the thing settled into the water, and if he’d managed to get out of it, and if he’d had the strength and the guts and the determination to try swimming to freedom—then this would be the spot he would be trying for. Not that there was much chance of Bolan’s swimming away from that plunge. Just the same … The coast-guard boat had responded promptly, and they were even now preparing to send divers down. If and when they came up with a body, then and only then would Carl Lyons believe that Bolan was dead.

  A soft sound behind him spun him around, and the sergeant found himself gazing into the bore of a .38 police special. The gun was in the hand of Lieutenant Charlie Rickert, and the eyes behind that gun looked anything but sane, even in the muted nightlight.

  “What’re you doing here, Rickert?” Lyons asked calmly.

  “You and Bolan didn’t really think you could pull it off, did you?” Rickert sneered. “On the twenty-four-hour cop? You didn’t actually think you’d make it stick, did you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Get your hands behind your head! What the hell you think? You know damn well what I’m talking about. You and Bolan cooked this thing up. Did you think I’d hold still for that kind of crap, Lyons?” Rickert laughed, a dry, rattling sound. “You thought Charlie Rickert couldn’t find out. Look, wet-behind-the-ears, I was a cop while you was still sucking tit.”

  “What are you hoping to accomplish, Rickert?” Lyons was slowly shifting to one side, trying to maneuver his new adversary into a better light.

  “Just stand still!” Rickert snarled.

  “How long have you been a bad cop, Rickert?”

  “I’m going to kill you, youngster. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Why, Rickert?” Lyons had detected a flicker of motion in the shadows behind Rickert. He kept the conversation going and again began a slow movement toward the water. “What do you have to gain? Braddock has all the evidence he needs. He’s already signed your suspension. A full-scale investigation will start tomorrow.”

  “No, no, no. All they have is contrived evidence, put together by a mass murderer and his cop accomplice.”

  “What ever gave you the idea that I’ve been working with Bolan, Rickert?”

  “Charlie Rickert has his ways, and Charlie Rickert knows all. Don’t you worry how I found out. You’re a lousy cop, Lyons. You can’t even spot a tail. I been on you all night.”

  “Just waiting for a chance like this, eh?”

  “That’s right. Just waiting for a chance … just … like … this!” Rickert had thrust the .38 forward and was squeezing down on the trigger, when the shadow behind him came alive. A hand chopped down on his gun arm, and an elbow burrowed into his gut as the gun was falling. The shadow whirled, a fist arched out and splattered into Rickert’s face, and he went down without a sound.

  A hand quickly scooped up the fallen .38, and a familiar voice said, “We’re always meeting.”

  Lyons stared at the tall, dripping figure in the black suit. “How long you been standing behind that rock, Bolan?” he asked.

  “Long enough to get my breath,” Bolan replied, still panting slightly.

  “Then you heard the gist of that conversation?”

  “I heard it.”

  “You knew he was about to gun me down. Why didn’t you wait another second? Then you could have chopped him and had a clear field.”

  Bolan shrugged. “I couldn’t
bug off and leave Tommy to solve that problem alone.”

  “What?”

  “You know. The moles.”

  Lyons chuckled. “I’ve been doing some reading on lawn pests, Bolan. They’re destructive, yeah, but they serve a useful purpose too. This book tells me I shouldn’t be too quick to cut down on the moles. Guess I’ll try a bit of peaceful coexistence.”

  “You trying to delay me, Lyons? The way you did Rickert?” Bolan was beginning to move slowly away.

  “Not at all. Uh, Bolan. Some dumb cop left his car unprotected up there on the road. Keys in it and everything.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Lyons knelt beside Rickert and snapped a pair of cuffs on him. “He’ll keep for a while. And now that same dumb cop is going to take a walk among the rocks, hoping to find a survivor from that car plunge off the cliff over there. Uh, happy coexistence, Bolan. This time I’m walking.” Lyons turned abruptly and strode off into the darkness.

  Bolan smiled tightly and moved quickly toward smiled tightly and moved quickly toward the road. Life wasn’t all hell, he decided. Another battle had ended. Perhaps somewhere, someday, he would find a place to end the war. Flower had been wrong. Hell was not for the living, it was for the dead, even the hallowed dead. Let the dead rest in peace. Someday Mack Bolan, too, would rest. For now, he had to find his way among the living. And he would find Julian DiGeorge somewhere about that landscape, and undoubtedly many more just like him.

  He would never, however, find another Death Squad. Not like the helluva bunch he’d just lost. He climbed behind the wheel of Lyons’s vehicle, started the engine, and moved slowly out. His glance fell on the microphone.

  “Roll Call,” he said, half-aloud.

  And he could have sworn he heard them checking in. Bloodbrother, Zitter, Gunsmoke, Deadeye, Boom-Boom, Flower Child, Chopper, Gadgets, and Politician. They were all in—and they were all on Mack Bolan.