Blancanales had confidence in Bolan. If the guy said he'd spring him, then he'd spring him. Still ... this was not the most enviable of all possible circumstances for a life-loving dude like Rosario Blancanales. And he had not seen the Sarge at work for quite awhile. A guy, even a Mack Bolan, could sometimes lose his numbers.
He watched a group of hardmen splinter off from the main force and start a movement toward Schwarz in the warwagon just as Gadgets opened fire on the two guys already up there. Then the big booms from Bolan's Weatherby began rocking the air again.
The guy could sure tickle a trigger.
Hell, he was firing from about three blocks away but those people over there were going down like clockwork. Blancanales watched them depart the field of combat forever — one, two, three, four — like a cadence count — and those who were left were already beginning to get a whole new slant on the art of warfare.
Some guy was standing in a doorway over there and screaming at them to get back inside.
Bolan's cool voice came through his shoulder-phone then: "Make your move, Pol. Fall back to the next street behind you and hold there. Gadgets, circle around and pick him up."
"Aye, aye," said Gadgets.
"Wilco," Blancanales responded, sighing.
Hell. He'd known all along that the Sarge would spring him. He hadn't lost any damn numbers.
The big question now, of course, was could the Sarge spring himself.
The wail of police sirens was beginning to crowd the area, boring in from several directions.
Two more big booms erupted from that distant firing-drop and Blancanales, glancing over his shoulder, saw the bread truck explode into flames.
He grinned, aware that Bolan was simply adding a confusion-factor to the scene.
Sure. The guy would spring himself.
11
War zone
Captain Tatum threaded his way through the congregation of official vehicles and came to a halt at the edge of the war zone.
There was no better way to describe the scene there.
The shattered and burning vehicle in the middle of the street.
Bullet-riddled house, shattered glass, abandoned weapons lying about.
A team of medics moving grimly among the dead and the dying.
Firefighters and uniformed policemen everywhere the eye could see.
The uniformed watch officer spotted the Captain, then came over to offer a report. Tatum recognized him as George Gonzales, a twenty-year veteran with the department — a good man.
"Hell walked through here," Gonzales told the homicide chief. "Seven dead, four stretcher cases, two walking wounded. House is pretty well shot up." He glanced toward the gutted bread truck. "Lot of toast in there, but nothing else. We haven't found the driver. So far all of the victims have been identified as Lucasi's people. Somebody really hit 'im hard, Captain."
"What does the little big man have to say about all this?" Tatum asked musingly.
"He's reserving comment until his attorney arrives. Also refuses to step outside the house — or to show himself at any window ... with a hundred cops walking around here...."
"He get hurt?"
"No sir, just his dignity. I'd say he's working his way toward a stroke or something, though."
Tatum quickly squelched a wry smile and instructed the watch officer, "Let me know as soon as the lawyer gets here."
"Yes sir. Well be making charges?"
"You find anything yet to make a book?" the Captain inquired.
"No sir, frankly nothing. It was a one-sided battle, by all appearances. All the firing seems to have come from the other side, whoever they were. Rival gang, looks like. But I haven't even found a weapons violation on Lucasi. All his people are duly licensed as security personnel."
That last was obviously a sore point with Tatum. He screwed his face into a scowl and said, "Yeah, that's nice and neat. How about witnesses?"
"We're working the neighborhood now. So far only one has voluntarily come forward. Lady directly across the street, a Mrs. Bergman. Saw part of it from a bathroom window. Said a man in a white uniform of some kind was crouched behind her wall — " Gonzales paused to point out the spot. " — directly across, there. Said he ran through her property toward the rear just about the time the shooting stopped."
Tatum was scowling toward the burned-out truck, obviously trying to draw conclusions. A small two-way radio at his waist beeped and he reluctantly took time out to answer the call.
"Air Ten has picked up the L.A. special advisor at Lindberg and now has him aboard," was the report. "Do you want him up there?"
"Yeah," Tatum growled. "Give the pilot the general area and tell him to just look for the battleground. He can't miss it."
Gonzales was staring at the Captain as though he wished to know more about this development. Tatum was not yet ready to turn the thing into a circus, however. He knew how the press loved to latch onto a Bolan hit, and he was not quite prepared to go that route. He smiled thinly at the watch officer and told him, "Could be some connection between this and a case up in L.A. awhile back. We're getting a consultant."
This explanation seemed to satisfy the uniformed officer.
The police helicopter was already in sight, wheeling up from the southwest. Tatum watched the little bird come in and settle onto the front lawn, then he went forward to greet the tall young man who had been dispatched from Los Angeles.
The self-introductions were perfunctory and curt, being shouted above the din of the helicopter — but Tatum was sizing up Sgt. Carl Lyons of L.A.'s Organized Crime Division, and he liked what he saw ... intelligent, quick, a lawman with a personal commitment.
As soon as the helicopter and its noise had departed the area, Tatum told the new arrival, "I'm only a minute or two ahead of you so we're starting off even." He introduced Gonzales, who brought Lyons up to date on the preliminary report, then the three of them took a walking tour of the battleground.
They halted beside a sheet-draped lump on the front lawn and the Captain knelt for an inspection of the victim. He pulled the sheet away, studied the corpse for a moment, then went on to the next. After the fourth stop, he commented, "Right through the head, all four of them."
"Massive wounds," Lyons added.
"You said seven dead," Tatum told the watch officer. "Where're the other three?"
Gonzales pointed toward the street. "By the truck."
"Head wounds like these?"
"No sir. Multiple body hits from a small calibre weapon. Looks like they got zipped with a light chopper." He swiveled about to point up the street. "Found two more in the next block, lying along the curb in the street. Not dead yet, but damn near. Same type of wounds, they were zipped."
"You said six wounded," Tatum reminded him.
"Yes sir, the others were hit inside the house. They just got unlucky. Wrong place at the right time."
Lyons had moved off to the side and was doing a 360-degree survey of the surrounding terrain.
His attention became riveted to a pair of distant hillocks.
Tatum and Gonzales ambled over to join Lyons, and the watch officer advised, "Forgot to mention, I sent a car up on Sunset Circle to check out a firing report."
Tatum drawled, "Yeah...." He was sighting toward the high ground which was occupying Lyons' attention. "That would be the western knoll," he informed the out-of-towner. "A guy with a telescopic sight and a good rifle could command this whole neighborhood from up there."
"And looking right along the street," Lyons murmured.
"Is Bolan really that good?" Tatum asked him.