THEN one of the hooded figures flung a bomb with uncanny accuracy as the car charged down the narrow street. Agent “X,” watching, aghast, saw the strange bomb drop directly on top of the speeding vehicle. A terrible thing occurred instantly. Again came that ripping, tearing sound.
The car seemed to collapse inward as though a huge fist had clutched it, crunched it. A mighty, invisible force worked havoc in the darkness. One of the car’s passengers, a man with gun in hand, was leaping out. As the bomb exploded he seemed to burst apart, killed horribly before “X’s” eyes.
“X” realized then that the DOACs had developed a new and terrible weapon. Was this what they planned to use in their assumption of power? The destruction of the car filled with men coming to the rescue of those in the prison was a terrible warning. The street grew silent and deserted after the catastrophe. The raiders began swarming over the prison walls.
Eyes gleaming in the darkness, Agent “X” reached into his coat. From a hidden pocket he drew the DOAC hood of Ridley’s that he still carried. He quickly put this over his own head, then moved forward and mingled among the other hooded figures.
The men about him did not speak. They were armed with rifles and machine guns. A few still carried some of the super-destructive bombs. Their job seemed to be to see that those who went over the prison wall were not disturbed by any one from the outside. “X” heard sounds of firing within the prison now. Two more ripping concussions sounded as more of the strange bombs were detonated.
Three hooded men moved forward and “X” followed them. They passed the bodies of two DOACs who had fallen, slain by fire from the top of the wall before the machine gunners and marksmen with rifles had been slaughtered. “X,” with a swift movement, stooped and gathered up one of the fallen men’s weapons, a Winchester repeater. Carrying this, he felt sure he would be taken by the DOACs as one of their own band.
He followed them up the ladder, climbed to the top of the prison wall and down another ladder to the ground. A guard on a far-off corner of the wall took a potshot at him. A bullet whined dangerously close to his head.
But the raiders inside seemed to be having things their own way. A shudder passed along “X’s” spine. He saw the body of a slain guard at his feet — a body mangled and mutilated by one of the bombs till it was hardly recognizable as a man. His sense of fury against the DOACs increased. They had displayed the callous brutality of fiends tonight. Yet he felt certain that the men around him were only carrying out orders. It was those who directed their movements that he wanted to locate.
He saw lights in the warden’s office, then saw, through a barred window, that an assistant warden on night duty was being forced by the DOACs to open a corridor door leading to the cell blocks.
The warden had apparently issued an order. For no more bullets were fired by the guards remaining on the prison wall.
A minute passed — two — and “X” saw a group of DOACs coming from the warden’s office leading a prisoner.
For a moment “X” saw only the hulking silhouette. Then, as the prisoner came closer, “X” recognized the features of Michael Carney. Carney’s suave, smooth face looked white. It might have been prison pallor. More likely it was terror of the men who had come and taken him out. A DOAC walked on either side leading Carney. Another walked behind him, a rifle prodding his back. To the DOACs, this prisoner represented a possible five million dollars.
“X” joined the group about the former big shot gangster. They moved toward the ladder, two hooded men ascending first, then Carney.
They had accomplished their purpose now. Once over the wall, the DOACs strode into the darkness, walking swiftly toward the spot where they had cars waiting.
“X,” as though acting on prearranged orders, joined the small group around Carney. Playing a desperate role, “X” elected himself one of Carney’s guards. His eyes, behind the slit in the weird blue hood he wore, glittered brightly. His pulses were hammering.
LIKE gray ghosts the hooded men moved through the night. They stopped at last, and “X” made out the bulks of several big autos. Carney was thrust into an open touring car. A DOAC sat on either side of him. Two more sat in the driver’s seat. Agent “X” and another DOAC took the small collapsible seats in the rear of the car. Seven passengers in all, the car whined off into the night, its headlights still out. All around “X” was movement as other cars slipped away from the hidden parking space by the prison.
The DOACs did not drive through the town. They took a road skirting it. By the pale glow of the moon they shot ahead, a long cavalcade of killers and terrorists, their destination unknown to “X.”
Stealthily he drew from his pocket a strange weapon — firing concentrated ammonia. It seemed a slight thing with which to fight armed and desperate men. But “X” had a plan.
Without warning, with a quickness that took them utterly off guard, he fired smarting, blinding ammonia fumes straight into the eyes of the two sitting beside Carney.
They cried out. The man beside “X” turned around in amazement. He, too, got a dose of ammonia that temporarily blinded him as surely as though needles had been jabbed into his eyes. The back of the car became a fighting, clawing madhouse.
The driver and his companion turned in their seat. “X” put the man beside the driver out by bringing the barrel of his ammonia gun down on the man’s hooded head. He thrust his gun against the driver’s neck, hissed an abrupt order.
“Turn left through the fence — drive across the field!”
The driver seemed to think he was insane. “X” repeated the order, jabbing the gun harder against the man’s spine. With a cry on his lips, sounding muffled behind his weird hood, the driver pulled the wheel.
The big car turned off the highway. A wooden fence paralleled the road at this point. The car broke through it with a clatter. It shot ahead over a stubbly field, jouncing and rocking.
“Stop!” ordered “X.”
The driver jammed on the brakes. As he did so “X” went into action like a man gone berserk. He caught the DOAC beside him under the arms, heaved him from the car onto the ground. He tackled Carney’s guards next. They fought like wildcats, but, blinded, they had no chance against “X.” One he knocked out with a punch to the jaw. The other he heaved from the car as he had the first man.
HE forced the driver out next, climbing over behind the wheel himself. A second more and he threw the clutch in and shot ahead.
Carney sat like a man dazed, staring at “X” open-mouthed. Behind them in the night was confusion, noise. The other DOACs had learned something strange had happened. “X” heard the sound of another car crashing through the fence, following. He had a hundred foot start. He pressed the accelerator down, put on a burst of speed. The big car plunged ahead. Beside him the man whom “X” had knocked unconscious with a blow of his gun, swayed in his seat like a sack of grain.
“X” drove across the field furiously. At times the big car sank hub-deep where the earth was soft. “X” threw the engine into second. Then he opened the side door of the driver’s seat and unceremoniously pushed the unconscious man out to lessen weight.
He pulled out of the soft spot, went plunging and rocketing ahead. Beyond this field was the highway down which the farmer’s car had carried “X.” His sense of direction told him this. It was the keystone of his desperate plan to rescue Carney.
But a spotlight snapped on behind, across the field. It fanned the air for a moment, then came to rest dazzlingly on his own car. The sinister rhythmic beat of machine-gun fire sounded. Bullets whined in the night around them, plowed into the earth beside them, slapped into the rear of the car as DOAC marksmen fired. Mike Carney sprawled forward in his seat, getting down behind the rear of the car for protection.