Don Pendleton - The Hostaged Island

"Don't knock your luck. It's not every day you get machine-gunned and walk away from it." He finished his fast job of local bandaging.

"I'm not walking anywhere, I hurt. Do I hurt..."

The older man jerked Lyons to his feet. He handed him the Mannlicher and bandolier of cartridges. "March or die, Lyons. The cavalry's on the way, and we're the Indians."

They returned slowly to the ridge to where they had left their motorcycles. Blancanales radioed ahead: "Good news, Gadgets. There's three of us yet."

Lyons looked back at the ambush. Tires were still burning. Charred bodies littered the highway and road. He counted corpses.

"Sixteen. Decent score."

Already at the motorcycles, Gadgets lashed the black plastic-wrapped M-60 to his bike's chromed roll bar. As he saw Blancanales and Lyons approaching, he told them: "We got a new development."

He switched on the scanner/auto-recorder's play back: "This is Brognola, Stony Man Farm. I have received information from a joint FBI/CIA investigation. Details suggest one of the theoreticians may be a Soviet agent planted in American atomic energy program back in the late fifties. Repeat, Soviet long-term agent, a mole. Investigation is ongoing.

"There is not yet conclusive evidence that he is in fact an enemy agent," the familiar voice continued, undetected by the Outlaws because of scrambling. "However, on his return from the West Coast, he was to be transferred to a non-military study group. His name is John Severine. His photo, description, and biographical details are in the folder on the theoreticians. We attempted to match the voice you recorded to his lecture tapes. However, it is not possible to conclusively confirm or eliminate Severine is the voice due to electronic degradation of voice as received. Request brief broadcast of voice without scrambler or screech. Voicegraph then possible.

"FBI/CIA investigators urge capture of Severine. It is imperative he does not escape.

"Presence of Severine on the island, and his possible complicity in seizure, precludes fulfillment of one point in ransom demands. By highest authority, under no circumstances will nuclear submarine make delivery of the released felons and twenty million dollars in gold. Diesel submarine will make delivery. Severine is very knowledgeable of nuclear submarines. He can be expected to recognize the substitution, and this may affect fate of hostages. Highest authority accepts responsibility.

"Coordinated assault impossible while gang surrounds hostages. LAPD units are on standby, full alert. You disperse Outlaws, then call for units. Also, Outlaw radio conversations have been monitored by private craft beyond three-mile limit. Media are now aware of crisis. Please resolve at earliest possible time. Out." The emphasis was clear.

"A Soviet agent teamed up with a bike gang?" Lyons shook his head. "Far out. Only in California," he added, gazing over the hills. The three men stood in the early afternoon sun, refueling their confidence for the higher stakes yet to come. They were battle weary, battle sore, that was the truth.

Her hands up in the air, the shotgun against her back, Ann Shepard stepped off the curb. She stumbled slightly. Roger caught her arm with his good hand. The Outlaw behind him cruelly jabbed him with the barrel of an M-14 rifle, sending the curly-haired teenager sprawling in the street. Roger grimaced with pain as he fell on his rag-wrapped right arm. Blood stained the cloth. The Outlaws stood over him, their weapons pointed at him, until he stood and walked again.

The Outlaws, one in a chromed Nazi helmet, the other sporting a bandage on his face and a stubble of beard, pushed the teenager and pregnant woman across the shady street. In addition to the weapons, that the bikers pointed at Ann and Roger, they carried shotguns slung over their backs. They wore pistol belts. Bandoliers crossed their jacket's insignia of flaming skull: "Forever Outlaws."

A block behind them, several houses smoked and crackled. Outlaws stood on the sidewalk, assault rifles and shotguns ready. They could care less if the entire island ignited into flame. From time to time, they fired at a movement or shadow in the side yards. They had contingency plans for major fire. They thought they had contingency plans for everything.

As fast as the pregnant woman could walk, the Outlaws marched their prisoners the length of the block, leaving Avalon's residential area. At Crescent Street, the Outlaws prodded them down toward the Casino.

Tourists usually crowded Crescent on Sundays. Only steps from the sand, its shops and hotels viewed the boats moored in Avalon Bay. But today, the warm wind stirring the palms carried smoke and ash. Today, broken plate glass and litter from the looted shops covered the deserted street and walkways.

The Outlaws on motorcycles cruised past the bikers escorting the prisoners; they slowed. Not looking back as the Outlaws U-turned, the biker with his face bandaged shoved the pregnant woman: "The hotel!"

They herded their prisoners through the doorway. A few steps behind the bikers, the Outlaws on motorcycles jumped the curb, stepped on their kickstands and dismounted.

"It's a party!"

"Forget that. Any woman with a belly that big's only good for head."

"Take what you want," the Outlaw laughed, "and I'll take mine."

Only seconds behind their buddies, they walked into the hotel's lobby. But there was no one there. They heard feet running up the stairs.

"Hey, us too!" The Outlaws ran up the stairs after the others.

The fire door to the second floor slowly swung closed. They whipped it open and saw Outlaw jackets enter one of the rooms. Laughing, they ran after the other bikers. One of the Outlaws called out, "Second on her!" The other laughed, shouted, "First on the boy!"

Pushing open the door, they saw the curly-haired teenager, the pregnant woman, and the Outlaw in the chromed helmet all pointing weapons at them.

As the two Outlaws stumbled astounded back, a hidden hand put a Colt Lawman to the head of the second Outlaw, spraying his brains onto the hotel room's wall. The other Outlaw fell backwards over the body, tried to crawl, looked up to see the Colt and a 12-gauge muzzle pointing at his face. He rolled onto his back and put his hands up, pleaded: "I give up, you got me, please don't please don't don't..."

The Colt's flash slammed his head back. Glen Shepard dragged the messy bodies into the room and closed the door. He stripped off the dead men's jackets, no filthier for all the new gore than they were before. He threw the larger to his wife, the smaller to Roger.

"Welcome to the Outlaws."

In the ballroom's crowd of hostages, Max Stevens and Mr. Webster rehearsed Jack for his report to Horse: "What are the people doing?" Max demanded.

"They're just trying to protect the girls. They figured that if they circled up, your bikers wouldn't risk a fight with a hundred people at once."

" Did you see any guns?"

"You have guns? Wow..."

The shove sent Jack reeling. Max stepped forward and shook the teenager, then drew back his fist. "You didn't answer my question! Tell me!"

"Don't hit my boy!" Jack's father grabbed Max, trying to break his grip. Max shrugged the overweight, middle-aged man away.

"What do you think's going to happen when he goes to talk with that psychopath?" Max asked Mr. Webster. Then he shook Jack again: "Tell me what you saw."

"They don't have anything. They're just a bunch of dumb people."

Speaking gently, Max told Jack: "That's not what you want to say. Say, 'They're just a bunch of dumb people. Some of them are talking about escape, but they're too scared.' Now repeat that."

Jack repeated the line. Max released the kid, took his father aside. "If he doesn't say something like that, then they don't need a spy anymore. They caught him with a rifle. They think he shot at their gang. Your son's only alive because they need a spy. I'm sorry to abuse him, but I'm just trying to keep him alive."