Don Pendleton - The Hostaged Island

The others nodded. They continued north on Stage Road for less than a mile and came to the trail. The fire road followed the crest of the steep hills overlooking Avalon. Beyond Avalon, the vista continued to Los Angeles, twenty-two miles distant.

Gunning their machines up the steep inclines, gearing and braking to slow their descent of the ridges, they watched for the tracks of other motorcycles. Surprisingly they saw only the knobby prints of lightweight dirt bikes. Blancanales stopped briefly to examine these tracks.

"Yesterday. Local kids."

The next peak, things were different. It was the Outlaw outpost guarding the hill above the Casino. Lyons had accelerated to climb the hill, and when he shot over the crest, he had to swerve to avoid the Harleys and Nighthawks of four Outlaws.

Sitting against their bikes, the Outlaws passed a joint. One Outlaw spoke into a walkie-talkie. Lyons hurtled past them, then hit his brakes. He slid to a stop thirty feet past the group. His body blocked their view of the Ingram in his grip. Below him, not far off, Lyons saw the Casino. Outlaws lounged in front of the white building, servicing their motorcycles and drinking. They were so close Lyons heard their voices and laughter.

"Looking for locals," Lyons shouted, hoping his voice would warn Gadgets and Blancanales. Even as he called out, Blancanales, then Gadgets leaped over the hill on their machines. Flashing the Outlaws quick glances, they slowed, but Lyons waved both of his partners past him. They roared on, and he accelerated after them.

The trail cut sharply to the south. Once down there, the Outlaws back on the peak could not see them. Close shave. Able Team had not expected that outpost: no tracks, at least not where they had looked.

"I couldn't chance wasting them," Lyons told his teammates, their bikes idling.

Gadgets pulled the captured walkie-talkie from his pocket and listened, "... up on the hill. Just now, not even a minute ago, we had a patrol swing by. I didn't recognize the three guys. Did you send anyone by this way?"

"I've got lots of patrols out. I'll call them. This is Horse. Patrol on the ridgeline behind the Casino, report. On the ridgeline behind the Casino, report..."

Gadgets offered the walkie-talkie to Blancanales, then Lyons. "That's us. Want to report to Horse?"

"We only got a minute," Lyons told Blancanales. "Look what he's got on the balcony down there. Looks like .50 calibers."

"Sentries on all the doors," Blancanales noted. "Lots of motorcycles. That's where all the Outlaws are."

Gadgets pointed. "They have LAAW rockets."

"Patrol on the ridge. This is Horse. Come in! Report! Who the fuck are you?"

"This is Jake again. They're probably our guys, but what's got me wondering is the blond one's jacket. It looked exactly like Blackie's. Black leather, those stars on the shoulders, even the chrome studs on the sleeves. Just a second, I don't hear their bikes moving about anymore. I'm going to look down the hill. Just a second..."

"This is Horse, I'm sending ten men out to check them. Blackie's long gone. They could have taken his jacket and bike. All Outlaws watch for three dudes on bikes and wearing Outlaw jackets. All Outlaws..."

"Time to move." Gadgets jammed the walkie-talkie in his pocket and engaged his motorcycle in gear. Lyons and Blancanales sped after him.

Low-gearing down the hill as fast as he dared, Lyons felt knives in his ribs at every bump. Fortunately, less than a quarter mile later, the trail would end at Vieudelou Street. But as they slowed to a walk in order to ease through a steel gate, they saw four Outlaws on Suzukis and cruising Hondas rounding the turn from Stage Road. The Outlaws blocked their escape.

"Downhill!" Blancanales shouted. "Through town. They'll never expect it. We'll sprint south, then stop and pop an ambush."

Lyons sprayed the oncoming Outlaws with his Ingram, saw two go down. The other two pulled behind parked cars for cover, their bike engines roaring. He snapped a full magazine into the Ingram, jerked back the Harley's hand throttle. The front wheel left the asphalt.

Leaning through a long curve, they hit Crescent at sixty miles an hour, sideslipped through a sharp turn, then accelerated again. The roar of their motorcycles shredded the afternoon's anxious quiet.

At the Casino, Outlaws kicked their bikes to life and flew into the pursuit. Horse stood among the crowd of Outlaws starting their motorcycles. He counted off ten men, stopped the others.

"Only ten!" He held up his hands for quiet. "This could be a trick. Everyone back to their posts! Move it!"

An Outlaw on the south end of Crest had heard the radio calls. He saw the three bikers racing toward him. He started his bike. He intercepted the three men by matching their speed. He stayed handlebar to handlebar with them for a hundred yards until the sharp curves of Lovers' Cove forced him to fall back.

He jerked a pistol from his belt. Awkwardly aiming as he tried to control his motorcycle, he fired.

Lyons heard the bullet buzz past his head. He cranked back the accelerator, watching the Harley's tachometer red line.

The Outlaw pulled on the handlebars of his bike and speeded up in pursuit of the three impostors. Pulling close again, he sighted over the barrel of the revolver. He emptied the cylinder at the riders ahead of him.

Blancanales' back tire blew out. Struggling with the bucking machine, with instinct and strength he kept it upright. He lost half an inch of sole from his combat boots. Lyons slowed fast, his bike fishtailing and the back tire smoking. He pointed his Ingram at the lone pursuer and sprayed him. At least one 9mm slug would punch into his gut, he knew it. The Outlaw doubled over, his motorcycle drifting into the guardrail. At sixty miles an hour, the bike flipped. The Outlaw was sent hurtling into the seawall below.

Retrieving his backpack and weapons from his motorcycle's saddlebags, Blancanales ran to Lyons' Harley and jumped on. The ten Outlaws rounded the curve behind them.

"No time for that ambush!" Blancanales shouted. "Hope Gadgets knows where he's going!"

Glancing back, Gadgets had seen Blancanales' bike on its side in the road and a group of pursuing Outlaws closing fast on the Harley. With the weight of Blancanales, Lyons could not outdistance the Outlaws. Gadgets noticed the steel buildings of the seaplane terminal. He pointed and turned, Lyons turning only an instant behind him.

Weaving through fences, parked cars, rows of oil drums, Able Team blitzed through the open side door of a steel building, then screeched to a stop. Fire from the Outlaws outside hammered on the sheet steel walls, tiny points of light appearing with the impact of each bullet. Tools, cans and cables flew from that front wall.

Firing wild through the door, Lyons emptied his Ingram at the Outlaws. Car windows shattered, slugs slammed metal, Outlaws dived for cover. Lyons dragged the high sliding door closed. Bullets were still punching through. He dived for the floor, groaning.

"You hit?" Gadgets called out.

"Nah, I just hurt." Rolling onto his back, Lyons surveyed the interior of the building. It was a steel prefab, twelve feet high from the concrete floor to the corrugated metal roof. It contained a workshop and a storage area. A forklift stood against the far wall. A row of 50-gallon oil drums lined another wall. Crates, tires, and seaplane pontoons crowded one end of the building. Small windows viewed the ocean on one side, the terminal on the other. The door Lyons had just closed was the only way out. Outside, a voice called to them: "Give up! We need hostages, not corpses. Give up or we'll kill you."

"Bad scene," Gadgets muttered.