Don Pendleton - Savannah Swingsaw

"All right!" Rita cheered as she and the other women burst into the kitchen.

Bolan rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Obviously they'd been crouched just on the other side of the door, listening.

Then his face became grim. "You won't be so happy once you hear the plan."

"What the hell happened? There's a pile of dead bodies lying around the morgue with toe tags that might as well read "courtesy of Mack Bolan." I show up at the jail as your attorney to have a meeting and find out you've busted out of the place. And without Dodge Reed, dammit. Now you tell me you've put together an assault squad made up of four women?"

Bolan spoke into the phone. "That about covers it."

Hal Brognola sighed.

Bolan heard a crunching sound. His friend was chewing those tablets again. "Okay, Mack, okay. You need some backup. Fine. Just tell me what's going down and where, I'll be there. I still know how to use a gun."

"Can't do it, pal," Bolan said. "If this doesn't go down right, we'll still need someone alive to stop Zavlin and find out what Dodge Reed knows. Besides, these women know what they're doing. I trust them."

"Then I do, too." There was a wild tone in the Fed's voice, a disappointment that he wasn't going along. Maybe riding that desk really was getting to him. Maybe he did need to see some action.

"Okay, Hal. I need some information on Reed. What's his status in the jail?"

"Last time I checked was about an hour ago. They were planning on moving about two dozen inmates to different prisons. He was one of them."

"That's odd," Bolan said, staring out through the scratched phone-booth door. Shawnee was at the self-service pump filling her battered old Toyota. She waved at him and he smiled.

"Why odd?"

"They'd be moving some of the hardcore guys out, the real bad ones, but not a new fish like Reed."

"Think Zavlin's behind the move?"

"Think it gets dark at night?"

"Right. I'll have the transfer order rescinded. We'll keep him at Fulton."

"No," Bolan said. "Let him go."

"Why? Zavlin's bound to hit him in transit."

"Not if we get to him first."

Hal Brognola paused. "What do you need?"

"Reed's transit schedule. Times, route, that sort of thing."

"Weapons?"

"Seems the Savannah Swingsaw comes prearmed. We're okay there."

"It'll take me a minute to get the information. Can you hold on?"

"Yeah," Bolan said. He stared through the glass at Shawnee. There was a sense of power beneath her tenderness, a feeling of strength that was more than physical.

Brognola came back on the phone with a grumble.

"What do you want first, the bad news or the bad news?"

"Go on."

"Zavlin's still not been sighted, but three KGB agents attached to the Soviet embassy as cultural officers have been spotted here. You've got to figure they're going to help Zavlin in the assassination."

"He's not taking any chances. Whatever Reed knows, it must be damned important."

"Yeah, well, it gets worse. Reed's van is gassed and waiting right now. He's being transported with four other prisoners, a driver and a guard. They leave within the next twenty minutes."

"Not much time."

"There's an understatement. At least the route has possibilities."

He outlined the streets for Bolan.

"Thanks, guy," Bolan said. "Gotta run."

"Good luck, Mack. And, hey, thank the Savannah Swingsaw for me. I don't want to lay any patriotic rap on them, but we appreciate what they're doing. Maybe we can work out some kind of immunity deal on their raids."

"I'll tell them," Bolan said. "But they'd have helped me, anyway." Bolan hung up.

Shawnee pulled the Toyota up to the phone booth with a screech, popping the passenger door open. Bolan climbed in.

"I've got the route and the time schedule."

She whistled, impressed. "That's some phone pal you've got there, Mack. How'd an outlaw like you get to know guys like that?"

"Who said it was a guy?"

She laughed. "Touche. Caught in my own sexist trap. Okay. I'll shut up and drive. Not much farther," she said, urging the gas pedal to the floor. A few minutes later she yanked the car to the curb at an awkward angle and the two of them dashed up the stairs to the second floor of Shawnee's apartment.

The others were waiting and ready.

The weapons were spread out on the living-room floor on a canvas tarp. Bolan stooped beside the cache, examining the arsenal. "We brought most everything back from the hideout as you asked," Rita St. Clair said.

Bolan immediately picked up the prize of the collection, a Krico Super Sniper, the rifle long favored by police in Europe for picking off bad guys at five hundred meters. To the novice it looked like just another bolt-action rifle. It wasn't. The barrel was heavy, straight-tapered. Rifling was deep, with a fast twist that gave the bullet high rotational velocity for gyroscopic stabilization. The barrel was freefloating in its walnut stock, removing any pressure spots inside that could deflect the bullet as the barrel produces its sinusoidal wave whip on firing. Topping it off was a Beeman R66 scope.

"Nice," Bolan said, looking up at Rita.

She smiled. "I still have some friends from the force. Get me a few specialty items."

Bolan studied her a moment. Tall, poised, hair light brown with an almost reddish tint. Her clothes were no more expensive or fancy than the other women's — black denim pants, blue sweater, black jersey vest — but she wore them with the easy grace of a model. She looked confident, sure of herself. Some of that came from her aristocratic background, no doubt, but a lot of it had been earned out on the streets as a cop. And in the department as a woman.

Bolan picked through the rest of the guns. A Remington Model 870 shotgun; an H&K 93 with retracting stock, bipod, scope and mount; a Stevens Model 520 shotgun, two Star Model PD. 45's, and two S&W Model 586 .357's with eight-inch barrels.

Better than he'd hoped for.

"Well?" Shawnee asked.

"It'll do." Bolan snatched up the black pants and black turtleneck sweater they'd bought for him on their way back from retrieving the guns.

"I'll change and we'll hit the road."

Lynn Booker stood up from the sofa, drinking from a can of cola. "Belinda wants to see you first. In the kitchen."

Bolan tucked his clothes under his arm and marched to the kitchen. The door was closed. When he entered, the radio was playing classical music. Belinda was sitting at the kitchen table humming along. Lined up on the table were a dozen grenades. They were standard Army olive with yellow lettering that said Hand Grenades, Frag M26, Comp B. "This what they taught you in home?" Bolan said.

Belinda laughed, twisting a lock of her short blond hair between her fingers. "The way to a man's heart and all that. Of course, these babies will remove that heart first." There was no phony country twang in her voice now, just pure New Jersey.

Bolan picked up one of the grenades.

"Where'd you get these?" he asked. "They're Army."

"We took 'em from one of Demoines's places we raided. Guess he stole them. Can you use them?"

Bolan looked at Belinda, sitting there, calmly discussing grenades. With those pale green eyes it was hard to believe she was part of the same Savannah Swingsaw that had been terrorizing the local Mafia kingpin, Clip Demoines.

Except that Shawnee had already told him Belinda's specialty was handling the chain saw.

Cut through a roulette table faster than a hot knife through butter.

"Yeah," Bolan replied. "They won't go to waste. Now get out of here and let me change. We leave in two minutes."

She smiled, ducked out of the room.

Bolan changed into the dark clothes and was back in the living room in less than a minute. "Who are the best shots?"