Don Pendleton - Savannah Swingsaw

Shawnee gunned the engine and the car kicked up dirt as it tore down the road. A tree along the narrow road bumped the door closed behind Bolan.

"I didn't see their cars," Bolan said.

"They must've parked them farther down the main road, then walked to the cabin. This is the only way in."

"Good, they won't be following us too soon."

"But they will follow us," Shawnee said.

Bolan nodded. "Yeah, they'll be coming. No matter where we go."

"Where are we going?" Dodge Reed asked. He was breathing heavy from the adrenaline, but his eyes were clear.

"We're going to the point of origin of those shipments you discovered in that computer. We've got to find out exactly what it is they're shipping that they'd kill to protect."

Shawnee glanced at Bolan. "Miami?"

"Miami," Bolan repeated.

Everyone was silent as they bounced along the bumpy dirt road. Most of them were thinking about Belinda, mourning her loss. Bolan understood this and didn't disturb the silence. What he had to say next could wait a few more miles.

Clip Demoines sat behind his desk and picked at the green alligator on the chest of his blue shirt. His feet, sockless and clad in deck shoes, were propped on top of his huge mahogany desk. The desk had been his uncle's, the very one he'd been sitting at the night Clip had shot him in the back. Things were arranged downtown and burglary was claimed. Someone was even arrested for the crime, though he was mysteriously stabbed to death in prison before he came to trial. Books were closed on Uncle Dominick's unfortunate demise.

"I want them, Tom," Demoines said calmly into the telephone. He listened patiently, then interrupted his friend. "I don't have time for the excuses and bitching today. This one's important. You get the usual amount plus a $50,000 bonus. Agreed?" Demoines listened. "I don't care what excuse you use, Tom. You're the cop, think of something coplike. I gave you the car make and model and the license number. Now you find them. Today." He hung up.

Clip Demoines leaned forward, ran his fingertips lightly along the smooth varnished wood.

That made him feel better. The only flaw in the wood was a tiny chip where Uncle Dom's front tooth gouged out a nick when, after Clip had shot him, his head had fallen onto the desk. Demoines had left the little flaw in the wood unfixed. For sentimental reasons. Aloud knock at the door.

"Come on," Demoines said.

The door opened and Ron Thaxton entered.

Thaxton was Demoines's lieutenant and adviser.

It had been his advice that Demoines not go personally to see the Savannah Swingsaw last night. He had suggested sending an army of men to wipe them out while he and Demoines were seen at some social function. But Demoines had wanted to be there, to personally punish the scum who had busted up his places, who had cost him money.

For Demoines could stand anything but the loss of money. That was personal, as if someone had raped him. For that there was only the ultimate punishment.

Death.

"So?" he asked Thaxton.

Thaxton shrugged. "Word's out all over the state. Everybody's on the lookout for the car and they've got the descriptions of all the people."

"Especially that big guy. The one in black. I want him, Ron, you understand that?"

Thaxton nodded. He understood that there would be no other business until this matter was settled. That despite his Harvard MBA, Clip Demoines was still a hood at heart. He still believed in vendettas and all that stuff. Sometimes such things were good business, but there was a time, Thaxton thought, when it was best to cut your losses and run. You didn't need a goddamn MBA to know that much.

Demoines rose and began pacing behind his desk.

"That man, the big one, I want to know everything about him you can dig up. Check the fingerprints we lifted, check his story about jail. Check everything."

"I will, Clip." "You'd better, Ron," Demoines said, stopping to face his lieutenant. "Because by tomorrow night he's a dead man. Or you are."

Though the voice on the phone was solemn, there was a faint hint of glee, as if he was secretly pleased at Zavlin's failure.

"I will have to make a full report, Gamesman."

Zavlin smiled into the phone. "Of course."

"Detailing your failure."

Zavlin winced. There it was again. That word — failure.

Control had managed to work it into the conversation three times now. It was not a word he'd had occasion to hear before in regard to his own work. He did not want to ever hear it again.

"Have you alerted our people?"

"Yes."

The control sighed, as if to say it was a hopeless gesture. "Every road, every town, every bus station, train depot, plane terminal to Miami is being watched. Seems a vast expenditure of manpower, a waste of time."

"We must assume that the boy Reed told this Damon Blue what he saw in the computer."

"But it is doubtful that the boy knew what any of that meant."

"Doubtful, yes, but not impossible. Besides, whatever he knew or didn't know, he's undoubtedly told Mr. Blue by now."

"But this Damon Blue is nothing more than a petty crook, a thief."

Zavlin chuckled hoarsely. "Perhaps. But not likely."

"His records say..."

"Never mind his records. I saw him in action. I saw the way he moved, the way he handled himself. This man is no petty crook. He is much, much more."

There was a thoughtful pause. When the voice spoke again, it was hesitant, a little frightened. "Now what, Gamesman? You know the importance of the mission. What we are doing now will erode the entire economic structure of the United States, possibly plunge them into the worst depression in history."

"I know the stakes, Control," Zavlin snapped. "Our aim now is to locate and kill them before they leave the state. We don't want any violence to take place near the distribution warehouse. That might cause undue interest in our activities."

"Yes. Yes, that is true."

Zavlin grinned. Control was nervous, quite willing to relinquish all responsibility into Zavlin's capable hands. "All we must do now is wait for our contacts to report. Our network of paid informers is second to none. Once they are spotted, I will go there and kill them."

"Indeed," Control said, gathering some of his courage again. "We can afford no more failures."

That word again, Zavlin grimaced and hung up.

He brushed a hand through his white hair. He would make the man in black pay with more than his life for allowing the word 'failure' to be spoken in the same breath as the name of Zavlin.

"Forget it!" Rita St. Clair said. "I'm not doing it!"

Lynn Booker, holding her wounded arm, agreed. "Neither am I. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Bolan said patiently. "It's good sense. They're going to be on the lookout for us all through this state and Florida. Look at us. Traveling together we're not too hard to spot."

Rita shook her head. "Okay, then we split up and meet in Miami."

"No. You travel separately, each in a different direction. Except south. That's where they'll be looking for you."

They were parked by the side of the road with a map of Georgia spread out on the hood. The car was a blue Nova they'd hotwired and driven off a used car lot a couple of hours before. They'd switched plates at a roadside diner.

Shawnee looked up from the map at the two women. "Mack's right," she said sadly. "We have to split up for now. Rita can go up and visit her folks."

"Swell," Rita said bleakly.

"Lynn, you take off for San Francisco. Get lost in the Asian community."

The Oriental nodded.

"Let's get moving," Shawnee said, "we've got some plane tickets to buy. At different terminals, of course."