Don Pendleton: Savannah Swingsaw

Dedicated to Sir Anthony Berry, British cabinet minister in Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher's government, who died as a result of a terrorist bombing at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, England, 1984.

The squad car chased Bolan into the dark alley. An unexpected flash thundershower an hour before had left the pavement slick and shiny under the full moon's harsh light. Bolan's feet splashed through muddy potholes as he ran, bumping overstuffed trash cans, spooking a prowling tomcat. Behind him, the police cruiser followed slowly, relentlessly, colored lights pulsing atop the roof. Bolan could hear the worn shock absorbers squeak as the car bounced over the ruts in the road. The only way out of this alley now was straight ahead. Another thirty yards of slimy wet hardtop would see him to the other end.

If the cops decided they weren't in the mood to chase him, then a bullet would be faster, easier.... Well, he'd worry about that then.

Bolan raced for the end of the narrow street, a plain brown paper bag twisted at the neck and gripped in one hand, an untraceable Smith and Wesson Model 67 38 Combat Masterpiece in the other.

He stuffed the sack into his worn leather aviator's jacket as he ran. The laneway opened onto Decatur Street, busy enough that he might get lost in the late evening weekend traffic.

In the distance, the headlights of passing cars and the moonlight lent a fluorescent effect to the scene.

A dying man's fantasy of the pearly gates, Bolan thought with a grimace. The Executioner had no such fantasies. Not anymore. He'd seen enough of heaven and hell right here on earth. "Stop!" The bullhorn from the squad car squawked. "Throw your gun down. Now!" Bolan kept running, his arms and legs pistoning like a dragster's engine.

Ten yards more. The humid Atlanta air slicked his skin, made his bulky clothes unbearable. He sucked in air hungrily, but the air was too hot to satisfy his burning lungs. Still, he headed for the open end of the alley. Suddenly a second squad car bounced into view with squealing tires, plugging the exit. Its light whirled dizzily, its radio crackling with instructions from the dispatcher. Bolan skidded to a stop as he saw the two uniformed men grab shotguns and spill onto the street. He spun and ran back the way he came, toward the first car. The cruiser was also parked now, its doors open as far as they could go before scraping against a building.

Behind each door crouched a young policeman, aiming a shotgun at Bolan.

"Drop it, hotshot," the black officer yelled from the driver's side. The young white cop behind the other door was blinking nervously. He looked as if he had a bad itch and the only way to scratch was to pull that trigger.

Bolan hesitated, glanced over his shoulder at the two other cops kneeling behind their squad-car fenders. Then something moved behind the trash can.

The white cop swung his shotgun around and squeezed off two rounds before his partner's crisp voice broke through the panic. "Jess! Damn it. Stop shooting!"

But the old dented garbage can already had a pair of fist-size holes chewed through it. The lid flew off and the can toppled over. The ragged metal edges scraped along the pavement as it tumbled lazily toward the second squad car, spilling garbage as it turned.

Behind where the can used to sit, a wet splotch of fur, blood and guts was all that was left of the cat.

The fluids that had kept the small creature alive leaked out onto the damp ground, mixing with the oil, dirt and slime of a hundred other unwitnessed tragedies that had taken place in that dark alley.

"Hell, Jess," the black cop said, shaking his head. "You know better'n that. Now we gotta talk to a shooting team."

"Sorry, man," Jess said, shrugging.

The two cops at the other end were laughing.

"Bagged yourself a real bobcat there, Jess," one of them taunted.

"Yessir," his partner joined in. "Meanest damn cat I ever seen. Fangs and claws and everything. Saved the whole damn city from certain destruction."

"Knock it off," the black cop shouted. Then he turned to Bolan, still frozen between the two squad cars headlights. "Do yourself a favor, slick. Drop your gun and get down on your knees, hands on top of your head. Don't think about it, just do it."

Bolan tossed the .38 into a nearby puddle and folded his hands on his head.

"Fine, now on your knees."

"Don't push it," Bolan said quietly to him.

He didn't. The four cops stood up and closed in on the Executioner, their shotguns leveled at his chest.

"Get his gun, Jess," the black cop said.

The kid nodded, glanced over at the mangled lump of wet fur by the wall, swallowed something bitter in his throat, then bent over the muddy puddle and daintily fished out Bolan's .38 with two fingers. One of the officers from the second squad car, the only one as big as Bolan, shoved him roughly up against the brick wall of the nearest building and frisked him. He pulled the paper bag out of Bolan's jacket and peered inside.

"Hundred and twenty-eight dollars. Same as was stolen from the liquor store."

"Wallet?" the black cop asked.

"Nope."

"Any ID?"

"Nuthin'. No car keys, parking stubs, not even chewing gum. Clean as duck spit."

The black officer clamped the cuffs on Bolan's wrists and used the shotgun to prod him toward the squad car. Jess dogged after them, still holding the dripping .38 between two fingers. "Meet you guys back at the station," the black cop told the other two. They nodded, climbed back into their vehicle and backed it through the small crowd that had gathered at the mouth of the alley.

"Book him, Jess," the senior officer said, slamming the door behind Bolan.

Bolan sat at the gray metal table, wiping the ink from his fingertips with the rough paper towel. A skinny plainclothes policeman wearing an ill-fitting toupee sat across from him lazily moving a stir stick around in his Styrofoam cup of coffee. He hadn't offered Bolan any. In fact the only thing he offered Bolan was a chance to make one phone call. They'd been sitting there for fifteen minutes, while man speaking. The skinny cop just kept staring and stirring. The only sound was a faint rattling in the air-conditioning duct. If it wasn't for the rattle, Bolan wouldn't have known the air-conditioning was even on. The room must have been ninety-five degrees. The humidity was like an invisible gel pushing at him from all sides. The skinny cop put down the cup and took off his jacket, all the time staring at Bolan. Dark wet stains drooped under each arm.

"Kinda hot in here for coffee," Bolan said.

"Is it hot in here?" the officer said.

That ended conversation for another ten minutes. The silent treatment was supposed to make Bolan nervous so he tried to act nervous, fidgeting with the inky paper towel, glancing anxiously at the clock on the wall, studying the green acoustic squares that paneled walls and ceiling.

Then the door opened and a scrappy-looking guy walked in, no taller than five foot six, but thick like a jeep. He wore a natty three-piece blue suit and carried a beat-up leather briefcase. Bolan guessed him to be around forty-two. "I got about two minutes, Culver. What we got here?" He had a soft Georgia accent.