Don Pendleton - Death Squad

"Maybe he'd hit us from over there," Varone observed nervously.

"Hey," DiGeorge scoffed, If he's that good, we don't need to kill 'im, we need to convert 'im. Eh? Don't be an old maid, Zeno. Don't go looking under your bed and in your closet every night, eh? This Bolan is just a guy, like any other guy. He thinks he's hell on wheels, though—a boy commando or something. When he hits, he hits with thunder and lightning. Eh? Look at the way he handled 'Milio. Both times, eh? Thunder and lightning, eh? He can't do anything like that from a half a mile away."

"I guess not, Deej." Varone was still gazing nervously toward the hills.

"So get the boys out where he can see them, in case he's curious. I don't want no thunder and lightning around here. I don't need that kind of publicity."

"Leonardo's arrived," Varone said, looking toward the house.

"Yeah, okay, take his boys too. Make sure they understand, I want them to be seen. It's about time to start. Go on, now, get those boys spread around."

Varone jerked his head in an obedient nod and set off quickly toward the house. DiGeorge walked slowly along the edge of the patio, his eyes absently searching the darkness at the fringe of the lighted area. He chuckled to himself and decided that he should listen to his own advice. This guy Bolan would not be so dumb as to try a hit here tonight. He wondered, though. He wondered just how many thunder-and-lightning tricks this guy had up his sleeve. Then he saw that the nephews were taking their places at the big table at the center of the patio. He pushed the boy commando out of his thoughts for the moment, fixed a big grin on his face, and strode commandingly to the council table.

Deadeye Washington was lying prone in a shallow trough, a clump of umbrella trees to his rear, the long rifle supported by a small tripod. His right eye was fastened to the eyepiece of the large sniperscope, and he was smiling. Just to his left was Mack Bolan, like a twin, sighting down through the big twenty power and grinning.

"Wish I could read tips," Bolan grunted.

"Yeah, man, that'd be cool," Washington agreed quietly. "That's Varone there on the right, the little guy. You figure white-hair is the big daddy?"

"Probably. Looks the part. We'll know for sure when they take their places at the table."

"You're pretty sure about the range?"

Bolan grunted. "Double check me, Deadeye. See the back wall of the house? Those cement blocks measure about eight inches from seam to seam, so ... let's say the top of the seventh block should be five feet off the ground."

"Yeah." Deadeye emitted a long, hissing sigh, then said, "Okay, I get a scale of ..." He pulled his eye off the scope and craned back to peer at a card that had been taped to the stock of the rifle. "You're right, 600 meters is the range." Deadeye sighed again and returned his eye to the scope. "Man, that's a long ways off."

"Figure about one second for these Magnums to make the trip," Bolan advised.

"Yeah. A scared man could travel halfway across that patio in that time. I got quite an oversight, too, even with these Magnums. Your piece sighted in a little bit better than mine. I gotta hold over twenty inches at this range."

"Not exactly fish in a barrel, is it?" Bolan said. "Uh ... what do you figure for the length of that table, Deadeye?"

"Oh ... I'd say ... fifteen feet. Hey! There's a lotta people movin' around down there now. Where'd white-hair go to?"

"Head of the table, to your right. He's your big daddy, all right. Hand me those glasses, Deadeye. Field of vision through this scope is ..."

"Like lookin' through a microscope," Deadeye finished. He passed the binoculars over without disturbing his own position at the rifle.

Bolan took the glasses and raised up over his rifle. "That's better," he said, surveying the DiGeorge layout in the larger field afforded by the binoculars. "And you're right. They're moving the troops around. Plain sight. Now what the hell … ?"

"How many d'you make, Sarge?"

Bolan was moving the glasses in a slow sweep of the expansive grounds. "Hell, about a full company in full sight," he replied slowly. "And they're turning lights on all around."

"Maybe they've flipped. Combat fatigue."

Bolan chuckled. "No. No ... I think ... maybe it's meant to be a show of strength."

"Oh. Like a peacock raisin' its tail, huh?"

"Yeah," Bolan replied, grinning. He swiveled his head toward his left shoulder, depressed the transmitter button, and said, "Horse. Anything?"

Five seconds passed; then Schwarz's voice replied, "Negative. Clear."

Bolan counted to ten, then punched the button again. "Flower." (Pause.) "Take Able Four." (Pause.) "Launch five on signal." (Pause.) "Chopper, cover. Out."

"That'll make Flower very happy," Washington commented softly. "That man sure loves that little grenade launcher."

Bolan nodded grimly and again addressed the radio transmitter. "Caution, caution." He waited ten seconds; then: "Company strength. Extreme caution."

"You're not giving them cops much to zot on to," Washington said, grinning broadly.

Bolan smiled at Washington and fitted his eye to the scope. "Gadgets shook me up," he admitted. "I don't want to take anything for granted, not where these L.A. cops are concerned. I don't give them one damn advantage."

"Those people down there sure giving us one,"

Washington observed. "Even got the table turned our way."

Bolan's heavy rifle was swiveling in its tripod as he slowly tracked along the faces at the council table. "Remember—one second to impact," he reminded his partner. "The man to DiGeorge's left, first one, the fat one, with his back to you. Got him in your field?"

"Yeah, I got him. Don't like the looks of those chairs, though. I'd like to take 'im above the shoulders."

"Any way you want, Deadeye. He's yours. After the scramble, it's sniper's choice. I'm taking the guy to DiGeorge's right."

"What are you holding on for your correction?"

"I'm using the top of the glass door in the background."

Washington sniffed. "Okay. I'll take about an inch offa that. What do you figure for wind?"

"Let's call it a dead calm."

"Dead is right," Washington said. "I'm ready, if you wanta start the count."

"On five," Bolan replied. He took a deep breath and began releasing it in short bursts as he counted, his finger tightening slowly on the hair trigger. "One . . two ... three ..."

Flower Child Andromede reached into the trunk of the automobile and hastily unwrapped the felt-covered grenade launcher, affixed it to his rifle, and snatched up a prepared pouch of rifle grenades. Then he slammed the trunk door and jogged around the end of the car and ran along a six-foot-high wall that fronted the property directly adjacent to the DiGeorge estate. About fifty feet before reaching the thick hedgerow that marked DiGeorge's line, Andromede vaulted to the top of the wall and slithered along on his belly for another twenty feet, halting in the protective overhang of a date-palm frond.

He could see the rear of the DiGeorge house clearly from this position and could even hear small groups of men moving noisily about the grounds, laughing and passing wisecracks back and forth. The entire place was brightly lighted. Two men were playing toss with a tennis ball beneath the floodlights of the tennis court. Another group was at the opposite side of the yard, rolling small balls along a luxuriously green runway. Bolan had been right, and then some. Andromede could spot a full company on this end of the estate alone. He smiled and fitted a grenade onto the launcher. It was going to be "liberation night" for quite a few earthbound entities.