Savannah Swingsaw te-74

by Don Pendleton

  Maybe, Bolan thought, it was April's love that had kept him from becoming too hard, too much like their enemies. Revenge was a powerful fuel, sure, but it was dangerous. It could destroy the very engine it was fueling. April had kept that from happening to Bolan. Yeah, he missed her. Always would.

  By that he couldn't deny certain feelings he had for Shawnee. Not brotherly feelings anymore.

  "You think this kiss will make me change my mind?" Bolan said when they parted.

  "About what?" she said.

  He grinned. "Okay, I'm going to use you and your Savannah Swingsaw. Not because of anything that's happened between us, but because I have an idea."

  "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."

  13

  "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?"

  "Rita's the best," Shawnee said. "Then me."

  "Then me," Lynn said. She stood in the middle of the room, the can of cola in one hand, the H&K 93 in the other.

  Bolan looked at her pretty Vietnamese features and flashed back for a moment to Nam. He shook it off just as quickly. "Okay, that means Belinda waits for us at your safe house out in the country. Once we've snatched Dodge Reed, we'll be coming straight there, so have the second car ready and waiting. Also, the cash and change of clothes for everyone."

  "Check," Belinda said.

  "Good. Now, anybody got something we can carry those grenades in?"

  Shawnee snapped her fingers.

  "My bike pack. It's small, but they'll fit." She dashed down the hall into the bedroom and brought it back to Bolan. It was dark blue with a red reflector sewn onto the back. Bolan ripped the reflector off, loaded the grenades and swung the pack onto his back. He grabbed one of the S&W Model 586 .357's and stuck it in his pants under his sweater. He pocketed a box of shells.

  Shawnee grabbed the other .357 as well as the Remington Model 870 shotgun. Rita took the Krico Super Sniper. They left the Stevens shotgun and the .45's for Belinda to take back to the cabin. The women looked tense, like a sports team right before a big game. Only more so.

  "Relax," Bolan said, leading them out the door. "What's one more kidnapping among friends?"

  14

  "What's this all about?" Lyle Carrew asked the guard who was unlocking his cell.

  "They wanna talk to you. That's all they told me."

  Carrew wheeled out of the cell and started down the walk ahead of the guard. The guard knew better than to try to push the chair for Carrew, even down those four tricky stairs at the end. The guy let it be known he did things for himself, so that's the way it would be.

  They arrived at the warden's office ten minutes later. The warden's secretary was close to seventy-five now, and looked at every prisoner, no matter his crime, with the same scolding expression, as if they were naughty boys up to no good.

  "Go ahead in," she told Carrew. "And you behave yourself. Warden left instructions that everyone cooperate fully with that man in there. Governor's office and all."

  "Okay, Mrs. Simpson," the black inmate said, opening the door and wheeling into the warden's office.

  The man behind the warden's desk was not the warden, just as Mrs. Simpson had indicated. He was a tall thin man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit.

  Although he looked to be in his late thirties, his hair was pure white. The dark brown eyes contrasted with the white hair and fair skin to give him an intense look. He sucked on a pipe, puffing bitter smoke into the air as Carrew rolled closer. "Come in, Mr. Carrew." He spoke with a lavish Southern accent, smiling around the stem of his pipe. "Preciate your coming in here and talking with me like this."

  "What do you want, Colonel Sanders?"

  The man looked confused for a moment, then chuckled.

  "Oh, yes, Colonel Sanders. The white hair. Very funny." He chuckled again. "I'm Jacob Frye from the governor's office, Mr. Carrew. The governor's a little concerned about what's gone on here in the past twenty-four hours. Four prisoners murdered, one guard with his head bashed in who claims he didn't see nothin'. Another prisoner escapes." He spread his hands as if hopelessly confused. "What am I to think?"

  "Beats me."

  "Damon Blue was your cellmate."

  "True." "He had a run-in with one of the murdered prisoners, Bertrand Stovell, also called Rodeo. Over another prisoner, uh..." He checked the open file folder on the desk. "Some kid, Dodge Reed."

  "I don't know anything about that."

  "You were there in the yard when it happened."

  Carrew shrugged. "Big yard."

  The man stood up, sighed with frustration. "The governor doesn't want some kind of Attica thing going on down here, not this close to election. We've had enough bad publicity about our prison system. Now if there are problems, let's hear about them. Let's talk reforms. If it's a racial thing, let's rap, work out the details. Just tell me what you know about Damon Blue. Who helped him escape?"

  Carrew laughed. ""Let's rap that. Where you been, man, this is the eighties. You've been reading outdated books about the jargon of black Americans. Can you dig it, bro?"

  The man shook his head sternly, picking at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. "I'm sorry if you find my concern amusing, Mr. Carrew. Most of the men in here don't have the luxury of being able to get out to a comfortable university professorship. A university funded, I might point out, by state money. Money controlled to some degree by the governor."

  "Are you threatening to have me fired, Mr. Frye?"

  The man laughed softly, circling around the desk, walking behind Carrew's wheelchair. Carrew didn't bother turning around to look at the white-haired man. "No, no, Mr. Carrew. The governor never makes threats. It was merely a civics lesson, nothing more, I assure you." A moment of silence as Carrew felt the man's presence directly behind him. "The governor believes much more in the carrot than the stick."

  "Ah, a bribe."

  "An offering. One hand washing the other. Charges dropped, record cleared."

  "And you want what?"

  "Just information."

  "About Damon Blue."

  "Yes. And his relationship with Dodge Reed."

  Carrew shook his head. "I don't know anything. He was my cellmate for a couple days. Kept to himself."

  "That's all?" he said, stepping around to face Carrew, those brown eyes burning under the white hair. "That's all you intend to tell me?"

  "That's all," Carrew said.

  The man looked at his watch, sighed again. "I believe you, Mr. Carrew. And it's getting too late to keep trying."

  There was something in the man's voice that startled Carrew. The rich Southern accent was gone, the tone flat, the speech precise. He was picking at the thread on his sleeve button again when Carrew saw the button pop off and thread emerge from the sleeve into a foot-long wire with a button on the other end.

  Suddenly the tall man was behind him, the metal strand looped around his neck.

  The handicapped black tried to get his hand up to protect his throat, but the tall man was too fast. The wire pinned the tip of Carrew's middle finger against his own throat as the garrote bit deep into the nail. He could feel his pulse thrashing wildly in his neck. He dropped his free hand to grope for the shank hidden in his chair. But the pressure of the tightening wire kept him off balance.

  He felt the wire sawing through his finger, slicing into the sides of his neck. Finally, in a burst of strength from the tall man, the thin wire severed the tip of the finger, freeing Carrew's hand, but allowing the wire to sink into his throat. He grabbed at the wire, fingernails clawing to get at it. He stretched his hands back, clamped them around the tall man's wrists, trying to break the grip. He couldn't. His own strength was ebbing. He could feel the warm blood dripping down his throat as if he'd dribbled on himself while drinking coffee. His hands fell to his sides helpless. Long bony fingers grasped his chin and the back of his head and he knew what was coming next even as he felt the sudden pressure of hands pushing and pulling in opposite directions, heard his vertebrae cracking as his neck broke and he slumped into his wheelchair and into death.

  Zavlin unwound the wire from Carrew's neck, stuffed it into his pocket. He'd found out all he could here. He figured his forged papers would be good for a
n hour before suspicions might arise.

  The hour was almost up. It had been a risk, but he had to make sure about this Damon Blue, be certain no one had learned anything from Dodge Reed. The black man, Carrew, knew something, but it would have taken too long to force him to talk. He was too tough. Better to kill him, make sure he didn't tell anyone else whatever he found out.

  Zavlin checked his watch again. He had almost ruined everything by his misuse of the black jargon. He was a master at accents, languages, dialects. But there were a few he still had trouble with, especially the black street talk. It changed too quickly, always adding new words, altering the meanings of existing ones.

  He popped the contact lens out of his right eye. The tinted lens had changed the color from blue to brown, but he didn't like keeping it in too long. It irritated his eye. He blinked rapidly and put it back in. Then he left the room, telling the ancient secretary and the guard outside the door that he wanted to get some documents from his car and would return. They weren't to disturb the prisoner, but if he attempted to make a phone call, they were to monitor it. The old crone seemed to get some pleasure from that possibility.

  Ten minutes later, Zavlin was driving through Atlanta to meet the three KGB assassins he'd sent for. By now they should already be in position. The prison van carrying Dodge Reed was only a few minutes behind him. Just as he'd planned.

  * * *

  "So what's the plan, Mack?" Shawnee piloted her ancient Celica up the Northeast Expressway to Buford Boulevard, edging just past the speed limit, but not enough to alert any cops.