Giordano moved around his desk and depressed an intercom button. A fluttery male voice responded immediately. "You got the money, Jerry?" Giordano asked.

"Yes sir. Twenty-five thousand. Twenties and fifties."

"All right, bring it up. No—meet me out back. Right now."

Giordano broke the connection and thumbed down another station. "Hey!" he barked. "Wake up out there!"

"Yessir—garage," came a crisp reply.

"You got the cars ready?"

"Yessir. We're ready."

"Awright. I'm coming down. Keep your eyes open, dammit."

"Yessir, we're doing that."

Giordano grunted and strode out of his study and through the back of the house. He could hear the carpenters banging noisily in his bedroom, upstairs, and this renewed his irritation with "the dumbhead." He kicked the rear door as he opened it and pounded on the handrail of the stairway with an open palm as he quickly descended to the yard.

A gleaming black-and-chrome Continental occupied the driveway. Five of his best boys were in it, conversing in low tones. The driver waved with his fingers as Giordano strode past and received a slow wink in return.

Il Fortunato stepped into a sparkling white Rolls-Royce and seated himself beside a younger man on whose lap reposed a square black briefcase. The two men up front, in the chauffeur's compartment, wore uniforms of unrelieved black, but white chauffeur's caps with gold braid across the visors. Giordano depressed an intercom button on the armrest and said, "Danny, go back and make sure Bruno understands two minutes."

The uniformed man who was seated beside the driver jerked his head in understanding, stepped out of the Rolls, carefully closed the door, and walked quickly into the garage. Another Continental waited in there, carrying a rear guard of another five men.

"He wants to be sure you understand the two-minute wait before you take off," Danny reported.

A lean young man in the front seat nodded his head curtly. "Christ, yeah, we understand," he replied in obvious disgust. "And in case he's wondering, we got the route, too. Santa Ana freeway to the Riverside cutoff and then, dammit, there ain't any other way to get there."

Danny smiled and returned to the Rolls. He began his report through the thick glass, then remembered, depressed the intercom button, and said, "They're all set, Mr. Giordano."

"They understand they don't leave here for two minutes?" Giordano snapped.

"Yes sir, two minutes, they understand."

"Dumbheads probably don't even know the route."

"Yes sir, Santa Ana Freeway to the cutoff, then the blacktop to the rear gate. They understand."

"Awright," Giordano growled. "Let's go check on our grapefruit."

The chauffeur tapped his horn lightly. The lead Continental moved smoothly along the drive, and the Rolls eased along after it. Giordano settled back into the protection of armor plating and bulletproof glass. Don't play, eh? By God, 'Milio was going to play. And the dumbhead was going to pay.

Deadeye Washington slid hastily down the grassy slope, heavy binoculars strapped about his neck, and called out, "Okay, they just left. Two cars. Big black one in front, Lincoln or something, and a big white limousine, two chauffeurs, man. Sure making it easy to track."

Bolan smiled tightly and slipped a jaunty plaid beret onto his head. "Maybe two damn easy," he said. He leaned into the Corvette and came out with a compact two-way radio. "Trackers," he announced into the mouthpiece, "Eagle says they're loose." Bolan glanced at Washington.

The Negro mouthed the word, "Bloodbrother."

Bolan nodded and continued the announcement without interruption. "One rich Detroit black, one white millionaire close behind, on Track Two."

Loudelk's soft voice purred back immediately. "Affirm. Passing Track Two . . . right . . . now! Track Two now on quarry. Here's the count. Five in Detroit black. Four in big English white tank, repeat, tank. Track Two on target and going away fast."

Zitka's clipped tones leaped in. "Roj, roj, Track One going 'round for pickup at Point Delta."

"Track on loose," Bolan commanded. "It smells, repeat, smells."

A faint "Wilco" came in from Loudelk, followed by a loud retort from Zitka. "Bluesuits on," he yelped. "Tearing toward Track Two. Beware, beware."

"Affirm, Track Two is being wary," replied the cautious Indian voice.

"Close only on signal!" Bolan commanded. He laid the radio on the seat of the Corvette and slid in behind the wheel, made a sign with his fingers to Washington, and spun the little car about in a jouncing circle, then hit the pavement and sped down the hill.

Washington was sprinting toward an idling Mustang parked in a shelter of trees some yards off the street. He climbed in on the passenger's side, rolled his eyes toward Blancanales, and panted, "Okay. Keep 'im in sight."

The Mustang leaped forward. Washington braced himself with his feet and swung the binoculars into the rear seat, lifted the corner of a blanket, shoved a clip into the long Mauser, and settled back with a sigh.

"Bloodbrother says they got a tank," he reported.

Blancanales was whipping the Mustang along the curving downgrade. He raised an eyebrow and said, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Must be one o' them tailor-made bulletproof jobs. Just looked like a big white limousine to me, through the glasses."

"Sounds like it's going to be a ball."

"You don't know nothing yet. Sarge smells an ambush, and Zitter says cops has joined the parade."

"I take it we're trailing loose, then," Blancanales observed. His right hand fumbled on the seat for the radio. He thrust it at Washington. "You'll have to stick the antenna out the window," he instructed. "Find out what the hell we're doing."

The radio became operational just in time for them to hear Bolan's voice command, "Flanks, report in. Flanks."

"Flander Two here," Gunsmoke Harrington drawled. "Flanker One also. We're together and following the play in the Horse."

Blancanales nodded his silent approval. "Good," he whispered.

Bolan was replying, "You're not in sight. Where do you run?"

"We run starboard to track. Will join up at straightaway."

Washington grinned. "Sounds like a Dixie Horserace," he snorted.

"That horse is too conspicuous up here," Blancanales muttered. "But it'll blend in okay on the freeway."

"What if we don't take the freeway?" Washington wondered aloud.

"Doesn't everybody?"

Bolan was now replying, following a brief silence on the radio. "Okay, Flank. Good thinking. Track one, position report."

"Track One is right on bluesuits," Zitka snapped back.

"Are they in official vehicle?"

"Neg, neg. Plainjanes, brown Pontiac. But they're fuzzy, no mistake."

Another brief silence, then: "Okay, and another parader is right on you, buddy-o. Now who the hell?"

They could hear Zitka's carrier wave idling for several seconds before his voice clipped in. "I dunno, but it's a big black and it's got a five count."

"Uh-huh, that's great," Bolan said. "It figures—a delayed rear guard. Okay, Break away, Track One, with caution, and come around on me."

"Roj. Approaching straightaway now. I'll make my move up there."

"Track Two is on station and maintaining," Loudelk reported. "Instructions!"

"Maintain track!" Bolan snapped.

"Affirm."

Blancanales and Washington exchanged solemn glances. They had a good view now of the fiery Corvette ahead. In the distance, they could see the ramp rising to the freeway and the white limousine ascending. Washington craned about to inspect the road behind; then he pressed the transmitter button and spoke into the radio. "Backboard. It's clear to the rear," he reported.

"Roger, Backboard," Bolan replied. "Flanker—I believe I have you in sight now. Can you identify bluesuiter?"