Bolan swung back up the stairway and erupted into the alcove. Gunsmoke Harrington lay there on his back, his chest wetly red and his lips flecked with red foam. "Look out, Sarge," he said faintly, and died.

A white-haired man loomed up in Bolan's side vision. A shotgun roared just as Bolan flung himself toward the corner. Bolan felt the sting of several straggling pellets, and he knew that the main charge had missed him. He was twisting about to bring the chopper up, when DiGeorge flung the shotgun at him and darted for the front door. The discarded gun flanged against Bolan's weapon and diverted his aim. He scrambled to his feet and gave chase, reaching the steps just as the whine of police sirens bored in on his consciousness.

The house was engulfed in flames now. Bolan staggered down the steps, his mind numbed, and walked stiffly through Incredible carnage. Bodies littered the drive in front of the house, and there was no movement anywhere Bolan could see. He gazed down at the grotesquely curled caricature of what had once been Deadeye Washington. Several yards away lay the remains of Boom-Boom Hoffower. Flower Child Andromede was crumped atop the fifty.

Bolan threw back his head and yelled, "Zitter! Brother! Regroup!"The sirens were screaming up the blacktop—almost to the gate, Bolan figured. He jogged around the corner of the house and immediately found Zitka. The fierce little fighter was clutching a machine pistol and snarling, even in death.

Bolan found Bloodbrother Loudelk at the rear. Half of his head was missing. Otherwise, he looked very peaceful. In life, Bolan thought, so in death. He wearily returned to the Porsche, wondering where all the enemy had gone, and tossed the chopper onto the rear deck, then slumped into the seat. He was sealed in, and the rest of the squad was dead. Who the hell cared about the enemy? What a hell of a mess he had made of things. They should have aborted. They should, at least, have lain back and figured out some better way to make this strike.

The sirens were swinging through the gates now, starting the short journey down the promontory. Bolan started the Porsche and wheeled it around into the grass. His heel hurt like hell, and he was slowly discovering other nicks and scrapes in tender places. He gunned away from the sirens and drew up at the low wooden railing that marked the end of land, then got out and unhurriedly studied the drop to the ocean below. Blood-brother had been right; it looked like nothing but rocks below. No chance of diving for it—he'd never clear those rocks. Unless ...

Bolan got back into the Porsche, securely fastened the safety belt, and gunned back to the driveway. He could see the flashing bubble-gum machines on top of their cars now. Quite a parade. He sighed. The Death Squad was a dead squad now. He'd offered them wealth and glory and given them only death in a war that nobody cheered for. Like 'Nam. Yeah, just like 'Nam.

He double-checked the safety belt, then screamed around in a wild U-turn, straightening out into a full-power run toward the wooden railing. His tires slipped a bit on the damp grass, but the needle kept climbing in a steady movement toward the end of the speedometer. He nipped a glance into the rear-view mirror. The parade had arrived at the front of the house, and bluesuits with riot guns were pouring out everywhere. A lone vehicle was tearing on after the Porsche.

The needle was vibrating at 120 when he felt the slight resistance of the flimsy barrier, and then he was floating free, arcing out into a beautiful dive over the blue Pacific. "Roll call," he muttered. The entire squad was sitting there with him; they had all brought him here, each one, through gallantry above and beyond the call. And he was taking them with him, in effect anyway, in this final, desperate, gallant fling through this hell called life.

Carl Lyons had left his car at the blacktop and walked down to the water's edge. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. If he'd been in that hurtling vehicle, Lyons reasoned, and if he'd been still alive when the thing settled into the water, and if he'd managed to get out of it, and if he'd had the strength and the guts and the determination to try swimming to freedom—then this would be the spot he would be trying for. Not that there was much chance of Bolan's swimming away from that plunge. Just the same … The coast-guard boat had responded promptly, and they were even now preparing to send divers down. If and when they came up with a body, then and only then would Carl Lyons believe that Bolan was dead.

A soft sound behind him spun him around, and the sergeant found himself gazing into the bore of a .38 police special. The gun was in the hand of Lieutenant Charlie Rickert, and the eyes behind the gun looked anything but sane, even in the muted nightlight.

"What're you doing here, Rickert?" Lyons asked calmly.

"You and Bolan didn't really think you could pull it off, did you?" Rickert sneered. "On the twenty-four-hour cop? You didn't actually think you'd make it stick, did you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Get your hands behind your head! What the hell you think? You know damn well what I'm talking about. You and Bolan cooked this thing up.

Did you think I'd hold still for that kind of crap, Lyons?" Rickert laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "You thought Charlie Rickert couldn't find out. Look, wet-behind-the-ears, I was a cop while you was still sucking tit."

"What are you hoping to accomplish, Rickert?" Lyons was slowly shifting to one side, trying to maneuver his new adversary into a better light.

"Just stand still!" Rickert snarled.

"How long have you been a bad cop, Rickert?"

"I'm going to kill you, youngster. You know that, don't you?"

"Why, Rickert?" Lyons had detected a flicker of motion in the shadows behind Rickert. He kept the conversation going and again began a slow movement toward the water. "What do you have to gain? Braddock has all the evidence he needs. He's already signed your suspension. A full-scale investigation will start tomorrow."

"No, no, no. All they have is contrived evidence, put together by a mass murderer and his cop accomplice."

"What ever gave you the idea that I've been working with Bolan, Rickert?"

"Charlie Rickert has his ways, and Charlie Rickert knows all. Don't you worry how I found out. You're a lousy cop, Lyons. You can't even spot a tail. I been on you all night."

"Just waiting for a chance like this, eh?"

That's right. Just waiting for a chance ... just ... like ... this!" Rickert had thrust the .38 forward and was squeezing down on the trigger, when the shadow behind him came alive. A hand chopped down on his gun arm, and an elbow burrowed into his gut as the gun was falling. The shadow whirled, a fist arched out and splattered into Rickert's face, and he went down without a sound.

A hand quickly scooped up the fallen .38, and a familiar voice said, "We're always meeting."

Lyons stared at the tall, dripping figure in the black suit. "How long you been standing behind that rock, Bolan?" he asked.

"Long enough to get my breath," Bolan replied, still panting slightly.

"Then you heard the gist of that conversation?"

"I heard it."

"You knew he was about to gun me down. Why didn't you wait another second? Then you could have chopped him and had a clear field."

Bolan shrugged. "I couldn't bug off and leave Tommy to solve that problem alone."

"What?"

"You know. The moles."

Lyons chuckled. "I've been doing some reading on lawn pests, Bolan. They're destructive, yeah, but they serve a useful purpose too. This book tells me I shouldn't be too quick to cut down on the moles. Guess I'll try a bit of peaceful coexistence."