His head exploding, the biker flew aside, his dead finger sending a burst into the carob's trunk and the next-door house. Window glass fell. Glen disentangled the Colt from his shirt, pointed the Magnum everywhere in the yard, looking for any other bikers. Shooting continued elsewhere in the neighborhood. Glen went to the back door, looked inside the house.

Chris Davis gagged, the auto-loading shotgun on the floor beside him. Glen jerked him to his feet, put the shotgun in his hands.

"Great timing, kid. But get sick later, I need you to cover the driveway."

Wiping his mouth, Chris nodded. He lifted the auto-loader and went to a window over the driveway.

Glen dashed outside, stripped the biker's jacket, weapons and ammunition. He had no radio. Seeing the helmet, Glen spilled out the blood and took possession of it also.

"Stay here," Glen told Chris. He dropped the jacket and helmet beside the teenager. "Put those on." Then he ran into the living room, where his wife and Roger watched the street.

"We couldn't warn you!" Ann told him.

"Chris took care of him. Pack up, we're moving again."

"What's going on up there?" Roger asked.

"They're burning the block. We've got to find someplace to hide where they won't look, won't even suspect..."

"Where?" Ann asked.

"I don't know," he told them. "I don't know."

Running up the hillside, Blancanales saw Carl's body sprawled just below the ridge. "Oh, no! Lyons, Lyons."

Blancanales ripped the compact first-aid kit from his battle rig, and popped open the plastic lid as he fell to his knees beside Lyons. Something sagged under the bullet-torn Outlaws jacket. Hoping to God he wouldn't see spilled intestines, Blancanales opened the jacket.

The .308 slug had sliced across Lyons' ribs, cutting the nylon strap of the bandolier of cartridges for the Mannlicher. It was the bandolier that made the bulge in the jacket. Blancanales tore open Lyons' shirt, looking for the wound. A long, bloody gash marked the path of the slug. But only at one small point did the white of a rib show. There were no other bullet wounds. Lyons groaned.

"Ah, you crazy bastard, you're alive!" Blancanales half-lifted his friend from the dirt and dry grass of the slope.

"Let me go, Latin lover," Lyons groaned. "Oh... does my head hurt."

Blancanales took a squeeze bottle of alcohol from his kit and doused the long wound as Lyons lay back. The ex-cop jerked up, his eyes wide with pain. He shoved the squeeze bottle away, then touched the back of his head, his hand coming away bloody.

They both glanced up the hillside and saw one particular rock. Some of Lyons' hair and blood smeared the jutting stone. "What luck," Lyons griped. "One rock on the hill, and I hit my head on it."

"Don't knock your luck. It's not every day you get machine-gunned and walk away from it." He finished his fast job of local bandaging.

"I'm not walking anywhere, I hurt. Do I hurt..."

The older man jerked Lyons to his feet. He handed him the Mannlicher and bandolier of cartridges. "March or die, Lyons. The cavalry's on the way, and we're the Indians."

They returned slowly to the ridge to where they had left their motorcycles. Blancanales radioed ahead: "Good news, Gadgets. There's three of us yet."

Lyons looked back at the ambush. Tires were still burning. Charred bodies littered the highway and road. He counted corpses.

"Sixteen. Decent score."

Already at the motorcycles, Gadgets lashed the black plastic-wrapped M-60 to his bike's chromed roll bar. As he saw Blancanales and Lyons approaching, he told them: "We got a new development."

He switched on the scanner/auto-recorder's play back: "This is Brognola, Stony Man Farm. I have received information from a joint FBI/CIA investigation. Details suggest one of the theoreticians may be a Soviet agent planted in American atomic energy program back in the late fifties. Repeat, Soviet long-term agent, a mole. Investigation is ongoing.

"There is not yet conclusive evidence that he is in fact an enemy agent," the familiar voice continued, undetected by the Outlaws because of scrambling. "However, on his return from the West Coast, he was to be transferred to a non-military study group. His name is John Severine. His photo, description, and biographical details are in the folder on the theoreticians. We attempted to match the voice you recorded to his lecture tapes. However, it is not possible to conclusively confirm or eliminate Severine is the voice due to electronic degradation of voice as received. Request brief broadcast of voice without scrambler or screech. Voicegraph then possible.

"FBI/CIA investigators urge capture of Severine. It is imperative he does not escape.

"Presence of Severine on the island, and his possible complicity in seizure, precludes fulfillment of one point in ransom demands. By highest authority, under no circumstances will nuclear submarine make delivery of the released felons and twenty million dollars in gold. Diesel submarine will make delivery. Severine is very knowledgeable of nuclear submarines. He can be expected to recognize the substitution, and this may affect fate of hostages. Highest authority accepts responsibility.

"Coordinated assault impossible while gang surrounds hostages. LAPD units are on standby, full alert. You disperse Outlaws, then call for units. Also, Outlaw radio conversations have been monitored by private craft beyond three-mile limit. Media are now aware of crisis. Please resolve at earliest possible time. Out." The emphasis was clear.

"A Soviet agent teamed up with a bike gang?" Lyons shook his head. "Far out. Only in California," he added, gazing over the hills. The three men stood in the early afternoon sun, refueling their confidence for the higher stakes yet to come. They were battle weary, battle sore, that was the truth.

Her hands up in the air, the shotgun against her back, Ann Shepard stepped off the curb. She stumbled slightly. Roger caught her arm with his good hand. The Outlaw behind him cruelly jabbed him with the barrel of an M-14 rifle, sending the curly-haired teenager sprawling in the street. Roger grimaced with pain as he fell on his rag-wrapped right arm. Blood stained the cloth. The Outlaws stood over him, their weapons pointed at him, until he stood and walked again.

The Outlaws, one in a chromed Nazi helmet, the other sporting a bandage on his face and a stubble of beard, pushed the teenager and pregnant woman across the shady street. In addition to the weapons, that the bikers pointed at Ann and Roger, they carried shotguns slung over their backs. They wore pistol belts. Bandoliers crossed their jacket's insignia of flaming skull: "Forever Outlaws."

A block behind them, several houses smoked and crackled. Outlaws stood on the sidewalk, assault rifles and shotguns ready. They could care less if the entire island ignited into flame. From time to time, they fired at a movement or shadow in the side yards. They had contingency plans for major fire. They thought they had contingency plans for everything.

As fast as the pregnant woman could walk, the Outlaws marched their prisoners the length of the block, leaving Avalon's residential area. At Crescent Street, the Outlaws prodded them down toward the Casino.

Tourists usually crowded Crescent on Sundays. Only steps from the sand, its shops and hotels viewed the boats moored in Avalon Bay. But today, the warm wind stirring the palms carried smoke and ash. Today, broken plate glass and litter from the looted shops covered the deserted street and walkways.

The Outlaws on motorcycles cruised past the bikers escorting the prisoners; they slowed. Not looking back as the Outlaws U-turned, the biker with his face bandaged shoved the pregnant woman: "The hotel!"