"So you're listening. One, I want my three chemists out of jail. The ones you got in jail for manufacturing a bit of PCP. That's number one."

"Goon."

Horse heard a click on the line. That meant the call was now monitored and recorded. "Two, we want twenty million in gold bullion. Twenty million dollars in gold, understand? And three, you got the nuclear submarine Orizaba parked in San Francisco Bay. You put my men, my gold in the sub and bring it here. You've got forty-eight hours. Understand?"

Behind Horse, the door opened. Two bikers half-dragged, half-carried Deputy Sheriff Fletcher into the room.

Most of Fletcher's right hand had been shot away. Two fingers dangled from a mess of blood and exposed-bones. A tourniquet cut from a telephone cord and knotted above his wrist slowed his loss of blood. His other wounds had not been treated. A gaping wound across one thigh poured blood down his slacks. There was a clear imprint of a boot heel on his face.

"How do I know this isn't a hoax?" the Governor shouted. "You'll have to talk to my people..."

"I got a pal here for you to talk to." Horse turned to the deputy. "Hey, Fletcher. Remember me? During the summer? You whipped my head with your stick, remember?"

Fletcher recognized Horse through swollen eyes. But he said nothing.

"What's wrong? You too fucked up to talk? Does it hurt? Don't sweat it, I got something to make the hurt go away. Just for you. Now talk to the Governor." Horse pushed the handset against the deputy's face. "Tell him your name."

"This... is Deputy Sheriff... Joseph Fletcher, of the Avalon Sheriff's Office. We are under attack by a motorcycle gang. We need..."

"Have they really taken all the people hostage?" the Governor barked down the phone.

"I don't know. They're killing people... they..."

Horse raised his .45 to the deputy sheriff's face. "I'm going to take away the hurt now, Fletcher. Say bye-bye to the Governor."

Fletcher closed his eyes. "Hail Mary, mother of grace. Forgive us our sins, now and at the time of our..."

The shot sent blood spewing over the Harbor Master's map of Santa Catalina Island.

Mist streaked the Virginia mountains. Defining the eastern ridgelines, the first light of day illuminated the autumn colors of the forest. The valley floor remained in darkness. Carl Lyons ran through bands of shadow and startling brilliance. He pumped his legs as if they were components of an unfeeling machine, disregarding muscle pain and rasping breath. He heard Rosario Blancanales a hundred yards below him on the mountainside. Lyons rounded a bend in the trail, took cover behind a fallen tree, waited.

As Blancanales' running steps approached, Lyons found a fist-sized clod of dirt. He continued to wait. But Blancanales didn't appear. Lyons could hear the rush and flutter of the bird's wings through the air. But he didn't hear Blancanales.

A stick hit the back of his head. Lyons spun and tumbled over. He saw smiling Blancanales squatting uphill from him.

"I thought the race was to the top of the hill." Blancanales stood, stretched. "But if you can't hack it..."

An electronic beep interrupted him. The pagers clipped to their sweatsuit waistbands beeped three times. There was a pause, then three more beeps.

Their grins faded. The morning exercise was over. Three beeps meant no more jokes.

As they sprinted down the trail, they heard overhead the heavy throbbing of a military helicopter.

April Rose met them at the gate to Stony Man Farm. Her blond hair flashed in the morning light.

"Don't go to your quarters, don't bother with anything," she said. "I've put your overnight bags and equipment cases on the helicopter. Here's your mission authorization from Mack..." she passed a tight roll of teletype paper to Blancanales.

"Where are we going?" Lyons asked.

"California. And I tell you, this one's worse than New York. Good luck."

April watched them as they sprinted the last hundred yards across a landing field to the waiting Huey. The chopper's idling rotor blades accelerated to a shriek. The skids left the ground as Lyons and Blancanales leapt in the side door. Gadgets Schwarz, already strapped in, glanced up, grinned in greeting, went back to reading a teletype printout; he wore only a bathrobe and pajama bottoms.

Hal Brognola was unshaved and his hair uncombed. He gave the three members of Able Team their intercom headsets. "Close those side doors, the briefing starts now." Brognola spoke into his headset's microphone. "Pilots, take off your headphones. Don't put them on until we approach the airport.

"Half an hour ago," Brognola began, "two-thirty California time, a motorcycle gang called 'The Outlaws' seized Santa Catalina Island."

"The Outlaws did what?" gasped Lyons.

"Let me continue. There are about seventy, seventy-five of them and as of now they are in control of the island. They have severed all communications to the mainland. They have killed or captured all the law-enforcement officers. Somehow, they took every resident of Avalon hostage. That's about fourteen hundred people, we aren't sure exactly how many. Avalon is a tourist town — there may be as many as a hundred tourists who are spending the weekend there."

Hal Brognola was Able Team's commanding officer, a burly older man answerable by choice to Mack Bolan (a.k.a. Col. John Phoenix) and by duty to the White House. He paused to ensure that his grim news was fully understood by the three men before him.

"The leader of the Outlaws, someone with the name of 'Horse,' called the Governor of California direct, on the Governor's secret hot line. That, in itself, is a significant point. That hot line number is classified. It is known only to the Governor's aides and a few military officials."

Brognola paused to refer to a printout.

"The gang leader made these demands. The release of three of their members now in prison. Twenty million dollars in gold. And a nuclear submarine to deliver the three gang members and the gold. The assumption is that Horse will then force the submarine's crew at gunpoint to transport the gang to some foreign country."

"Has any of this crazy stuff actually been confirmed?" asked the benign Blancanales. "Isn't there any chance it could all be..."

"No chance. It is confirmed. Though officially we're saying it's a prank. A Deputy Sheriff managed to make a shortwave Mayday call. The ships that reported the message have been told it was a loony tune.

"But when a Coast Guard helicopter flew over the town, it was fired on by light and heavy caliber machine guns." Hal sighed.

"The gang leader has threatened to kill ten hostages the next time any ship or aircraft approaches the island. His people control the port's radar station. Anything comes within three miles, he kills ten people.

"He has given the Governor forty-eight hours to deliver the ransom."

Lyons spoke. "How many people have they killed?"

"That's not known. However, he had a captured Deputy Sheriff — apparently the same officer who put out the Mayday — speak to the Governor. As the Governor listened, he heard the officer begin a prayer, then there was a shot."

Lyons closed his eyes for a moment. "That's the Outlaws. That's the way they work. Murder and mutilation," he murmured. "Once, when they were moving in on the East L.A. drug trade, they captured one of our undercover officers. They sent his skin to us in a box. With a cassette tape. They had skinned him alive and recorded the entire procedure.

"And we never got them for that. You know how it is, a case has to be textbook perfect to prosecute."

"The Outlaws' constitutional rights," Brognola commanded, "are hereby suspended..."