Lyons unsheathed his service revolver and checked it, then returned it to leather.

He wished, dammit, that they had been on Bolan instead of. ... All the fireworks, he knew, were headed that other way. Cap'n Tatum, the rawhiding total convert, had turned Big Ben Lucasi's fate over to the uncertain mercies of the Executioner.

Yeah. All the fireworks would be running that other way.

He watched from his eagle's perch as they rolled out of Lucasi's joint — three big limousines — and he gave them plenty of stretch, tracking the three-car procession of headlights through binoculars until they reached Interstate 5 and headed south. Then he made the jump and sent the Ferrari roaring along the interstate route in hot pursuit.

He had them in sight again well ahead of the interchange and casually tracked them through and onto the downtown leg. It was an excellent freeway system, easily carrying the swift-moving traffic in a no-bunch, no-slow flow. It was still early evening, not quite nine o'clock; another of those San Diego Specials, full moon and blankets of stars, a night with plenty of light, kinder to lovers than to warriors … but war it had to be — and a one-shot war, at that.

He'd promised the homicide captain that he would pass this town — so it had to be this time, this place, and this circumstance for the Executioner … there could be none other.

The enemy procession veered east onto the city-transit leg at Broadway and kept on easterly beyond the Wabash Freeway exit. It was at this point that Bolan established radio contact with his partners.

"Heading east on the Helix," he announced. "Just passed Wabash. Where away?"

Gadgets Schwarz came in immediately. "Bingo. Running true. Look for them to drop out at State 94, thence southeasterly through Spring Valley."

Bolan responded, "Roj."

Blancanales reported, "I'm just a few minutes from that exit. Want me to bird-dog?"

"You clear, Gadgets?" Bolan wanted to know.

"Yeah, no sweat."

"Okay, Pol. Swing up there. Confirm three crew wagons, Lincolns, I think, running in convoy."

"Roj."

It was a tight game of numbers. Bolan was not allowing himself any luxuries where Ben Lucasi was concerned. The guy was wily. Already, it appeared, the convoy had swung far out of its way in transiting the city along the south. They could have much easier cut across on Interstate 8 ... if indeed they were humping for Route 94. That would be the desert road running past the Sycuan Indian Reservation on the route to Tecate, a Mexican border town. Something rumbled deep in Bolan's memory, then, causing him to again send a query to Gadgets Schwarz.

"Gadgets, you said to look for high ground for these radio links. Doesn't Route 94 head east at the border?"

"Right. My present position is just west of Potrero, which is almost due north of Tecate, just a few miles over the border. You have that on your area map?"

Bolan replied, "Finger right on it. Trace eastward, beyond the Compo Reservation. Looks like a high peak over there."

Schwarz came back: "Right. That would be Tecate Divide, elevation more than four thousand feet. The trailers I've been tracking were parked here near Potrero as recently as today. The track fizzled out right here, though."

"Okay, stay alert. It looks like the play is running your way."

Blancanales checked in a moment later to confirm that assumption. "Right, check three Detroit blacks off the interstate at Spring Valley, running south on 94."

Bolan replied, "Bingo. Fall in behind them and maintain track. I'm coming around."

"You'll have to heat bearings to do it. They're clocking eighty."

"I've got bearings a'plenty," Bolan chuckled. He moved the Ferrari into the upper ranges of the tach and closed quickly to the exit ramp, then rolled carefully through Spring Valley and onto the open road of the desert country. He could see the procession ahead of him, now the only lights on the road.

"Have you in sight," he reported to Blancanales. "Drop back some, Pol. You're crowding them."

"Right. Didn't want to chance losing them going through town. I am easing off now."

A moment later Bolan was running-up onto the rear of the Corvette being piloted by Blancanales.

"Coming around."

"Roj, man — go."

Bolan was burning rubber alongside the Mafia convoy, slumped into the racing backboard of the hot car to conceal his own face but reading occupants as he whizzed past.

"Here's the head count," he reported, when he was well ahead. Rear car, five. Lucasi and bodyguards, looks like. Middle, eight — gun car with jumpseat. Lead car, six. They look tough."

Schwarz immediately checked in. "I'm just dragging down here. Want me to run up to Barrett and pick up on it there?"

Bolan was a full mile ahead of the convoy now. He told Schwarz, "Affirm. Assume station running slowly southward. Make them pass you, then tag along. Pol, you swing ahead at that point. Maintain with their lights just in view behind you."

Both men acknowledged the instructions and Bolan went on to scout the road ahead. He went through Jamul and, six minutes later, the tiny community of Dulzura. Just below that point he passed the warwagon, tooting at Schwarz and receiving a return salute, then burned on southward toward Barrett.

This was rugged country, desolate but pretty in the moonlight, appearing abandoned and hardly touched by the human hand or foot.

A little side road running off eastward a few miles below Dulzura came up in his headlamps. He slowed, overshot the junction, then squealed about in a U-turn and returned for an inspection.

A weathered sign proclaimed that this was the road to Barrett Reservoir.

Bolan found the spot on his area map and closely studied the surrounding countryside. Then he descended from the Ferrari for a closer look at some other kind of signs.

The hunch seemed to be right on-target. Heavy-wheeled vehicles had turned onto that road not too much earlier. He found a place on the turn where a set of double-wheels had slipped off the roadbed into the soft shoulder.

He stood there in the cool night air, allowing his senses to flare and absorb the lie of that place, then he spoke into the shoulder-phone. "Road running east off 94, couple of miles above Barrett. It smells. Map shows possible connection over to U.S. 80. I'm checking it out. Let me know if track runs beyond this point."

Schwarz told him, "It might be hot, Sarge. They've been moving those rigs every few days. And listen, watch it. Guy at a truck stop down near Barrett told me those rigs are not being handled by teamsters. Says it's two guys in each cab and they look mean as hell."

Bolan replied, "Roj, thanks." He returned to the Ferrari and sent it in a dangerously fast acceleration along the little back road.

If it had looked like no-wheres-ville out along the state highway, then this area was strictly twilight zone. Rugged, hilly, wild — with road to match.

It would be rough going for a couple of big semi-trailers. And Bolan's "combat feel" was flowing strong in his veins. If Lucasi had just ordered those rigs a'moving again, after hearing Tony Danger's report, then … yeah, that could be blood he was smelling, for damn sure.

And if Lucasi was in the panic which Bolan had programmed for him then, yeah, he had those rigs rolling while he raced with a gun-convoy to protect the movement.

A few minutes later Bolan knew that he had scored. His heart shifted into combat-pump as he spotted the twin set of headlamps on a curve far ahead, running bumper to bumper, two big diesel rigs laboriously navigating that back-country road.

He announced into his shoulder-phone, "Bingo. I have the target in sight. About ... halfway to the reservoir. Fall in close and protect my rear."