All others sat frozen in the immediate reaction to the inexplicable behavior of Cacci and Trieste; then two more at the table were flung violently about, even as the initial gunfire reports reached the assembled ears.

DiGeorge let out a loud yell and found that long-dormant instincts were still strong enough to propel him into a wild sideways fling toward the floor. The distant soundings of the high-powered rifles continued incessantly, and men and bodies were flying about in all directions.

Turnitover turnitover! Turn the goddamn table over!" DiGeorge screamed, scrabbling desperately at the leg of the heavy oaken piece. The table crashed to the flagstones. DiGeorge scrambled behind it on his belly, one edge of his reeling consciousness aware of the litter of bodies behind him, another edge taking note of other men running in all directions. He saw two of them lurch suddenly as though stricken by some sudden paralysis, then crash to the ground.

"Good, God, good God, it's a slaughter," he moaned, his breath moving painfully through a constricted rib cage. Thunder and lightning, indeed, had found their way to Julian DiGeorge. And he had only the faintest idea whence it came.

That's right, baby, run straight," Deadeye Washington muttered. He squeezed the hair trigger and was already swinging toward a new target before the thundering convulsion of the big gun had spent itself against his shoulder.

"Okay—evaluation!" Bolan snapped, speaking even as his partner's weapon thundered again.

When Washington hoisted himself off the eyepiece, Bolan was sitting upright, legs folded, holding the binoculars to his eyes with one hand and massaging his shoulder with the other.

"Damn thing jars hell out of you," Bolan muttered.

"Yeah. What're they doing down there now?"

"Flopping about like headless chickens. Some are starting to look our way now. Give 'em a couple more rounds, Deadeye. See if they can spot your flashes."

Washington grinned and bent once again to his eyepiece. He fired two quick rounds into the heavy glass at the front of the house. Bolan, peering through the binoculars, smiled. "Believe you dropped about ten with that burst," he said.

"I just shot out the window," Washington replied, chuckling.

"And brought on ten heart attacks," Bolan said, chuckling along with him. He sobered abruptly, then smiled. "Yeah, they saw us. Here comes a guy with a Thompson, running hell bent for election. They're running for the lower wall." Bolan's smile grew. "Are they actually going to return our fire?"

A popping and crackling arose from the distant estate. Washington turned to Bolan with a broad grin and said, "Shi-iit."

Bolan tossed the glasses to Washington. "Now watch the fun," he told him. He thumbed the button on his transmitter and said, "Now, Flower, go!"

A loud, faraway blast echoed Bolan's words. He grinned at Washington. "Damn, he was primed, wasn't he? What's the reaction?"

Another blast sounded. "They were all running up from the rear," Washington reported. "Now they're standing and gawking at each other. Now they're starting back, but slow—damn slow."

"Let's keep them see-sawing," Bolan said. He was making good use of the rifle as he spoke. The grenade blasts were coming at ten-second intervals. The DiGeorge grounds were in pandemonium, flames sprouting up here and there, puffs of smoke drifting aimlessly about, men running everywhere. Bolan squeezed off calculated shots down the long range, and Washington joined in.

Minutes later, the heat from Bolan's rifle was becoming decidedly uncomfortable for the flesh of his face. Deadeye Washington stopped firing and pushed himself away. "This is worse than 'Nam. This is just jail. I lost my stomach for it, Mack."

Bolan raised off the hot rifle, his face set in grim lines. "The mighty Mafia," he intoned soberly. "Okay, Deadeye. Break the pieces down. It's time to get out of here." He spoke into the radio. "Horse. What's up?"

"Nothing," came the immediate response. "One call on the general net and then nothing. It smells. Hardcase is silent."

"Break off!" Bolan snarled. "Stand by to track!"

"God damn!" Schwarz cried. "I been ECMed!"

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"Get rolling out of there!" Bolan commanded. "Move it! All units, break away and forget the track!"

"Negative," came Zitka's cool tones. "I'm on one and I'm sticking."

"Blue movement, coming up south," Loudelk's calm whisper announced.

Washington had the rifles in his arms. His eyes were flaring with excitement. Bolan jerked his head toward the crest of the hill, and his partner moved out immediately.

"More blues, coming west," Loudelk said, "and I'm breaking."

Bolan was sprinting up the slope behind Washington. Zitka's voice was coming through the small speaker. "Route Three, it's a line-up. This's paydirt. Suggest break and re-form on me."

"All who can," Bolan added. "But evade blues at all cost."

"I can't find Chopper," Andromede declared woefully.

"Break, Flower! Get the hell out!" Bolan had reached the road and was transmitting as he ran for his vehicle.

"Chopper doesn't have a radio. He don't have the word!"

"Get... the... hell... out!"

"Goddammit, goddammit."

DiGeorge had made a hasty and careful check of the dead. Eight of the family had fallen, and there was unbelievable carnage among the hired hands. Only four of the twelve nephews who had come to the council survived, and still the raining bullets were richocheting off the flagstones, tearing through the table and slamming into the cement blocks of the back wall. And now a new note had been added—the explosions and the chattering of machine guns out back.

"Get out of here!" DiGeorge screamed. The four survivors of the ruling council turned frightened eyes onto him. Through the house! Call your boys and blow! You hear? Blow!"

"Where we gonna go, Deej?" Zeno Varone whined.

"Get to Balboa! I'll meet you. But get going! Through the house!"

Varone nodded meekly and dragged himself across the flagstones. He had been nicked in the arm and was bleeding. The others quickly followed after him. "Now get to Balboa!" DiGeorge shouted. "And dig in, dammit, as soon as you get there!" He waited until they had cleared the patio; then he scrambled to his feet and zigzagged in a low crouch to the protection of the cement wall. He stepped through the shattered glass window and ran toward the rear of the house, colliding with his personal bodyguard, Lou Pena, in the kitchen. "What're you doin' in here?" DiGeorge snarled.

"There's a nut walkin' around out there with a machine gun," Pena declared breathlessly. "I come in ta get the lights."

DiGeorge snatched the pistol from Pena's hand, pushed him aside, and stepped out the back door, then dropped to a crouch and made a run for the garage. When he was halfway there, all the lights went out. DiGeorge swore under his breath, then flung himself to the ground as a machine gun began chattering nearby. A cloud of smoke was drifting toward him; from out of the cloud stepped a squat figure wearing a black outfit and carrying a spitting machine gun. DiGeorge raised Pena's revolver and fired three rapid shots. The guy slumped to his knees without a sound, still holding the big gun. It continued to spit sporadic flame, but now it just chewed up the ground. The gunner was trying to bring the muzzle up, but it kept dropping lower and lower until it was resting on the ground. It ceased its chatter, and the guy dropped back onto his butt, then slumped forward.

DiGeorge scrambled to his feet and resumed his trip to the garage. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The guy in the black suit was still sitting there, a shadowy blob in the darkness, still trying to pull the gun out of the dirt.