"Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. Everything in a leather jacket dies."

Smoke blew about them and flame-light flashed from their sunglasses. The three Outlaws low-geared through the devastated neighborhood. They saw black skeletal trees, fire-gutted cars, the ruins of homes. Other homes still smoldered, walls collapsing as the Outlaws passed.

The three-man patrol wore the Outlaw uniform: black jackets, old jeans, boots, helmets, weapons. Unlike the other Outlaws on the street, the three-man patrol all wore soft leather combat boots. None of the Outlaws splashing gasoline or watching the burning homes saw the boots. They saw only the motorcycles, the uniforms, the weapons, the skull and flame insignias.

Leaving the burning block, the patrol cruised through a neighborhood of bullet-pocked, looted homes. Turning south on Crescent Street, they continued their survey of the town, scrutinizing smashed windows of shops and hotels, the walkways strewn with new clothing, broken liquor bottles, window displays. They could see the body of a Deputy-Sheriff bobbing in the small waves under Pleasure Pier. They saw two motorcycles parked at the door to the Harbor master's office. They passed other Outlaws on motorcycles. But scanning the windows and roof lines, they saw no Outlaw sentry positions.

Two blocks south of the pier, they returned to the residential blocks. They watched the hillsides above the neighborhoods and still saw no outposts.

"Maybe they have snipers hidden up there," Lyons said.

Blancanales probed with his eyes the heavy brush that covered the hills. "Everywhere the Outlaws go, their bikes go. Up there, it's too steep for a motorcycle. The brush is too thick."

"They were smart enough to seize the island," Gadgets said. "They have to be smart enough to know about sentries and outposts."

"All we've seen are patrols," Blancanales reminded him.

"So far," Gadgets said, steering off into the street.

Passing the burning block again, they continued their circuit of the town. Coming to Crescent once more, they turned north toward the Casino, but quickly turned again onto Vieudelou Street. Vieudelou took them into a more expensive area. Higher in the hills, the homes viewed the town and Bay and the San Pedro Channel beyond. When Vieudelou ended at Stage Road, they stopped to consult the map.

"Town's wide open," Lyons commented. "Except for patrols. No wonder they've had problems with the locals. Avoid the patrols, you've got the run of the streets."

"Uh huh," Blancanales unfolded a map. "Why don't you just go walking down those streets in your blacksuit, no jacket, no motorcycle. We'll see if you draw fire."

Blancanales pointed out another dotted line on the map. "That's a firebreak and hiking trail. It passes behind the Casino. Instead of pushing our luck, how about checking out the place from a distance?"

The others nodded. They continued north on Stage Road for less than a mile and came to the trail. The fire road followed the crest of the steep hills overlooking Avalon. Beyond Avalon, the vista continued to Los Angeles, twenty-two miles distant.

Gunning their machines up the steep inclines, gearing and braking to slow their descent of the ridges, they watched for the tracks of other motorcycles. Surprisingly they saw only the knobby prints of lightweight dirt bikes. Blancanales stopped briefly to examine these tracks.

"Yesterday. Local kids."

The next peak, things were different. It was the Outlaw outpost guarding the hill above the Casino. Lyons had accelerated to climb the hill, and when he shot over the crest, he had to swerve to avoid the Harleys and Nighthawks of four Outlaws.

Sitting against their bikes, the Outlaws passed a joint. One Outlaw spoke into a walkie-talkie. Lyons hurtled past them, then hit his brakes. He slid to a stop thirty feet past the group. His body blocked their view of the Ingram in his grip. Below him, not far off, Lyons saw the Casino. Outlaws lounged in front of the white building, servicing their motorcycles and drinking. They were so close Lyons heard their voices and laughter.

"Looking for locals," Lyons shouted, hoping his voice would warn Gadgets and Blancanales. Even as he called out, Blancanales, then Gadgets leaped over the hill on their machines. Flashing the Outlaws quick glances, they slowed, but Lyons waved both of his partners past him. They roared on, and he accelerated after them.

The trail cut sharply to the south. Once down there, the Outlaws back on the peak could not see them. Close shave. Able Team had not expected that outpost: no tracks, at least not where they had looked.

"I couldn't chance wasting them," Lyons told his teammates, their bikes idling.

Gadgets pulled the captured walkie-talkie from his pocket and listened, "... up on the hill. Just now, not even a minute ago, we had a patrol swing by. I didn't recognize the three guys. Did you send anyone by this way?"

"I've got lots of patrols out. I'll call them. This is Horse. Patrol on the ridgeline behind the Casino, report. On the ridgeline behind the Casino, report..."

Gadgets offered the walkie-talkie to Blancanales, then Lyons. "That's us. Want to report to Horse?"

"We only got a minute," Lyons told Blancanales. "Look what he's got on the balcony down there. Looks like .50 calibers."

"Sentries on all the doors," Blancanales noted. "Lots of motorcycles. That's where all the Outlaws are."

Gadgets pointed. "They have LAAW rockets."

"Patrol on the ridge. This is Horse. Come in! Report! Who the fuck are you?"

"This is Jake again. They're probably our guys, but what's got me wondering is the blond one's jacket. It looked exactly like Blackie's. Black leather, those stars on the shoulders, even the chrome studs on the sleeves. Just a second, I don't hear their bikes moving about anymore. I'm going to look down the hill. Just a second..."

"This is Horse, I'm sending ten men out to check them. Blackie's long gone. They could have taken his jacket and bike. All Outlaws watch for three dudes on bikes and wearing Outlaw jackets. All Outlaws..."

"Time to move." Gadgets jammed the walkie-talkie in his pocket and engaged his motorcycle in gear. Lyons and Blancanales sped after him.

Low-gearing down the hill as fast as he dared, Lyons felt knives in his ribs at every bump. Fortunately, less than a quarter mile later, the trail would end at Vieudelou Street. But as they slowed to a walk in order to ease through a steel gate, they saw four Outlaws on Suzukis and cruising Hondas rounding the turn from Stage Road. The Outlaws blocked their escape.

"Downhill!" Blancanales shouted. "Through town. They'll never expect it. We'll sprint south, then stop and pop an ambush."

Lyons sprayed the oncoming Outlaws with his Ingram, saw two go down. The other two pulled behind parked cars for cover, their bike engines roaring. He snapped a full magazine into the Ingram, jerked back the Harley's hand throttle. The front wheel left the asphalt.

Leaning through a long curve, they hit Crescent at sixty miles an hour, sideslipped through a sharp turn, then accelerated again. The roar of their motorcycles shredded the afternoon's anxious quiet.

At the Casino, Outlaws kicked their bikes to life and flew into the pursuit. Horse stood among the crowd of Outlaws starting their motorcycles. He counted off ten men, stopped the others.

"Only ten!" He held up his hands for quiet. "This could be a trick. Everyone back to their posts! Move it!"

An Outlaw on the south end of Crest had heard the radio calls. He saw the three bikers racing toward him. He started his bike. He intercepted the three men by matching their speed. He stayed handlebar to handlebar with them for a hundred yards until the sharp curves of Lovers' Cove forced him to fall back.