But not the saw.

The thug's hand slammed right into the cutters in a splatter of blood and bone. The saw hummed hungrily, chomping through the wrist until the gunhand dropped to the floor with a thud, the weapon skittering to within a few feet of Bolan.

The wounded man held up his handless wrist, blood making darker stains on his red sweatshirt. He ran toward the other goons, holding up his stump as if pleading for help. Taken by surprise they dodged him, as if afraid what he had might be catching. He crashed wildly into one hardguy, knocking him over.

Demoines was so startled he dropped the saw.

A couple of his men regained their composure enough to aim their guns in Bolan's direction.

But the Executioner was moving again.

He dived to the floor and scooped up the dropped gun, then rolled onto his side and firing upward.

His first two shots dropped two henchmen.

"Kill them!" Demoines bellowed, running for cover of the sofa near the fireplace. "Kill them all!"

But it wasn't that easy. Shawnee, Rita and Lynn were also moving now, scavenging the dead bodies for weapons, returning fire. Dodge Reed managed to get one of the guns and began blasting away, never coming close to hitting anyone, but making enough noise to help scatter the Mafia scum.

"Out!" Bolan commanded, yanking open the front door and waving the others through.

One of Demoines's men popped up from behind a highback recliner and fired at Bolan, missing him by inches. Shawnee stopped, went into her double-grip stance and blew the side of his face off from scalp to ear. Panic and adrenaline caused her to fire two more shots into the already dead body.

"Come on, Shawnee!" Bolan urged her.

She took a deep breath, turned and dashed through the door. Rita. St. Clair and Lynn Booker followed. Only Bolan and Reed remained.

Bolan ran back into the room, picked up the two S&W .357's and stuffed them into his pants.

Then he swung the bike pack of grenades over his shoulder, and yanked Dodge by the elbow, hauling him through the door toward the car. "Start it," Bolan said, tossing the keys to Shawnee. She jumped behind the wheel as the others piled into the car. A mobster stuck his head out the door and began firing a pump-action shotgun. The rear side window of the car blew out. Bolan squeezed off a round from the S&W .357, which caught the punk just below the elbow, smashing his arm. The man screamed, his arm dropping uselessly to his side, the gun tumbling to the dirt.

A cabin window shattered as gun barrels popped out to take aim. The Executioner fired a couple of rounds through the window and the gunmen ducked out of sight.

He heard Demoines's rabid voice desperately yelling to attack.

"Mack!" Shawnee called. She swung the car around, braking it in front of Bolan and flinging the passenger door open. "Let's go, mister. This party's getting boring."

Bolan dived into the front seat as a volley of slugs tattooed the Toyota's doors and fenders.

Shawnee gunned the engine and the car kicked up dirt as it tore down the road. A tree along the narrow road bumped the door closed behind Bolan.

"I didn't see their cars," Bolan said.

"They must've parked them farther down the main road, then walked to the cabin. This is the only way in."

"Good, they won't be following us too soon."

"But they will follow us," Shawnee said.

Bolan nodded. "Yeah, they'll be coming. No matter where we go."

"Where are we going?" Dodge Reed asked. He was breathing heavy from the adrenaline, but his eyes were clear.

"We're going to the point of origin of those shipments you discovered in that computer. We've got to find out exactly what it is they're shipping that they'd kill to protect."

Shawnee glanced at Bolan. "Miami?"

"Miami," Bolan repeated.

Everyone was silent as they bounced along the bumpy dirt road. Most of them were thinking about Belinda, mourning her loss. Bolan understood this and didn't disturb the silence. What he had to say next could wait a few more miles.

18

Clip Demoines sat behind his desk and picked at the green alligator on the chest of his blue shirt. His feet, sockless and clad in deck shoes, were propped on top of his huge mahogany desk. The desk had been his uncle's, the very one he'd been sitting at the night Clip had shot him in the back. Things were arranged downtown and burglary was claimed. Someone was even arrested for the crime, though he was mysteriously stabbed to death in prison before he came to trial. Books were closed on Uncle Dominick's unfortunate demise.

"I want them, Tom," Demoines said calmly into the telephone. He listened patiently, then interrupted his friend. "I don't have time for the excuses and bitching today. This one's important. You get the usual amount plus a $50,000 bonus. Agreed?" Demoines listened. "I don't care what excuse you use, Tom. You're the cop, think of something coplike. I gave you the car make and model and the license number. Now you find them. Today." He hung up.

Clip Demoines leaned forward, ran his fingertips lightly along the smooth varnished wood.

That made him feel better. The only flaw in the wood was a tiny chip where Uncle Dom's front tooth gouged out a nick when, after Clip had shot him, his head had fallen onto the desk. Demoines had left the little flaw in the wood unfixed. For sentimental reasons. Aloud knock at the door.

"Come on," Demoines said.

The door opened and Ron Thaxton entered.

Thaxton was Demoines's lieutenant and adviser.

It had been his advice that Demoines not go personally to see the Savannah Swingsaw last night. He had suggested sending an army of men to wipe them out while he and Demoines were seen at some social function. But Demoines had wanted to be there, to personally punish the scum who had busted up his places, who had cost him money.

For Demoines could stand anything but the loss of money. That was personal, as if someone had raped him. For that there was only the ultimate punishment.

Death.

"So?" he asked Thaxton.

Thaxton shrugged. "Word's out all over the state. Everybody's on the lookout for the car and they've got the descriptions of all the people."

"Especially that big guy. The one in black. I want him, Ron, you understand that?"

Thaxton nodded. He understood that there would be no other business until this matter was settled. That despite his Harvard MBA, Clip Demoines was still a hood at heart. He still believed in vendettas and all that stuff. Sometimes such things were good business, but there was a time, Thaxton thought, when it was best to cut your losses and run. You didn't need a goddamn MBA to know that much.

Demoines rose and began pacing behind his desk.

"That man, the big one, I want to know everything about him you can dig up. Check the fingerprints we lifted, check his story about jail. Check everything."

"I will, Clip." "You'd better, Ron," Demoines said, stopping to face his lieutenant. "Because by tomorrow night he's a dead man. Or you are."

Though the voice on the phone was solemn, there was a faint hint of glee, as if he was secretly pleased at Zavlin's failure.

"I will have to make a full report, Gamesman."

Zavlin smiled into the phone. "Of course."

"Detailing your failure."

Zavlin winced. There it was again. That word — failure.

Control had managed to work it into the conversation three times now. It was not a word he'd had occasion to hear before in regard to his own work. He did not want to ever hear it again.

"Have you alerted our people?"

"Yes."

The control sighed, as if to say it was a hopeless gesture. "Every road, every town, every bus station, train depot, plane terminal to Miami is being watched. Seems a vast expenditure of manpower, a waste of time."