Savannah Swingsaw (7 page)

"We're not feminist vigilantes, Mack," Shawnee said.

"I didn't say that," Bolan said. The morning sun was bright through the kitchen curtains. The five of them were sitting around the table.

Shawnee and Belinda were sipping coffee, Lynn and Rita were nibbling on peanut butter and crackers.

Bolan dug with relish into the bacon-and-onions omelet Belinda had made for him.

"We're not a bunch of bimbos, for heaven's sake."

"I didn't say that, either."

"Like hell. We managed to break you out of jail but you don't think we're good enough to go along with you on this one. What kind of bullshit is that?" The four women stared at him expectantly.

Bolan held up his fork. "Listen, I appreciate what you tried to do for me. But the mission's going to be a lot tougher. By now they've got extra security all around the place. They've probably even gone to a total lock-down, no one out of their cells for a few days."

"I can contact Lyle, find out for sure."

Bolan shook his head. "They won't allow any communication except with lawyers. That's procedure. By now they've also found the bodies of Rodeo and his bunch. That will only make things worse." Bolan scanned each one of their faces. "How did you break me out anyway?"

Shawnee smiled. "With a little help from one of the guards. For a lot of money."

"Does he know who I am?"

"Nope. I had to tell Lyle, though."

"I owe you," Bolan said.

"Damn right you do, fella," Shawnee said. "And this is where we get paid off. By going along."

"I can't risk getting you involved. It's not just the cops I'm worried about. There are other factors involved. Professional killers."

"The Mob? Hell, we've dealt with them before. Remember, we're the Savannah Swingsaw."

"This isn't the Mob. This guy makes the Mafia look like a kindergarten class on a nature stroll."

Shawnee flipped her long black hair over her shoulder. The sharp widow's peak at the top of her forehead emphasized her anger. She gestured with her head at the other women and they quickly filed out of the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

"We gotta talk serious, Mack," Shawnee said. "You've known me for a long time, but in a lotta ways you don't know me at all." She stood up, took her coffee cup to the stove, poured more coffee and leaned against the counter while drinking it. "You may think this Savannah Swingsaw stuff is hokey or juvenile, but we take it very seriously."

"Just what are you trying to accomplish?"

"That's funny coming from you."

Bolan chewed his omelet, waiting.

"We're trying to make the Mob so uncomfortable around Georgia that they'll move out. We do it, not by randomly killin'g them — we haven't killed anybody yet — but by exposing them to the harsh light of publicity. We bust in someplace and break the joint up, that gets press. We keep doing it, keep Clip Demoines's name in the papers, the public will demand some action or Demoines's bosses will insist he close up shop. Either way we win. What have you got to say to that?"

"A worthy goal."

"Damn right. Thing is, Mack, I started this operation, got the girls together, me and Rita training them. And you know what gave me the idea?"

"I think so, but I hope I'm wrong."

"You aren't. You did. Especially when I read you were dead. Funny thing, you and I were buddies back in Nam, attractive tough-guy GI and a dumpy nurse. We never had anything romantic going, but I loved you like a brother. When you came back and started your campaign against the Mob, I think I loved you even more."

Bolan nodded. He knew what she meant.

They'd been pals at a time when friendship was more important than romance. The bonds made over in that hellground had been forged in a fire more intense than anywhere else. Those bonds could never be broken.

"But why start attacking the Mob, Shawnee? Did you have some personal run-in with them?"

Shawnee smiled. "No. Lynn Booker had. Her adopted parents used to manage an apartment house in Daytona. Turns out the government's Witness Protection Program had relocated one of their stoolies in this apartment house. Somehow the Mob found out and sent a couple of goons over to wipe the guy out. The Bookers saw them speeding away from the murder. Lynn's parents were all set to testify at the trial when their home was broken into one night while they were in bed. Lynn was away at college." Shawnee paused, took a deep breath. "They beat Mr. Booker, breaking his jaw, both arms. Mrs. Booker — she was fifty-seven then — was raped by both men, then beaten. They refused to testify. Lynn says her parents have never been able to live with not testifying, the shame of cowardice. That was worse on them than the beatings."

"The others?" Bolan asked.

"Oh, Rita's more like me. Idealistic, though you'd probably say naive. She's seen what they can do, but hasn't been touched directly by them. But she's fought more crime with me than when she was a real cop on that Mickey Mouse police force."

"What about Belinda? The singer."

Shawnee nodded. "Yeah, Belinda. A few years ago she and her boyfriend left Newark for Nashville. Trying to break into the country-music business. Scraped by on odd jobs for a year until finally getting a recording offer. Nothing major, but a start, a possibility. Along comes a so-called manager, tells them he's gonna take over their act, make them stars.

"Well, Belinda's fella, Tommy, was also their manager, so they refused. Belinda comes home from her waitress job two nights later, finds Tommy unconscious, a razor cut across his chin and a note saying it could just as easily have been his throat. They go to the cops, are told the "manager" is Mob connected but there isn't much the cops can do. Next night Belinda comes home, Tommy's packed and gone to L.A. to try the rock business." She rinsed her cup out and placed it in the sink. "So that's the story of the Savannah Swingsaw. We've been busting up joints for the past few months, making it hot around here for Demoines and his boys."

Bolan shoved his empty plate away and looked up at Shawnee. Her story had touched him in a way he hadn't expected. He'd heard plenty of stories of lives scarred or ruined by encounters with the Mob, and he'd known a few people who were angry enough to try and get revenge. Most of them cooled down when they realized what they were up against. Others went about it rashly and got themselves killed. But Shawnee wasn't motivated by revenge; she was doing this because she thought it was right. Simple as that.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I was thinking. I was just a soldier when this all started for me. And even then I was only reacting to what they'd done to my family. Pure revenge. What would have happened if my family hadn't ever come in contact with any of the Mob? Would I have come home from Nam just happy to have survived, get myself a regular job and occasionally shake my head when I read in the newspapers what the Mafia was up to now? This whole war of mine only started out of vengeance. But you," he said, standing and moving closer to her, his eyes boring into hers, "had the guts to risk everything just because it was the right thing to do."

Shawnee placed her hand gently on his arm. Her usual husky voice was soft and tender. "Maybe that's how you started, Mack, but that isn't what's kept you going all these years, through all those risks. Okay, it started as a personal vendetta, but now it's bigger than that. It's a damn crusade."

"Trouble with you," Bolan said, grinning, "is you know too much."

"Sometimes," she said, "I don't know when to shut up." And suddenly she stepped up to Bolan and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her face tilted up toward his and he lowered his lips to hers. It felt so natural to him. They'd hugged many times before, giving friendly pecks on the cheek as they came and went. But this was different, more than friendly. Her body was hard and sinewy, sexy and insistent as she pressed against him and his arms pulled her even closer. For a moment, a vision of April Rose flickered through his mind. She was standing as she always stood, an expression of defiance mixed with concern on her delicate features. She was scolding him, but smiling at the same time.

Maybe, Bolan thought, it was April's love that had kept him from becoming too hard, too much like their enemies. Revenge was a powerful fuel, sure, but it was dangerous. It could destroy the very engine it was fueling. April had kept that from happening to Bolan. Yeah, he missed her. Always would.

By that he couldn't deny certain feelings he had for Shawnee. Not brotherly feelings anymore.

"You think this kiss will make me change my mind?" Bolan said when they parted.

"About what?" she said.

He grinned. "Okay, I'm going to use you and your Savannah Swingsaw. Not because of anything that's happened between us, but because I have an idea."

"All right!" Rita cheered as she and the other women burst into the kitchen.

Bolan rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Obviously they'd been crouched just on the other side of the door, listening.

Then his face became grim. "You won't be so happy once you hear the plan."

"What the hell happened? There's a pile of dead bodies lying around the morgue with toe tags that might as well read "courtesy of Mack Bolan." I show up at the jail as your attorney to have a meeting and find out you've busted out of the place. And without Dodge Reed, dammit. Now you tell me you've put together an assault squad made up of four women?"

Bolan spoke into the phone. "That about covers it."

Hal Brognola sighed.

Bolan heard a crunching sound. His friend was chewing those tablets again. "Okay, Mack, okay. You need some backup. Fine. Just tell me what's going down and where, I'll be there. I still know how to use a gun."

"Can't do it, pal," Bolan said. "If this doesn't go down right, we'll still need someone alive to stop Zavlin and find out what Dodge Reed knows. Besides, these women know what they're doing. I trust them."

"Then I do, too." There was a wild tone in the Fed's voice, a disappointment that he wasn't going along. Maybe riding that desk really was getting to him. Maybe he did need to see some action.

"Okay, Hal. I need some information on Reed. What's his status in the jail?"

"Last time I checked was about an hour ago. They were planning on moving about two dozen inmates to different prisons. He was one of them."

"That's odd," Bolan said, staring out through the scratched phone-booth door. Shawnee was at the self-service pump filling her battered old Toyota. She waved at him and he smiled.

"Why odd?"

"They'd be moving some of the hardcore guys out, the real bad ones, but not a new fish like Reed."

"Think Zavlin's behind the move?"

"Think it gets dark at night?"

"Right. I'll have the transfer order rescinded. We'll keep him at Fulton."

"No," Bolan said. "Let him go."

"Why? Zavlin's bound to hit him in transit."

"Not if we get to him first."

Hal Brognola paused. "What do you need?"

"Reed's transit schedule. Times, route, that sort of thing."

"Weapons?"

"Seems the Savannah Swingsaw comes prearmed. We're okay there."

"It'll take me a minute to get the information. Can you hold on?"

"Yeah," Bolan said. He stared through the glass at Shawnee. There was a sense of power beneath her tenderness, a feeling of strength that was more than physical.

Brognola came back on the phone with a grumble.

"What do you want first, the bad news or the bad news?"

"Go on."

"Zavlin's still not been sighted, but three KGB agents attached to the Soviet embassy as cultural officers have been spotted here. You've got to figure they're going to help Zavlin in the assassination."

"He's not taking any chances. Whatever Reed knows, it must be damned important."

"Yeah, well, it gets worse. Reed's van is gassed and waiting right now. He's being transported with four other prisoners, a driver and a guard. They leave within the next twenty minutes."

"Not much time."

"There's an understatement. At least the route has possibilities."

He outlined the streets for Bolan.

"Thanks, guy," Bolan said. "Gotta run."

"Good luck, Mack. And, hey, thank the Savannah Swingsaw for me. I don't want to lay any patriotic rap on them, but we appreciate what they're doing. Maybe we can work out some kind of immunity deal on their raids."

"I'll tell them," Bolan said. "But they'd have helped me, anyway." Bolan hung up.

Shawnee pulled the Toyota up to the phone booth with a screech, popping the passenger door open. Bolan climbed in.

"I've got the route and the time schedule."

She whistled, impressed. "That's some phone pal you've got there, Mack. How'd an outlaw like you get to know guys like that?"

"Who said it was a guy?"

She laughed. "Touche. Caught in my own sexist trap. Okay. I'll shut up and drive. Not much farther," she said, urging the gas pedal to the floor. A few minutes later she yanked the car to the curb at an awkward angle and the two of them dashed up the stairs to the second floor of Shawnee's apartment.

The others were waiting and ready.

The weapons were spread out on the living-room floor on a canvas tarp. Bolan stooped beside the cache, examining the arsenal. "We brought most everything back from the hideout as you asked," Rita St. Clair said.

Bolan immediately picked up the prize of the collection, a Krico Super Sniper, the rifle long favored by police in Europe for picking off bad guys at five hundred meters. To the novice it looked like just another bolt-action rifle. It wasn't. The barrel was heavy, straight-tapered. Rifling was deep, with a fast twist that gave the bullet high rotational velocity for gyroscopic stabilization. The barrel was freefloating in its walnut stock, removing any pressure spots inside that could deflect the bullet as the barrel produces its sinusoidal wave whip on firing. Topping it off was a Beeman R66 scope.

"Nice," Bolan said, looking up at Rita.

She smiled. "I still have some friends from the force. Get me a few specialty items."

Bolan studied her a moment. Tall, poised, hair light brown with an almost reddish tint. Her clothes were no more expensive or fancy than the other women's — black denim pants, blue sweater, black jersey vest — but she wore them with the easy grace of a model. She looked confident, sure of herself. Some of that came from her aristocratic background, no doubt, but a lot of it had been earned out on the streets as a cop. And in the department as a woman.

Bolan picked through the rest of the guns. A Remington Model 870 shotgun; an H&K 93 with retracting stock, bipod, scope and mount; a Stevens Model 520 shotgun, two Star Model PD. 45's, and two S&W Model 586 .357's with eight-inch barrels.

Better than he'd hoped for.

"Well?" Shawnee asked.

"It'll do." Bolan snatched up the black pants and black turtleneck sweater they'd bought for him on their way back from retrieving the guns.

"I'll change and we'll hit the road."

Lynn Booker stood up from the sofa, drinking from a can of cola. "Belinda wants to see you first. In the kitchen."

Bolan tucked his clothes under his arm and marched to the kitchen. The door was closed. When he entered, the radio was playing classical music. Belinda was sitting at the kitchen table humming along. Lined up on the table were a dozen grenades. They were standard Army olive with yellow lettering that said Hand Grenades, Frag M26, Comp B. "This what they taught you in home?" Bolan said.

Belinda laughed, twisting a lock of her short blond hair between her fingers. "The way to a man's heart and all that. Of course, these babies will remove that heart first." There was no phony country twang in her voice now, just pure New Jersey.

Bolan picked up one of the grenades.

"Where'd you get these?" he asked. "They're Army."

"We took 'em from one of Demoines's places we raided. Guess he stole them. Can you use them?"

Bolan looked at Belinda, sitting there, calmly discussing grenades. With those pale green eyes it was hard to believe she was part of the same Savannah Swingsaw that had been terrorizing the local Mafia kingpin, Clip Demoines.

Except that Shawnee had already told him Belinda's specialty was handling the chain saw.

Cut through a roulette table faster than a hot knife through butter.

"Yeah," Bolan replied. "They won't go to waste. Now get out of here and let me change. We leave in two minutes."

She smiled, ducked out of the room.

Bolan changed into the dark clothes and was back in the living room in less than a minute. "Who are the best shots?"

"Rita's the best," Shawnee said. "Then me."

"Then me," Lynn said. She stood in the middle of the room, the can of cola in one hand, the H&K 93 in the other.

Bolan looked at her pretty Vietnamese features and flashed back for a moment to Nam. He shook it off just as quickly. "Okay, that means Belinda waits for us at your safe house out in the country. Once we've snatched Dodge Reed, we'll be coming straight there, so have the second car ready and waiting. Also, the cash and change of clothes for everyone."

"Check," Belinda said.

"Good. Now, anybody got something we can carry those grenades in?"

Shawnee snapped her fingers.

"My bike pack. It's small, but they'll fit." She dashed down the hall into the bedroom and brought it back to Bolan. It was dark blue with a red reflector sewn onto the back. Bolan ripped the reflector off, loaded the grenades and swung the pack onto his back. He grabbed one of the S&W Model 586 .357's and stuck it in his pants under his sweater. He pocketed a box of shells.

Shawnee grabbed the other .357 as well as the Remington Model 870 shotgun. Rita took the Krico Super Sniper. They left the Stevens shotgun and the .45's for Belinda to take back to the cabin. The women looked tense, like a sports team right before a big game. Only more so.

"Relax," Bolan said, leading them out the door. "What's one more kidnapping among friends?"