Savannah Swingsaw by Don Pendleton

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