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"Who says he's a known criminal?" Conn wanted to know.
"Don't quibble with me over semantics."
The Palm Village Chief pushed his hat back and scratched his forehead. "There's not one shred of anything to link Pena with the hell that hit this town, and you know it. Don't think for a minute that I wouldn't have him booked and walking toward the grand jury if there was. The fact is Braddock, I have a guest in my home who may or may not be a member of this syndicate you mentioned." Conn stood up suddenly and threw his hat to the floor. "Aw shit, enough of this pussyfooting, Braddock! Let's talk like men!"
Braddock grinned and sailed his own hat across the room. "Let's do that," he replied.
"This Pena character is scared clear out of his skin. He fumbled an assignment, and worse than that, he knows damn well he isn't ever going to have the stuff to get the measure of a man like Mack Bolan. He's scared, he's proud, he's getting old and knows it, and he don't want to go home in disgrace. Now that's the way it's laid out. I could like the guy. I could really like him, if I didn't know what he's been, and I say that even knowing what he is. Do you want to know the kind of a deal he came to me with? I'd help him get Bolan, he'd get the credit and see that I cashed in on the hundred grand bounty. Now that's what brought him to me in the first place."
"And your reaction?"
"Don't insult me, Braddock," Conn snorted. "You know how I feel about cops on the make. Twenty years ago I would have thrown him in a cell and clawed my way to an indictment. Just like you're wanting to do now. If there's one thing a man learns on this desert, though, it's patience. A month or a year makes damn little difference out here. I still haven't given Pena his answer. I've got him on the hook and I'm keeping him there. Meantime, he's on ice. Or he was, until you bulled in."
"What kind of hook?" Braddock asked, exhibiting remarkable self-control.
"We're bargaining. He knows I'm not too interested in the money. But he's got something else I'm willing to bargain for, and he knows it. Understand this, Braddock. Those boys busted my town, and I'm not standing for it. I want them, all of them, every damn one."
"What sort of bargaining?" the Captain persisted.
"It's been two weeks of Paris Peace Talks. I say something like, 'Well, let's see here now, Lou. I'll give you two of Bolan's fingers for three Mafia heads.' And he says, 'Well, you better let me think about that, Genghis.' He thinks about it for a day or so, then he comes back with a counter-offer. It's never enough, so I try to jack him up a little more."
"Are you levelling with me, Genghis?"
"Of course I'm levelling."
"What makes Pena so sure you have anything at all to offer him?"
Conn shrugged his shoulders. "I keep him pumped up. Look, Braddock, I told you the guy is scared to go home. Now the longer he stays away, the harder it gets to go back empty-handed. I told you I've got him hooked."
Braddock stared dreamily out the window. "It's a fool's game, Genghis," he said softly. "Unless you've got some real bargaining power on your side."
"Okay, so I've got that," Conn replied, his eyes dropping.
"I guess you'd better tell me about it."
"I guess you'd better go to hell."
Braddock sighed. "For the next five minutes, we're off the record. After that . . . well, I just hope you've got clean skirts, Genghis. If you've got Bolan on ice somewhere, too, then . . . "
"That sounds like a threat, Captain."
"It is."
Conn bent to the floor and retrieved his hat. He put it on and rocked back in the swivel chair, added a fresh wad of tobacco leaves to the cud in his mouth, and chewed furiously for a minute. Then he sighed and said, "I believe Bolan got his face lifted here at Palm Village."
A muscle bunched in Braddock's jaw. He fixed Conn with a wide-eyed stare and said, "Where? By whom?"
"Up at the New Horizons."
"Is there a plastic surgeon there? Is that a . . . well, Goddammit, Genghis! New Horizons! Are you telling me that's a plastics clinic?"
"Thought you knew," Conn said mildly concentrating on his chew.
"Conn, I'm going to bust you for this!" Braddock spluttered.
"My five minutes ain't up yet," Corm replied, eyes twinkling.
"Five minutes!" Braddock yelled. "I could get you five years!"
"Yeah, but you already gave me five minutes," Conn pointed out. He scratched at the fresh scar traversing his ribs, tilted his hat further down across his forehead, and said, "And now I'm giving you five seconds to get your fat ass outta my office. Beat it, Big City. Run and get your warrants."
Resisting suggestions that he "mob up" at the DiGeorge villa, Mack Bolan had maintained his accommodations at the resort hotel in Palm Springs while enjoying a free and ostensibly unrestricted run of the estate. He knew, of course, that few of his movements within the villa went unwatched and he suspected the existence of hidden observation posts behind various walls and ceilings. He had even discovered "bugs" in his hotel room. He had nevertheless managed to gather considerable intelligence concerning the combine's operations, such as the information he had been passing to Carl Lyons of the Pointer Detail. Contacts with Andrea D'Agosta had been both rare and fleeting, and characterized by a marked hostility on the girl's part. Through idle conversation with the other "soldiers," Bolan had learned that the girl had been but 20 years of age when her husband of less than a year drowned in a boating accident near San Pedro two years prior to Bolan's entry into Andtea's life. She was, of course, tolerated and deferred to by the palace guard but — as far as Bolan could determine — not actually liked by many of the men in DiGeorge's command. She was "the Capo's kid" and as such could do no wrong. She was variously referred to as "the American beauty rose" — "Miss Hot-ass" — "Th' damn debbatant" — and "Deej's bitter harvest" — none of these, however, within earshot of DiGeorge or his daughter or any of the officers in the guard.
Bolan had managed to identify himself with the common soldier, though most of them understood that he was "in probate" and undoubtedly destined for high rank in the organization. They talked freely in his presence and delighted in the gossipy tidbits which Bolan dropped in their midst from time to time. In less than a week of in-and-out presence at the villa, Bolan already could boast a considerable cadre who were ready to follow him up the trail of exaltation. "Franky Lucky's going to get a territory," was the consensus, and many bored (and relatively poor) palace guards were hopeful of being taken into his crew when the big day arrived. Bolan encouraged this type of thinking, through never overtly, and was quietly marking certain soldiers for his possible use in an emergency.
As Bolan was departing the villa on the night of October 21st, he took the short cut across the patio to reach the parking area, resulting in one of his infrequent encounters with Andrea D'Agosta. She was seated beside the pool in a deck chair and wore a light wrap over her bathing costume, Bolan paused beside her chair and said quietly, "How's it been, Andrea?"
"Oh it's just been a ball," she replied in a dull voice. Her eyes flashed up to his then and her face became animated. "Haven't you been told that the pool is out of bounds to you hoods?"
"I guess I forgot," Bolan replied. He smiled. "No, that isn't true. I was hoping I might run into you."
"You 'ran into' me once too often, Mr. Lambretta," she said coldly.
"I'm sorry, Andrea," he told her, and moved on.
"You'll be a lot sorrier when Victor Poppy gets back from Florida!" the girl hissed.
It was more the tone of voice than her words that halted Bolan. He spun slowly on his heel and retraced his steps to stand in front of the deck chair. "What do you mean?" he asked in a subdued voice.
Andrea's eyes darted about the patio. She lifted her arms to him and pursed her lips. Bolan bent to the embrace but she avoided his kiss, moving her mouth to his ear. "They think you might be a phoney," she whispered. "I'm betting you are. What is it . . . FBI or Treasury?"
Bolan pulled her out of the chair and clasped her to him, burying his lips into the soft flesh below her ear. "What's this about Florida?" he murmured.
"Phil Marasco sent a goon there to get a man out of jail. The man says he knew you, years ago, in New Jersey."
Bolan kissed her full on the mouth. She gasped and curled her fingers into his hair. "Get me out of here, Franky," she moaned.
"Don't worry, I will," he assured her. "Just play it cool. You understand?"
She nodded and began silently crying. "It's awful to feel this way about your own poppa, but I hate him," she sobbed. "I just hate him!"
"Save the hate for someone who deserves it," Bolan advised her.
"He deserves it, all right," she said. "I want you to look into something for me, Frank. Promise."
They kissed again. Bolan said, "What makes you so sure of me, Andrea?"
She ignored the parry. "Promise!" She hissed.
He nodded. "What do you want me to do?"
"Find out how Chuck really died," she whispered.
Bolan furrowed his brow and said, "Who's Chuck?"
"Charles D'Agosta, my husband."
Bolan stiffened and drew away to stare into her eyes. She read the question in the gaze and nodded her head emphatically. Bolan grunted, "I heard he drowned."
"Chuck was an expert yachtsman," she whispered. "And he could swim before he could walk. Promise me you'll look into it."
Bolan said, "I promise. Now what about this Florida deal? Who's the guy?"
"I don't know. But they're bringing him here to confirm your identity."
"If you hear something else, let me know. Get word to me somehow."
"Then you really are someone else," she whispered excitedly.
Bolan grinned and stepped away from her. "Maybe I just don't like surprises," he said. He blew her a kiss and went on across the patio.
As he rounded the corner to the parking area, a figure moved out of the shadows and held up two fingers in the peace sign. Bolan recognized the smooth-faced youth who had been assigned to Andrea's guard.
"I spell peace p-i-e-c-e," the bodyguard said with a low chuckle.
"So do I," replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He squeezed the youth's shoulder and went on to his car.
The boy held the door for him as he climbed inside, then closed it and leaned down to peer admiringly through the open window. "When you leave here, Lucky, I'd be proud to go with you," he confided.
Bolan winked and said, "I'll remember that, Benny Peaceful."
The bodyguard grinned delightedly. "Hey, that's a name that could stick," he said.
"Bet on it," replied Bolan. He wheeled around, flashed his lights at the gate guards, and sped through with a clutch-jumping whine of the powerful engine.
"There goes Franky Lucky on the prowl again," observed one of the guards.
"I'm glad my name ain't Mack the Blacksuit Bolan," said the other.
"Ain't I," replied the first quietly, staring after the fast-disappearing tail lights.
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
"Don't quibble with me over semantics."
The Palm Village Chief pushed his hat back and scratched his forehead. "There's not one shred of anything to link Pena with the hell that hit this town, and you know it. Don't think for a minute that I wouldn't have him booked and walking toward the grand jury if there was. The fact is Braddock, I have a guest in my home who may or may not be a member of this syndicate you mentioned." Conn stood up suddenly and threw his hat to the floor. "Aw shit, enough of this pussyfooting, Braddock! Let's talk like men!"
Braddock grinned and sailed his own hat across the room. "Let's do that," he replied.
"This Pena character is scared clear out of his skin. He fumbled an assignment, and worse than that, he knows damn well he isn't ever going to have the stuff to get the measure of a man like Mack Bolan. He's scared, he's proud, he's getting old and knows it, and he don't want to go home in disgrace. Now that's the way it's laid out. I could like the guy. I could really like him, if I didn't know what he's been, and I say that even knowing what he is. Do you want to know the kind of a deal he came to me with? I'd help him get Bolan, he'd get the credit and see that I cashed in on the hundred grand bounty. Now that's what brought him to me in the first place."
"And your reaction?"
"Don't insult me, Braddock," Conn snorted. "You know how I feel about cops on the make. Twenty years ago I would have thrown him in a cell and clawed my way to an indictment. Just like you're wanting to do now. If there's one thing a man learns on this desert, though, it's patience. A month or a year makes damn little difference out here. I still haven't given Pena his answer. I've got him on the hook and I'm keeping him there. Meantime, he's on ice. Or he was, until you bulled in."
"What kind of hook?" Braddock asked, exhibiting remarkable self-control.
"We're bargaining. He knows I'm not too interested in the money. But he's got something else I'm willing to bargain for, and he knows it. Understand this, Braddock. Those boys busted my town, and I'm not standing for it. I want them, all of them, every damn one."
"What sort of bargaining?" the Captain persisted.
"It's been two weeks of Paris Peace Talks. I say something like, 'Well, let's see here now, Lou. I'll give you two of Bolan's fingers for three Mafia heads.' And he says, 'Well, you better let me think about that, Genghis.' He thinks about it for a day or so, then he comes back with a counter-offer. It's never enough, so I try to jack him up a little more."
"Are you levelling with me, Genghis?"
"Of course I'm levelling."
"What makes Pena so sure you have anything at all to offer him?"
Conn shrugged his shoulders. "I keep him pumped up. Look, Braddock, I told you the guy is scared to go home. Now the longer he stays away, the harder it gets to go back empty-handed. I told you I've got him hooked."
Braddock stared dreamily out the window. "It's a fool's game, Genghis," he said softly. "Unless you've got some real bargaining power on your side."
"Okay, so I've got that," Conn replied, his eyes dropping.
"I guess you'd better tell me about it."
"I guess you'd better go to hell."
Braddock sighed. "For the next five minutes, we're off the record. After that . . . well, I just hope you've got clean skirts, Genghis. If you've got Bolan on ice somewhere, too, then . . . "
"That sounds like a threat, Captain."
"It is."
Conn bent to the floor and retrieved his hat. He put it on and rocked back in the swivel chair, added a fresh wad of tobacco leaves to the cud in his mouth, and chewed furiously for a minute. Then he sighed and said, "I believe Bolan got his face lifted here at Palm Village."
A muscle bunched in Braddock's jaw. He fixed Conn with a wide-eyed stare and said, "Where? By whom?"
"Up at the New Horizons."
"Is there a plastic surgeon there? Is that a . . . well, Goddammit, Genghis! New Horizons! Are you telling me that's a plastics clinic?"
"Thought you knew," Conn said mildly concentrating on his chew.
"Conn, I'm going to bust you for this!" Braddock spluttered.
"My five minutes ain't up yet," Corm replied, eyes twinkling.
"Five minutes!" Braddock yelled. "I could get you five years!"
"Yeah, but you already gave me five minutes," Conn pointed out. He scratched at the fresh scar traversing his ribs, tilted his hat further down across his forehead, and said, "And now I'm giving you five seconds to get your fat ass outta my office. Beat it, Big City. Run and get your warrants."
Resisting suggestions that he "mob up" at the DiGeorge villa, Mack Bolan had maintained his accommodations at the resort hotel in Palm Springs while enjoying a free and ostensibly unrestricted run of the estate. He knew, of course, that few of his movements within the villa went unwatched and he suspected the existence of hidden observation posts behind various walls and ceilings. He had even discovered "bugs" in his hotel room. He had nevertheless managed to gather considerable intelligence concerning the combine's operations, such as the information he had been passing to Carl Lyons of the Pointer Detail. Contacts with Andrea D'Agosta had been both rare and fleeting, and characterized by a marked hostility on the girl's part. Through idle conversation with the other "soldiers," Bolan had learned that the girl had been but 20 years of age when her husband of less than a year drowned in a boating accident near San Pedro two years prior to Bolan's entry into Andtea's life. She was, of course, tolerated and deferred to by the palace guard but — as far as Bolan could determine — not actually liked by many of the men in DiGeorge's command. She was "the Capo's kid" and as such could do no wrong. She was variously referred to as "the American beauty rose" — "Miss Hot-ass" — "Th' damn debbatant" — and "Deej's bitter harvest" — none of these, however, within earshot of DiGeorge or his daughter or any of the officers in the guard.
Bolan had managed to identify himself with the common soldier, though most of them understood that he was "in probate" and undoubtedly destined for high rank in the organization. They talked freely in his presence and delighted in the gossipy tidbits which Bolan dropped in their midst from time to time. In less than a week of in-and-out presence at the villa, Bolan already could boast a considerable cadre who were ready to follow him up the trail of exaltation. "Franky Lucky's going to get a territory," was the consensus, and many bored (and relatively poor) palace guards were hopeful of being taken into his crew when the big day arrived. Bolan encouraged this type of thinking, through never overtly, and was quietly marking certain soldiers for his possible use in an emergency.
As Bolan was departing the villa on the night of October 21st, he took the short cut across the patio to reach the parking area, resulting in one of his infrequent encounters with Andrea D'Agosta. She was seated beside the pool in a deck chair and wore a light wrap over her bathing costume, Bolan paused beside her chair and said quietly, "How's it been, Andrea?"
"Oh it's just been a ball," she replied in a dull voice. Her eyes flashed up to his then and her face became animated. "Haven't you been told that the pool is out of bounds to you hoods?"
"I guess I forgot," Bolan replied. He smiled. "No, that isn't true. I was hoping I might run into you."
"You 'ran into' me once too often, Mr. Lambretta," she said coldly.
"I'm sorry, Andrea," he told her, and moved on.
"You'll be a lot sorrier when Victor Poppy gets back from Florida!" the girl hissed.
It was more the tone of voice than her words that halted Bolan. He spun slowly on his heel and retraced his steps to stand in front of the deck chair. "What do you mean?" he asked in a subdued voice.
Andrea's eyes darted about the patio. She lifted her arms to him and pursed her lips. Bolan bent to the embrace but she avoided his kiss, moving her mouth to his ear. "They think you might be a phoney," she whispered. "I'm betting you are. What is it . . . FBI or Treasury?"
Bolan pulled her out of the chair and clasped her to him, burying his lips into the soft flesh below her ear. "What's this about Florida?" he murmured.
"Phil Marasco sent a goon there to get a man out of jail. The man says he knew you, years ago, in New Jersey."
Bolan kissed her full on the mouth. She gasped and curled her fingers into his hair. "Get me out of here, Franky," she moaned.
"Don't worry, I will," he assured her. "Just play it cool. You understand?"
She nodded and began silently crying. "It's awful to feel this way about your own poppa, but I hate him," she sobbed. "I just hate him!"
"Save the hate for someone who deserves it," Bolan advised her.
"He deserves it, all right," she said. "I want you to look into something for me, Frank. Promise."
They kissed again. Bolan said, "What makes you so sure of me, Andrea?"
She ignored the parry. "Promise!" She hissed.
He nodded. "What do you want me to do?"
"Find out how Chuck really died," she whispered.
Bolan furrowed his brow and said, "Who's Chuck?"
"Charles D'Agosta, my husband."
Bolan stiffened and drew away to stare into her eyes. She read the question in the gaze and nodded her head emphatically. Bolan grunted, "I heard he drowned."
"Chuck was an expert yachtsman," she whispered. "And he could swim before he could walk. Promise me you'll look into it."
Bolan said, "I promise. Now what about this Florida deal? Who's the guy?"
"I don't know. But they're bringing him here to confirm your identity."
"If you hear something else, let me know. Get word to me somehow."
"Then you really are someone else," she whispered excitedly.
Bolan grinned and stepped away from her. "Maybe I just don't like surprises," he said. He blew her a kiss and went on across the patio.
As he rounded the corner to the parking area, a figure moved out of the shadows and held up two fingers in the peace sign. Bolan recognized the smooth-faced youth who had been assigned to Andrea's guard.
"I spell peace p-i-e-c-e," the bodyguard said with a low chuckle.
"So do I," replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He squeezed the youth's shoulder and went on to his car.
The boy held the door for him as he climbed inside, then closed it and leaned down to peer admiringly through the open window. "When you leave here, Lucky, I'd be proud to go with you," he confided.
Bolan winked and said, "I'll remember that, Benny Peaceful."
The bodyguard grinned delightedly. "Hey, that's a name that could stick," he said.
"Bet on it," replied Bolan. He wheeled around, flashed his lights at the gate guards, and sped through with a clutch-jumping whine of the powerful engine.
"There goes Franky Lucky on the prowl again," observed one of the guards.
"I'm glad my name ain't Mack the Blacksuit Bolan," said the other.
"Ain't I," replied the first quietly, staring after the fast-disappearing tail lights.
Chapter Eighteen
The interrogation
Philip Marasco awakened Julian DiGeorge at shortly past dawn on the morning of October 22nd and said, "Five of the boys are missing, and I think they've gone out to join up with Pena."
"Who are they?" DiGeorge growled sleepily.
Marasco thrust a coffee-royal into his Capo's hands and inserted a lighted cigarette between his lips. "What's left of his old crew," the chief bodyguard reported. "Willie Walker and that bunch. I bet they've known where he was all this time."
"You better get the word to Franky Lucky," DiGeorge said.
"I already tried. Too late. He's gone. I'd guess he's up there right now for the hit. You want me to send 'im a crew?"
DiGeorge's eyes focused on the clock. He sipped at the laced coffee, took a drag on the cigarette, then looked again at the clock. "Naw," he said finally. "Too late for that now. I guess we get to see, Phil, just how good this Frank Lucky is, eh?"
"It's not even likely odds, Deej," Marasco worriedly pointed out.
DiGeorge sighed. "I wouldn't be so sure. Let's wait'n see before we start mourning our dead, eh? You better get a couple of cars ready, just in case though."
Marasco moved abruptly toward the door. He whirled about to say something, changed his mind, and went out the door muttering to himself, "I guess that's about all we can do now."
Lou Pena stirred, then sat bolt upright on the bed. A quiet voice announced, "It's okay, Lou, it's me, Willie."
The bedside lamp came on. Willie Walker, smiling grimly, leaned over the bed and fitted a key into the handcuffs with which Pena was manacled to the metal bedpost. "When did they start the bracelets routine?" he asked.
"Just last night," Pena whispered. "Christ, it's about time you was showing up. I had the signal out since yesterday afternoon." He drew his hand free and massaged the wrist, then reached hurriedly for his clothing. "This guy blew it, and the L.A. cops ate after Lou Baby's ass."
"No need to be quiet," Walker informed him. "We got the cop."
Pena grunted. "How about the old lady?"
"Her, too. You better hurry it, though. This Franky Lucky might be making it here most any time.
Pena staggered into his trousers and said, "Who the hell is Franky Lucky?"
"Oh hell, there's a lot been going on you don't know about," Walker told him. "This Franky Lucky is a rodman from the East. He's got a contract on you, Lou."
Pena's eyes flipped wide with alarm. "Awww," he said unbelievingly. "Deej wouldn't go that far."
"The hell he wouldn't." Walker had knelt and was slipping socks on Pena's feet as the grizzled Mafia veteran was struggling into his shirt. "He thinks you made a singin' deal with the cops. The boys have been lighting candles all night. They're even making plans for a secret wake."
Pena's fingers fumbled with the buttonholes at the shirtfront. He seemed stunned. "We gotta get to 'im," he mumbled. "He's gotta call it off. I just about got this thing sewed up now. You get on a phone, Willie, and tell 'im. I'm right in Bolan's tracks now. Tell Deej that Bolan got a face job, right here in th' Village. Tell 'im I been all this time finding that out. Tell Deej I also know the guy that give 'im the face job, and I'm right now finding out what this Bolan looks like now. You tell 'im that, Willie, and get 'im to call off this hit."
Walker nodded his head in somber agreement. "I'll try, Lou, but you know how these things go. Whattaya got in mind? I mean . . ."
"I'm going after this plastics man. You know the place, this rest home on the east side."
Walker appeared dazed. "Well hell, I guess we should'a known," he said. "Listen. Four boys are watching outside. Don't worry, they're with you. You take 'em on over there. I'll try to call Deej from here, then I'll join you over there later. But we better make it quick. Somebody comes in here and finds the cop and his old lady and some hell is gonna cut loose in this town."
Pena slipped into his coat. "You know how much I 'preciate this, Willie."
"Sure, sure," Walker said. He handed Pena a gun and dropped some loose bullets into his coat pocket. "You better beat it."
Bolan's Mercedes rolled quietly through the early-morning stir of the village, past the blackened hulk of Lodetown, and halted at an outside phone booth two blocks beyond the square. He consulted the directory, found Robert Conn's home address, then drove three blocks further on and parked the Mercedes on a side street several doors down from the Conn residence. He opened a gun case, withdrew a long-barreled .38, checked the load and spun the cylinder, affixed a silencer, and jammed the weapon into the waistband of his trousers, then walked up the alley behind the row of houses.
He found Genghis and Dolly Conn in their bloodsoaked bed, their throats slashed, the bodies cold in death. Bolan muttered his regrets and quickly searched the rest of the house. Finding nothing of value, he immediately withdrew and returned to his vehicle. He put the car in motion and slowly circled the block once, pondering the unexpected development. Then a chilling thought struck him. He wheeled the Mercedes about and proceeded directly to New Horizons. He parked at the rear beside a dark Plymouth, noted a radio microphone clipped to the dashboard of that vehicle, and cautiously entered the clinic. He paused just inside the door and elevated his head, as though sniffing the air, then drew the .38, checked the snub .32 reposing in the sideleather, and advanced quietly to Jim Brantzen's private quarters.
Big Tim Braddock lay just inside the door to Brantzen's apartment, curled on his side, blood soaking into the carpet under him. A pistol lay several feet away. Bolan knelt quickly and felt Braddock's forehead. It was clammy. Bolan grunted and stepped cautiously into the kitchen.
He found Jim Brantzen, clad only in pajama bottoms, stretched out on the dining table, his head dangling over the edge. Bloodied pliers and wirecutters lay beside him on the table. Bolan winced and a guttural snarl tore up through the constrictions of his throat as he inspected his friend's mutilated body. Of all the atrocities Bolan had witnessed in the hamlets of Vietnam, he had never seen anything to equal the ferocity of this obvious interrogation. They had twisted the nipples out of his chest, probably with the pliers. The entire torso was a raw pulp of mutilated meat. The ribs gleamed through bare spots where the flesh had been stripped away. The surgical fingers of the right hand had been whittled to the bone. Both earlobes were missing, his nostrils were slit up both sides, laying bare the bridge of his nose, and deep grooves had been carved beneath each eye. Worst of all, to Bolan's way of thinking, the hideously tortured surgeon was still alive . . . and aware.
His breath was coming in ragged gurgles, blood bubbles forming about the mutilated nostrils, and all in the overtones of a ceaseless moaning. A bloodsmeared bottle of whiskey stood on a nearby stand, a stained towel lay in a pan of cold water; evidence, to Bolan, that the valiant surgeon had been repeatedly forced to maintain consciousness.
Bolan's hands moved carefully beneath his friend's head and he tenderly lifted it. "Who did it, Jim?" he asked with a shaking voice. "Who did this?"
Brantzen's eyes flared, dulled, then flared again. The lips moved, dribbling a red foam in the painful whisper: "They . . . called him . . . Lou."
Bolan nodded. "I know him. I'll get him, Jim."
"He . . . knows . . . sketch . . . has sketch."
"I'm going to get him, Jim."
"He . . . He . . . knows . . ." The right hand jerked up; glazed eyes stared at the skeletonized fingers; then the eyes closed, and Jim Brantzen died.
Tears squeezed past Bolan's tightening eyelids. He groaned, "Oh, God!" . . . then he gently let Brantzen's head down and walked jerkily into the other room. Braddock's eyes were open and he had rolled onto his back. Bolan knelt over him, opened the coat, and found the wound. The big cop had caught it in the gut. "You okay?" Bolan asked him.
"No," Braddock wheezed.
"How long ago, Braddock?"
"Five minutes . . . maybe ten."
"Hang on, I'll get an ambulance," Bolan told him. He went quickly out the door, through the lobby, and into Brantzen's surgical chamber. There he found compresses and hurried back with them to the fallen policeman. Bolan peeled away the clothing and applied the compresses to the wound.
"I'll bet you make it," he told Braddock.
The Captain merely stared at him, obviously in too much pain for conversation.
"I hope you do," Bolan added. He returned to the lobby, phoned for an ambulance, and made a hasty exit. Moments later, the powerful Mercedes was screaming around the curves of the high road to Palm Springs. Bolan thought he knew where he could intercept a torture-murderer. He was, in fact betting his very life on it.
"Who are they?" DiGeorge growled sleepily.
Marasco thrust a coffee-royal into his Capo's hands and inserted a lighted cigarette between his lips. "What's left of his old crew," the chief bodyguard reported. "Willie Walker and that bunch. I bet they've known where he was all this time."
"You better get the word to Franky Lucky," DiGeorge said.
"I already tried. Too late. He's gone. I'd guess he's up there right now for the hit. You want me to send 'im a crew?"
DiGeorge's eyes focused on the clock. He sipped at the laced coffee, took a drag on the cigarette, then looked again at the clock. "Naw," he said finally. "Too late for that now. I guess we get to see, Phil, just how good this Frank Lucky is, eh?"
"It's not even likely odds, Deej," Marasco worriedly pointed out.
DiGeorge sighed. "I wouldn't be so sure. Let's wait'n see before we start mourning our dead, eh? You better get a couple of cars ready, just in case though."
Marasco moved abruptly toward the door. He whirled about to say something, changed his mind, and went out the door muttering to himself, "I guess that's about all we can do now."
Lou Pena stirred, then sat bolt upright on the bed. A quiet voice announced, "It's okay, Lou, it's me, Willie."
The bedside lamp came on. Willie Walker, smiling grimly, leaned over the bed and fitted a key into the handcuffs with which Pena was manacled to the metal bedpost. "When did they start the bracelets routine?" he asked.
"Just last night," Pena whispered. "Christ, it's about time you was showing up. I had the signal out since yesterday afternoon." He drew his hand free and massaged the wrist, then reached hurriedly for his clothing. "This guy blew it, and the L.A. cops ate after Lou Baby's ass."
"No need to be quiet," Walker informed him. "We got the cop."
Pena grunted. "How about the old lady?"
"Her, too. You better hurry it, though. This Franky Lucky might be making it here most any time.
Pena staggered into his trousers and said, "Who the hell is Franky Lucky?"
"Oh hell, there's a lot been going on you don't know about," Walker told him. "This Franky Lucky is a rodman from the East. He's got a contract on you, Lou."
Pena's eyes flipped wide with alarm. "Awww," he said unbelievingly. "Deej wouldn't go that far."
"The hell he wouldn't." Walker had knelt and was slipping socks on Pena's feet as the grizzled Mafia veteran was struggling into his shirt. "He thinks you made a singin' deal with the cops. The boys have been lighting candles all night. They're even making plans for a secret wake."
Pena's fingers fumbled with the buttonholes at the shirtfront. He seemed stunned. "We gotta get to 'im," he mumbled. "He's gotta call it off. I just about got this thing sewed up now. You get on a phone, Willie, and tell 'im. I'm right in Bolan's tracks now. Tell Deej that Bolan got a face job, right here in th' Village. Tell 'im I been all this time finding that out. Tell Deej I also know the guy that give 'im the face job, and I'm right now finding out what this Bolan looks like now. You tell 'im that, Willie, and get 'im to call off this hit."
Walker nodded his head in somber agreement. "I'll try, Lou, but you know how these things go. Whattaya got in mind? I mean . . ."
"I'm going after this plastics man. You know the place, this rest home on the east side."
Walker appeared dazed. "Well hell, I guess we should'a known," he said. "Listen. Four boys are watching outside. Don't worry, they're with you. You take 'em on over there. I'll try to call Deej from here, then I'll join you over there later. But we better make it quick. Somebody comes in here and finds the cop and his old lady and some hell is gonna cut loose in this town."
Pena slipped into his coat. "You know how much I 'preciate this, Willie."
"Sure, sure," Walker said. He handed Pena a gun and dropped some loose bullets into his coat pocket. "You better beat it."
Bolan's Mercedes rolled quietly through the early-morning stir of the village, past the blackened hulk of Lodetown, and halted at an outside phone booth two blocks beyond the square. He consulted the directory, found Robert Conn's home address, then drove three blocks further on and parked the Mercedes on a side street several doors down from the Conn residence. He opened a gun case, withdrew a long-barreled .38, checked the load and spun the cylinder, affixed a silencer, and jammed the weapon into the waistband of his trousers, then walked up the alley behind the row of houses.
He found Genghis and Dolly Conn in their bloodsoaked bed, their throats slashed, the bodies cold in death. Bolan muttered his regrets and quickly searched the rest of the house. Finding nothing of value, he immediately withdrew and returned to his vehicle. He put the car in motion and slowly circled the block once, pondering the unexpected development. Then a chilling thought struck him. He wheeled the Mercedes about and proceeded directly to New Horizons. He parked at the rear beside a dark Plymouth, noted a radio microphone clipped to the dashboard of that vehicle, and cautiously entered the clinic. He paused just inside the door and elevated his head, as though sniffing the air, then drew the .38, checked the snub .32 reposing in the sideleather, and advanced quietly to Jim Brantzen's private quarters.
Big Tim Braddock lay just inside the door to Brantzen's apartment, curled on his side, blood soaking into the carpet under him. A pistol lay several feet away. Bolan knelt quickly and felt Braddock's forehead. It was clammy. Bolan grunted and stepped cautiously into the kitchen.
He found Jim Brantzen, clad only in pajama bottoms, stretched out on the dining table, his head dangling over the edge. Bloodied pliers and wirecutters lay beside him on the table. Bolan winced and a guttural snarl tore up through the constrictions of his throat as he inspected his friend's mutilated body. Of all the atrocities Bolan had witnessed in the hamlets of Vietnam, he had never seen anything to equal the ferocity of this obvious interrogation. They had twisted the nipples out of his chest, probably with the pliers. The entire torso was a raw pulp of mutilated meat. The ribs gleamed through bare spots where the flesh had been stripped away. The surgical fingers of the right hand had been whittled to the bone. Both earlobes were missing, his nostrils were slit up both sides, laying bare the bridge of his nose, and deep grooves had been carved beneath each eye. Worst of all, to Bolan's way of thinking, the hideously tortured surgeon was still alive . . . and aware.
His breath was coming in ragged gurgles, blood bubbles forming about the mutilated nostrils, and all in the overtones of a ceaseless moaning. A bloodsmeared bottle of whiskey stood on a nearby stand, a stained towel lay in a pan of cold water; evidence, to Bolan, that the valiant surgeon had been repeatedly forced to maintain consciousness.
Bolan's hands moved carefully beneath his friend's head and he tenderly lifted it. "Who did it, Jim?" he asked with a shaking voice. "Who did this?"
Brantzen's eyes flared, dulled, then flared again. The lips moved, dribbling a red foam in the painful whisper: "They . . . called him . . . Lou."
Bolan nodded. "I know him. I'll get him, Jim."
"He . . . knows . . . sketch . . . has sketch."
"I'm going to get him, Jim."
"He . . . He . . . knows . . ." The right hand jerked up; glazed eyes stared at the skeletonized fingers; then the eyes closed, and Jim Brantzen died.
Tears squeezed past Bolan's tightening eyelids. He groaned, "Oh, God!" . . . then he gently let Brantzen's head down and walked jerkily into the other room. Braddock's eyes were open and he had rolled onto his back. Bolan knelt over him, opened the coat, and found the wound. The big cop had caught it in the gut. "You okay?" Bolan asked him.
"No," Braddock wheezed.
"How long ago, Braddock?"
"Five minutes . . . maybe ten."
"Hang on, I'll get an ambulance," Bolan told him. He went quickly out the door, through the lobby, and into Brantzen's surgical chamber. There he found compresses and hurried back with them to the fallen policeman. Bolan peeled away the clothing and applied the compresses to the wound.
"I'll bet you make it," he told Braddock.
The Captain merely stared at him, obviously in too much pain for conversation.
"I hope you do," Bolan added. He returned to the lobby, phoned for an ambulance, and made a hasty exit. Moments later, the powerful Mercedes was screaming around the curves of the high road to Palm Springs. Bolan thought he knew where he could intercept a torture-murderer. He was, in fact betting his very life on it.
Chapter Nineteen
The hit
The six men were squeezed into the speeding car, Willie Walker in the front seat with a veteran triggerman named Bonelli and a younger wheelman who was called Tommy Edsel because of his one-time membership in a club of Edsel automobile enthusiasts. Screwy Lou Pena, all expansive smiles and high humor, took up nearly half of the rear seat, Wedged in with him were one Mario Capistrano, who had been recently released from the Federal Reformatory at Lompoc, and Harold the Greaser Schiaperelli, a 59-year-old Italian-born contract specialist who had been deported three times but had never spent a night behind bars.
Willie Walker freed an arm and leaned over the backrest, saying, "Lemme take a look at that picture, huh Lou?"
"Nothing doing," Pena objected, happily patting his jacket pocket. "Deej gets first look at this little jewel." He smiled archly and added, "After all, it's my passport back to the livin', Willie. Let's not be throwing it around the car, huh?"
"You're not forgetting," Walker pouted, "that us guys put our necks right up there with yours."
"I'm not forgetting," Pena assured him. "Don't you ever get to thinking that way, Willie. And Deej won't hold nothing against you when I explain this was all in the plan. He might be a little sore but he'll get over that quick enough. When he sees this picture, eh? Hell. Didn't he tell me not to come back without Bolan's head? Well, I got it," He tapped the pocket again. "I got Bolan's head."
"Hell it ain't even a picture," Tommy Edsel remarked. "It's just a drawin', ain't it?"
"Yeah but what a drawin'," Pena said. "A drawin' for a face job ain't just no drawin', you know. Hell, it's a blueprint."
"That back there made me sick at my stomach," Capistrano complained. "I never saw a guy turned into a turkey like that before."
"Yeah but don't you forget, Mario, a singing turkey," Pena said. "Hell, I don't enjoy that kind of stuff any more than anyone else. His own damn fault, you gotta say that."
"You did that to his fingers after," Capistrano grumbled.
"That was for the lesson," Pena patiently explained. "Those guys gotta know they can't get away with it. Don't worry me with no blues now, Mario. Today's my day and I'm gonna enjoy it. You wanta walk back to the Springs, just say it."
"I wonder what about Franky Lucky," Bonelli fretted, perhaps only to change the subject.
"What is this Franky Lucky?" Pena snorted. "Some kinda goddam greaser golden boy?"
"Watch it," Willie Walker suggested in a low voice, his eyes shifting meaningfully to Harold the Greaser.
Pena laughed. "Aw hell, Willie, Harold ain't sensitive about being foreign born. Are you, Harold?"
Harold muttered something unintelligible and laughed. Pena laughed with him, although obviously he did not understand the comment. "Everybody's happy today," Pena observed.
"Except maybe Franky Lucky," Walker said. "Now Lou . . . this guy is as cold as a fish. And you were about right, he's a golden boy, at least as far as Deej is concerned. And he's got his contract. And Deej says we'll just have to avoid him the best we can until he calls in or comes in. And the way Deej talked, this boy ain't going to be listening to anything we might have to say. He's going to shoot first and save the polite conversation for after."
"Didn't you say he's handling the hit personally. Pena asked thoughtfully.
"This guy's a loner, Lou," Bonelli piped up. "They tell me he never takes no one along."
"Well hell, there's six of us, ain't there?" Pena said. "Anyway, he's not gonna be gunning for us between here'n home. Is he? What the hell are you worried about?"
The wheelman glanced over his shoulder and said, "Don't Franky Lucky wheel a blue sleek Mercedes?"
"Yeah, Some kind of hot wheels," Walker replied. "Why?"
Tommy Edsel's head was now wagging to and fro as his eyes moved rapidly from his own route to a winding road descending from the hills to their right. "I bet that's him," he said ominously.
All eyes turned to the mountain road, about a quarter-mile distant. "You sure got better eyes than me, Tommy, Pena said, squinting with his forehead pressed against the window.
"Just keep looking," Tommy Edsel replied, his head still wagging rhythmically. "He's in and out. Look for a flash of blue. There! Did you see? Shit, man, that's him, that's Franky Lucky! And is he wheeling!"
As alarmed sounds rose up around him, Pena braked, "Awright awright, settle down. If it's him, and it probably ain't, just remember there's one of him and six of us. He ain't likely to try nothing. He'll trail along and wait for a chance. He ain't gonna highway duel us, that's for damn sure."
"With Franky Lucky," Walker said worriedly, "nothing's for damn sure."
"Where do these roads come together?" Pena asked. He wet his lips nervously, affected by his companions' alarm.
"Just around this next curve," Tommy Edsel reported, "where the highway turns back toward the hills."
"Well dammit, you gotta beat him there!" Pena exclaimed.
"Dammit don't think I'm not trying," the wheelman replied, grunting with exitement. "But this boltpile sure as hell ain't no Mercedes!"
Pena and Walker were lowering their windows and the others were squirming about in the tight space trying to get their weapons ready.
"Just watch where you're shooting!" Pena yelled. "You guys onna other side be careful!"
Bolan had recognized the big Mafia vehicle at almost the same instant he had been spotted by Tommy Edsel. His visibility from the mountainside was unrestricted and gave him a panoramic sweep of the flatlands from the south horizon to the north. No other vehicles were in view; indeed there was nothing but desolation for as far as the eye could see. He ran a quick mental triangulation on the speeding vehicles and smiled grimly at the incredibly perfect timing of his gamble. He would beat them to the junction by perhaps ten seconds; it would be ten seconds enough. The precision driving required to traverse the winding mountain road at such speeds had taken the full use of all his faculties, both mental and physical. There had been little left of Mack Bolan to mull over the unspeakable atrocity he had left behind at Palm Village . . . and just as well. Beneath his peaking consciousness lurked a consuming rage such as this normally unemotional man had never experienced. His executions of the past had always been performed with a cool detachment, his combat-trained instincts dominating and guiding the actions of the mission. Never before had Bolan stepped forward with rage governing his performance, not even while avenging the deaths of his own father, mother, and sister. But that rage was there now, just below the surface. It was about to eruptm . . . and, with it, the full potency and ferocity of the Executioner.
Willie Walker freed an arm and leaned over the backrest, saying, "Lemme take a look at that picture, huh Lou?"
"Nothing doing," Pena objected, happily patting his jacket pocket. "Deej gets first look at this little jewel." He smiled archly and added, "After all, it's my passport back to the livin', Willie. Let's not be throwing it around the car, huh?"
"You're not forgetting," Walker pouted, "that us guys put our necks right up there with yours."
"I'm not forgetting," Pena assured him. "Don't you ever get to thinking that way, Willie. And Deej won't hold nothing against you when I explain this was all in the plan. He might be a little sore but he'll get over that quick enough. When he sees this picture, eh? Hell. Didn't he tell me not to come back without Bolan's head? Well, I got it," He tapped the pocket again. "I got Bolan's head."
"Hell it ain't even a picture," Tommy Edsel remarked. "It's just a drawin', ain't it?"
"Yeah but what a drawin'," Pena said. "A drawin' for a face job ain't just no drawin', you know. Hell, it's a blueprint."
"That back there made me sick at my stomach," Capistrano complained. "I never saw a guy turned into a turkey like that before."
"Yeah but don't you forget, Mario, a singing turkey," Pena said. "Hell, I don't enjoy that kind of stuff any more than anyone else. His own damn fault, you gotta say that."
"You did that to his fingers after," Capistrano grumbled.
"That was for the lesson," Pena patiently explained. "Those guys gotta know they can't get away with it. Don't worry me with no blues now, Mario. Today's my day and I'm gonna enjoy it. You wanta walk back to the Springs, just say it."
"I wonder what about Franky Lucky," Bonelli fretted, perhaps only to change the subject.
"What is this Franky Lucky?" Pena snorted. "Some kinda goddam greaser golden boy?"
"Watch it," Willie Walker suggested in a low voice, his eyes shifting meaningfully to Harold the Greaser.
Pena laughed. "Aw hell, Willie, Harold ain't sensitive about being foreign born. Are you, Harold?"
Harold muttered something unintelligible and laughed. Pena laughed with him, although obviously he did not understand the comment. "Everybody's happy today," Pena observed.
"Except maybe Franky Lucky," Walker said. "Now Lou . . . this guy is as cold as a fish. And you were about right, he's a golden boy, at least as far as Deej is concerned. And he's got his contract. And Deej says we'll just have to avoid him the best we can until he calls in or comes in. And the way Deej talked, this boy ain't going to be listening to anything we might have to say. He's going to shoot first and save the polite conversation for after."
"Didn't you say he's handling the hit personally. Pena asked thoughtfully.
"This guy's a loner, Lou," Bonelli piped up. "They tell me he never takes no one along."
"Well hell, there's six of us, ain't there?" Pena said. "Anyway, he's not gonna be gunning for us between here'n home. Is he? What the hell are you worried about?"
The wheelman glanced over his shoulder and said, "Don't Franky Lucky wheel a blue sleek Mercedes?"
"Yeah, Some kind of hot wheels," Walker replied. "Why?"
Tommy Edsel's head was now wagging to and fro as his eyes moved rapidly from his own route to a winding road descending from the hills to their right. "I bet that's him," he said ominously.
All eyes turned to the mountain road, about a quarter-mile distant. "You sure got better eyes than me, Tommy, Pena said, squinting with his forehead pressed against the window.
"Just keep looking," Tommy Edsel replied, his head still wagging rhythmically. "He's in and out. Look for a flash of blue. There! Did you see? Shit, man, that's him, that's Franky Lucky! And is he wheeling!"
As alarmed sounds rose up around him, Pena braked, "Awright awright, settle down. If it's him, and it probably ain't, just remember there's one of him and six of us. He ain't likely to try nothing. He'll trail along and wait for a chance. He ain't gonna highway duel us, that's for damn sure."
"With Franky Lucky," Walker said worriedly, "nothing's for damn sure."
"Where do these roads come together?" Pena asked. He wet his lips nervously, affected by his companions' alarm.
"Just around this next curve," Tommy Edsel reported, "where the highway turns back toward the hills."
"Well dammit, you gotta beat him there!" Pena exclaimed.
"Dammit don't think I'm not trying," the wheelman replied, grunting with exitement. "But this boltpile sure as hell ain't no Mercedes!"
Pena and Walker were lowering their windows and the others were squirming about in the tight space trying to get their weapons ready.
"Just watch where you're shooting!" Pena yelled. "You guys onna other side be careful!"
Bolan had recognized the big Mafia vehicle at almost the same instant he had been spotted by Tommy Edsel. His visibility from the mountainside was unrestricted and gave him a panoramic sweep of the flatlands from the south horizon to the north. No other vehicles were in view; indeed there was nothing but desolation for as far as the eye could see. He ran a quick mental triangulation on the speeding vehicles and smiled grimly at the incredibly perfect timing of his gamble. He would beat them to the junction by perhaps ten seconds; it would be ten seconds enough. The precision driving required to traverse the winding mountain road at such speeds had taken the full use of all his faculties, both mental and physical. There had been little left of Mack Bolan to mull over the unspeakable atrocity he had left behind at Palm Village . . . and just as well. Beneath his peaking consciousness lurked a consuming rage such as this normally unemotional man had never experienced. His executions of the past had always been performed with a cool detachment, his combat-trained instincts dominating and guiding the actions of the mission. Never before had Bolan stepped forward with rage governing his performance, not even while avenging the deaths of his own father, mother, and sister. But that rage was there now, just below the surface. It was about to eruptm . . . and, with it, the full potency and ferocity of the Executioner.
Chapter Twenty
Between horizons
The Mercedes slid to a halt at the intersection with screaming rubber. Bolan was outside and standing alongside almost before the forward motion was halted. He tossed his pistols to the shoulder of the road and quickly leaned back into the vehicle, depressing the clutch with one hand and shifting into low gear with the other. Then he ripped the rubber accelerator peddle away and forced the rod to full depression, wedging it into the hold of the floorboard. The big engine was screaming in full idle, reminding Bolan of a jet engine run-up. He dropped to his knees on the roadway, shifted his right hand over to the clutch pedal, and held the door with his left. He knew that he had to depend entirely upon visibility; he would not be able to hear the approach of the other vehicle through the whine of his own engine. His visibility extended for about three carlengths beyond the intersection; both reflexes and timing would have to be perfect.
Then came the flash of motion at the edge of vision, and he was lunging clear of the Mercedes, allowing his own bodily motion to jerk his hand free of the clutch pedal. The powerful vehicle leapt forward like an arrow from a bow, the slamming door missing Bolan's shoulder by a hair, and Bolan completed his roll with both pistols in his fists.
"We've beat him!" Pena yelled triumphantly.
"We better had?' Tommy Edsel cried. "At a hunnert'n ten I ain't stoppin' nowhere soon!"
And then they were flashing into the intersection and catching first glimpse of the blue sports car nestled just outside the junction on the intersecting road. For a startled instant Pena wondered what the guy was doing on his knees beside the car; another microsecond and his finger was tightening on the trigger of his gun even as wheelman Tommy Edsel's reflexes began deciding to brake and turn.
The blue lightning bolt proved faster than Tommy Edsel's reflexes, however, and his foot was still heavy on the accelerator when the other car leapt into the intersection with a powering screech.
Willie Walker screamed, "Look out . . . !" just the Mercedes crunched against the right front fender in a grinding impact of protesting metal and showering glass. The velocity of the heavier car swung the Mercedes into a centrifugal tailspin, almost welding it to the side of the Mafia vehicle in another shattering impact. Willie Walker was thrown over Bonelli's head and rag-dolled into the windshield almost directly in front of Tommy Edsel. Harold the Greaser screamed something in Italian as Capistrano and Pena descended on him.
Expert wheelman Tommy Edsel fought the crazily spinning motion of the paired vehicles for another microsecond, and then the Mercedes was falling away, leaving the larger car to plunge on alone. The rear wheels moved out in front, jumped the shoulder, and then they were shuddering into soft sand and the big car was heeling over and going into its first roll.
Bolan had only a momentary glimpse of contorted faces and two protruding gun arms and then the two cars were together and moving away from him in a spinning plunge along the main road. He ran along in pursuit but was far behind even before the Mercedes dropped away and spun off into the scrubby desert. It seemed to be happening in slow motion, with the big vehicle coming around in a gentle swing and leaving the highway several hundred feet beyond. Its rear wheels slid gracefully onto the sand, dug in, and the heavy car began rolling sideways in a wide arc back toward the intersection, disgorging curiously flopping bodies along the way. Bolan counted six rolls before the journey ended in a wheels-up settling of mangled metal.
Tommy Edsel was still clutching the collapsed steering wheel when Bolan reached the wreckage. Blood was oozing from both corners of his mouth as he hung there in the seat belt. The entire front seat had moved forward; Tommy's chest had apparently been crushed by the steering wheel, but he turned his head and gave Bolan a glazed, upside down stare. Bolan shot him once between the eyes and moved around to the other side of the inverted automobile.
Bonelli was twisted into a caved-in section of the roof, partially pulped and obviously dead. Bolan wrestled his head clear, just the same, and shot him between the eyes. Then he began the back track of strewn bodies.
Willie Walker was the nearest. Part of his head was missing and the legs were bent into an impossible configuration under his back; Bolan had to settle for a bullet between where the eyes had been.
Harold the Greaser Schiaperelli was next. He was partially decapitated and one hand was missing. Bolan drilled another hole between the gaping eyes.
Mario Capistrano lay on his side in the sand. He was weeping and contemplating a number of jagged ribs which protruded from his side. Bolan rolled him face up, said, "Close your eyes," and promptly gave him a third one which could not be closed.
Lou Pena was on his knees, watching Bolan's advance. His right arm was missing, from the elbow down. The nose was smashed and two teeth protruded through his lower lip. In a strangely quacking Donald Duck voice, he said, "I got it. I got Bolan's head."
"Do tell," Bolan said, and shot him between the eyes. He caught the torn body as it toppled forward and felt through the pockets, finding Brantzen's sketch next to Pena's heart.
Bolan struck a match and held the flame under the sketch, turning it carefully to insure an even burn. Then he scattered the ashes in a fine powder across the sands as he retraced his steps to the roadway. He returned to the Mercedes, looked it over, and wrote it off. He opened the gas tank and encouraged a flow across the parched land until he was a safe distance removed, then he struck another match and touched it to the spillage.
The flames raced quickly along the gasoline trail. Bolan was already trudging toward the Palm Springs and did not even look back when the explosion came. A terrible force was afoot in the land, he was thinking, when a man like Jim Brantzen could be reduced to a mound of mutilated meat by the likes of that back there.
And there were more, like those back there, up there across that horizon. Mack Bolan's new horizon had never been closer, nor more passionately sought. Death on the hoof was moving toward Palm Springs.
Then came the flash of motion at the edge of vision, and he was lunging clear of the Mercedes, allowing his own bodily motion to jerk his hand free of the clutch pedal. The powerful vehicle leapt forward like an arrow from a bow, the slamming door missing Bolan's shoulder by a hair, and Bolan completed his roll with both pistols in his fists.
"We've beat him!" Pena yelled triumphantly.
"We better had?' Tommy Edsel cried. "At a hunnert'n ten I ain't stoppin' nowhere soon!"
And then they were flashing into the intersection and catching first glimpse of the blue sports car nestled just outside the junction on the intersecting road. For a startled instant Pena wondered what the guy was doing on his knees beside the car; another microsecond and his finger was tightening on the trigger of his gun even as wheelman Tommy Edsel's reflexes began deciding to brake and turn.
The blue lightning bolt proved faster than Tommy Edsel's reflexes, however, and his foot was still heavy on the accelerator when the other car leapt into the intersection with a powering screech.
Willie Walker screamed, "Look out . . . !" just the Mercedes crunched against the right front fender in a grinding impact of protesting metal and showering glass. The velocity of the heavier car swung the Mercedes into a centrifugal tailspin, almost welding it to the side of the Mafia vehicle in another shattering impact. Willie Walker was thrown over Bonelli's head and rag-dolled into the windshield almost directly in front of Tommy Edsel. Harold the Greaser screamed something in Italian as Capistrano and Pena descended on him.
Expert wheelman Tommy Edsel fought the crazily spinning motion of the paired vehicles for another microsecond, and then the Mercedes was falling away, leaving the larger car to plunge on alone. The rear wheels moved out in front, jumped the shoulder, and then they were shuddering into soft sand and the big car was heeling over and going into its first roll.
Bolan had only a momentary glimpse of contorted faces and two protruding gun arms and then the two cars were together and moving away from him in a spinning plunge along the main road. He ran along in pursuit but was far behind even before the Mercedes dropped away and spun off into the scrubby desert. It seemed to be happening in slow motion, with the big vehicle coming around in a gentle swing and leaving the highway several hundred feet beyond. Its rear wheels slid gracefully onto the sand, dug in, and the heavy car began rolling sideways in a wide arc back toward the intersection, disgorging curiously flopping bodies along the way. Bolan counted six rolls before the journey ended in a wheels-up settling of mangled metal.
Tommy Edsel was still clutching the collapsed steering wheel when Bolan reached the wreckage. Blood was oozing from both corners of his mouth as he hung there in the seat belt. The entire front seat had moved forward; Tommy's chest had apparently been crushed by the steering wheel, but he turned his head and gave Bolan a glazed, upside down stare. Bolan shot him once between the eyes and moved around to the other side of the inverted automobile.
Bonelli was twisted into a caved-in section of the roof, partially pulped and obviously dead. Bolan wrestled his head clear, just the same, and shot him between the eyes. Then he began the back track of strewn bodies.
Willie Walker was the nearest. Part of his head was missing and the legs were bent into an impossible configuration under his back; Bolan had to settle for a bullet between where the eyes had been.
Harold the Greaser Schiaperelli was next. He was partially decapitated and one hand was missing. Bolan drilled another hole between the gaping eyes.
Mario Capistrano lay on his side in the sand. He was weeping and contemplating a number of jagged ribs which protruded from his side. Bolan rolled him face up, said, "Close your eyes," and promptly gave him a third one which could not be closed.
Lou Pena was on his knees, watching Bolan's advance. His right arm was missing, from the elbow down. The nose was smashed and two teeth protruded through his lower lip. In a strangely quacking Donald Duck voice, he said, "I got it. I got Bolan's head."
"Do tell," Bolan said, and shot him between the eyes. He caught the torn body as it toppled forward and felt through the pockets, finding Brantzen's sketch next to Pena's heart.
Bolan struck a match and held the flame under the sketch, turning it carefully to insure an even burn. Then he scattered the ashes in a fine powder across the sands as he retraced his steps to the roadway. He returned to the Mercedes, looked it over, and wrote it off. He opened the gas tank and encouraged a flow across the parched land until he was a safe distance removed, then he struck another match and touched it to the spillage.
The flames raced quickly along the gasoline trail. Bolan was already trudging toward the Palm Springs and did not even look back when the explosion came. A terrible force was afoot in the land, he was thinking, when a man like Jim Brantzen could be reduced to a mound of mutilated meat by the likes of that back there.
And there were more, like those back there, up there across that horizon. Mack Bolan's new horizon had never been closer, nor more passionately sought. Death on the hoof was moving toward Palm Springs.
Chapter Twenty-One
The squeeze
The sun was approaching the high point in the sky when Bolan staggered into Palm Springs, picked up a taxi, and went on to his hotel. The desk clerk gaped at this appearance and said, "Did you have an accident, Mr. Lambretta?"
"I lost my car," Bolan told him. "Get me another one just like it, will you."
The clerk's chin dropped another inch. "Yes sir," he replied crisply.
"Send up a couple of buckets of ice."
"Yes sir, and the liquids that go with it?"
"Just the ice," Bolan said tiredly. "I'll need the car in an hour." He swung about and wobbled toward the elevator.
"Uh, Mr. Lambretta, we might have to compromise a bit on the color. The Mercedes, I mean."
"I said just like it," Bolan snapped back. He went on up to his room, stripped off the sweat-soaked clothing, and moved immediately to the bath. Shocked by his own dust-streaked image in the mirror, he scowled at the still strange mask of Frank Lambretta, stepped into the shower, and luxuriated there for several minutes, frequently raising his face into the spray to suck the water into the parched membranes of his mouth and throat.
Two small plastic containers of crushed ice were on the dressing table when he returned to the bedroom. The dust— and sweat-encased clothing had been removed; his revolvers lay on the bed beside a layout of fresh underwear.
Bolan got into the underwear and stuffed a small snowball into his mouth, then reached for the telephone and called the unlisted number in DiGeorge's study. Phil Marasco's voice broke into the first ring. "Yes?" he said softly.
"This is Frank," Bolan said. "Tell Deej that order's been filled."
A short pause, then: "Okay, Franky, I'll tell him. Where are you?"
"At the hotel. I'm beat. I'll be in pretty soon."
Bolan could hear DiGeorge's quiet rumble in the background but could not distinguish the words. Marasco said, "Deej wants to know about the picture."
"What picture?"
"The subject was supposedly carrying a surgeon's sketch of another interesting subject. Do you have it?"
"Of course not, Bolan snorted. "I don't go around collecting souvenirs."
Another background rumble, then: "He wants to know where you left that contract."
"Where the mountain meets the desert," Bolan reported cryptically, "and where one subject might wait for another."
"Okay, I got that. Deej says come home as soon as possible."
"Tell Deej I took a five-mile stroll in the sun. Tell him I'll be home when I can forget that."
Marasco chuckled. "Okay, Franky, I'll tell him. Get yourself rested, then come on out. There's things you should know about."
"I'll be there," Bolan said. He hung up, stared at the floor for a moment, then opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit one, and stretched out across the bed.
"Yes, I'll be there," he repeated in a dull monotone, speaking to himself. "With bells."
Philip Marasco led the search party out the little-travelled desert blacktop which links Palm Springs and Palm Village. Two cars, each carrying five men, made the short trip to the crossroads and found the scene of Franky Lucky's "hit" with no difficulty whatever.
The ten Mafiosi ran excitedly about the scene of action, poking, pointing, and animatedly reconstructing the details. Marasco searched each body thoroughly, went over the vehicle with precision, then arranged his troops at arm's-length intervals for a wide scrutiny along the entire length of the death car's travel.
Returning to the villa, Marasco dolefully reported to his Capo, "If Lou had a sketch, he must've ate it. And you should see the mess this Franky Lucky made of those boys. I never saw nothing like it."
"It don't make sense that he had no sketch," DiGeorge argued fretfully. "He had to have something up his sleeve or he wouldn't have been beating it back here. I guess there was nothing left alive, eh?"
"Not hardly," Marasco replied, shuddering. "There wasn't hardly anything left even whole. I never saw such a mess. This Franky Lucky is a mean contractor. And let me tell you, Deej, he don't mess around on a hit. Remember those six-to-one odds we was talking about last night?"
DiGeorge soberly nodded his head. "Didn't mean much, eh?"
"It wouldn't have meant anything at twelve to one, Deej. I tell you, when this Franky Lucky does find himself a piece of that Bolan, I want to be around to see what happens."
DiGeorge was staring thoughtfully into empty space. He noisily cleared his throat and said, "I wonder if you've thought of something, Phil. I wonder if you realize that someone has been playing games with old Deej."
Marasco inspected his Capo's face, found no clue to his thoughts, and replied, "What kind of games, Deej?"
"What was it Franky Lucky was telling me about this fight he had with Bolan? He said he saw Bolan down at the corners, and he recognized him, and they shot it out. And this was just a few days after Bolan ducked us over at th' Village. Right?"
"Yeah." Marasco was chewing the thought. "But I . . ." His eyes widened and he said, "Whuup! Willie Walker says on the phone that Bolan got his face carved the day of the hit."
"That's just what I been thinking, Philip Honey," DiGeorge mused. "Now somebody has got a story crossed. I wonder who?"
"Why would Franky want to cross you up, Deej?"
"That's what I have to wonder about, Phil. We're just saying if, now. If Screwy Looey was telling it straight. Have you ever caught Lou in a lie, Phil? I mean ever? An important lie?"
Marasco was thinking about it. He shook his head and replied, "I don't believe Lou ever gave you anything but a straight lip, Deej. But we got to remember one thing. Lou could have thought he had something. Maybe someone else wanted him to think that."
"You ever know any boys that got face jobs, Phil?"
"Yeah. It used to be the fashion back East."
"How long before they're out of bandages?"
"Oh, two or three weeks."
DiGeorge grunted. "And the boys I knew, they went around with puss pockets and Band-Aids for sometimes a month after that. It's a messy thing, this face job."
"They're even moving hearts around from body to body now, Deej. Maybe they got better ways to give face jobs now, too."
"I want somebody to find out about that," DiGeorge commanded.
"Sure, Deej."
"Meanwhile, Franky Lucky is right back in probate. If Bolan did get a face job, Franky didn't see him at no desert corners a few days later, no matter how fancy they get with face jobs. There's only one of two ways, saying that Bolan did get carved. He either saw him in bandages, or he saw him wearing the new face. Now that's plain, ain't it? Franky Lucky could not have recognized Bolan three days after a face job!"
"That's a fact, Deej," Marasco said. He appeared to be slightly out of breath. "Saying, of course, that Lou had the straight lip, then Franky Lucky has been using a curved one."
DiGeorge sighed. "That's a fact, Philip Honey." He sighed again. "You say the boy shoots a hard hit, eh?"
"You'd have to see what I saw, Deej, before you could ever know."
"Wouldn't it be hell," DiGeorge said tiredly, "if Franky Lucky turns out to be this Bolan's new face."
Marasco lost his breath entirely. His face paled. "I wouldn't go that far, Deej," he puffed.
"I would," DiGeorge stated matter-of-factly. "That's why I'm the Capo, Philip Honey. I would. When is Victor Poppy due in?"
"L.A. International at two o'clock," Marasco replied mechanically. "Franky might have lied a little, Deej. About shooting it up with Bolan. Just to get your attention."
"I thought of that, too. I have to think of everything, Phil. Don't worry, I'm thinking. I sure want to see this gift Victor's bringing us."
"I'd have to guess that Franky Lucky is straight, Deej," Marasco stated, phrasing the strongest argument he dared.
"You do the guessing, Phil," DiGeorge replied with a weary smile. "I'll do the thinking."
Bolan stopped at a secluded public telephone booth and gambled on finding Carl Lyons at the contact number. The gamble paid off. Lyons immediately asked, "What do you know about the events at Palm Village early this morning?"
"Enough," Bolan said. "I'll trade some intel with you."
"No trades," Lyons clipped back. "Tim Braddock's at the point of death, and the most grisly damn piece of . . ."
"I know all about it, Lyons," Bolan said humbly. "Will Braddock make it?"
"The doctors are hopeful, At the very best though, he'll be out of things for quite a while."
"He's a good cop," Bolan said, genuinely regretful.
"Better than some I know," Lyons replied in a faint self-mockery. "What'd you call about, Pointer?"
"My cover's in danger. I need some intel."
"Just a minute . . . Brognola's here and frothing. He was doubling up between us and Braddock, and . . . just a minute, Pointer."
Bolan heard a whispered consultation, then the light click of another receiver coming on the line.
"Okay," Lyons said. "Brognola's on with us. You give us some words first. Who made that hit up there this morning, besides Pena?"
"I don't know all the names, but you can identify the remains," Bolan replied. "You'll find them scattered around the junction of the Palm Springs high and low roads. Six of them, including Pena."
"All dead," Brognola's smooth voice stated.
"That's right," Bolan said. "Now can we talk about my problem?"
"Who killed them?" from Brognola.
"Call it a double contract," Bolan said. "Julian DiGeorge got the idea that Pena has been informing. The other five boys were siding with Pena."
"Then the rubout had no connection with the murders of the Conns and the plastic surgeon?" Brognola asked.
"I didn't say that," Bolan replied.
Lyons snarled. "This guy is playing games with you, Hal. Bolan, you executed those men, didn't you!"
"Who's he talking to?" Bolan asked Brognola.
"They found out that Brantzen had altered your face, and they went up there to wring something out of him! That much is obvious so save all of us the time and stop playing games. You happened along, saw what they'd done to your doctor friend, and went gunning for them. Now you're saying that your cover is in jeopardy. What kind of information did Pena get back to the mob before you killed him, Bolan?"
"Just a moment, before you answer that, Mr. Pointer," Brognola said. "Please don't leave the line."
Again the sounds of a muted, off-phone discussion came to Bolan's ears. Then Brognola came back on. "Mr. Pointer," he said, "we appreciate the work you've been doing for us, and we have no wish to compromise your position. You don't have to say anything to incriminate yourself."
"Fair enough," Bolan replied.
"I lost my car," Bolan told him. "Get me another one just like it, will you."
The clerk's chin dropped another inch. "Yes sir," he replied crisply.
"Send up a couple of buckets of ice."
"Yes sir, and the liquids that go with it?"
"Just the ice," Bolan said tiredly. "I'll need the car in an hour." He swung about and wobbled toward the elevator.
"Uh, Mr. Lambretta, we might have to compromise a bit on the color. The Mercedes, I mean."
"I said just like it," Bolan snapped back. He went on up to his room, stripped off the sweat-soaked clothing, and moved immediately to the bath. Shocked by his own dust-streaked image in the mirror, he scowled at the still strange mask of Frank Lambretta, stepped into the shower, and luxuriated there for several minutes, frequently raising his face into the spray to suck the water into the parched membranes of his mouth and throat.
Two small plastic containers of crushed ice were on the dressing table when he returned to the bedroom. The dust— and sweat-encased clothing had been removed; his revolvers lay on the bed beside a layout of fresh underwear.
Bolan got into the underwear and stuffed a small snowball into his mouth, then reached for the telephone and called the unlisted number in DiGeorge's study. Phil Marasco's voice broke into the first ring. "Yes?" he said softly.
"This is Frank," Bolan said. "Tell Deej that order's been filled."
A short pause, then: "Okay, Franky, I'll tell him. Where are you?"
"At the hotel. I'm beat. I'll be in pretty soon."
Bolan could hear DiGeorge's quiet rumble in the background but could not distinguish the words. Marasco said, "Deej wants to know about the picture."
"What picture?"
"The subject was supposedly carrying a surgeon's sketch of another interesting subject. Do you have it?"
"Of course not, Bolan snorted. "I don't go around collecting souvenirs."
Another background rumble, then: "He wants to know where you left that contract."
"Where the mountain meets the desert," Bolan reported cryptically, "and where one subject might wait for another."
"Okay, I got that. Deej says come home as soon as possible."
"Tell Deej I took a five-mile stroll in the sun. Tell him I'll be home when I can forget that."
Marasco chuckled. "Okay, Franky, I'll tell him. Get yourself rested, then come on out. There's things you should know about."
"I'll be there," Bolan said. He hung up, stared at the floor for a moment, then opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit one, and stretched out across the bed.
"Yes, I'll be there," he repeated in a dull monotone, speaking to himself. "With bells."
Philip Marasco led the search party out the little-travelled desert blacktop which links Palm Springs and Palm Village. Two cars, each carrying five men, made the short trip to the crossroads and found the scene of Franky Lucky's "hit" with no difficulty whatever.
The ten Mafiosi ran excitedly about the scene of action, poking, pointing, and animatedly reconstructing the details. Marasco searched each body thoroughly, went over the vehicle with precision, then arranged his troops at arm's-length intervals for a wide scrutiny along the entire length of the death car's travel.
Returning to the villa, Marasco dolefully reported to his Capo, "If Lou had a sketch, he must've ate it. And you should see the mess this Franky Lucky made of those boys. I never saw nothing like it."
"It don't make sense that he had no sketch," DiGeorge argued fretfully. "He had to have something up his sleeve or he wouldn't have been beating it back here. I guess there was nothing left alive, eh?"
"Not hardly," Marasco replied, shuddering. "There wasn't hardly anything left even whole. I never saw such a mess. This Franky Lucky is a mean contractor. And let me tell you, Deej, he don't mess around on a hit. Remember those six-to-one odds we was talking about last night?"
DiGeorge soberly nodded his head. "Didn't mean much, eh?"
"It wouldn't have meant anything at twelve to one, Deej. I tell you, when this Franky Lucky does find himself a piece of that Bolan, I want to be around to see what happens."
DiGeorge was staring thoughtfully into empty space. He noisily cleared his throat and said, "I wonder if you've thought of something, Phil. I wonder if you realize that someone has been playing games with old Deej."
Marasco inspected his Capo's face, found no clue to his thoughts, and replied, "What kind of games, Deej?"
"What was it Franky Lucky was telling me about this fight he had with Bolan? He said he saw Bolan down at the corners, and he recognized him, and they shot it out. And this was just a few days after Bolan ducked us over at th' Village. Right?"
"Yeah." Marasco was chewing the thought. "But I . . ." His eyes widened and he said, "Whuup! Willie Walker says on the phone that Bolan got his face carved the day of the hit."
"That's just what I been thinking, Philip Honey," DiGeorge mused. "Now somebody has got a story crossed. I wonder who?"
"Why would Franky want to cross you up, Deej?"
"That's what I have to wonder about, Phil. We're just saying if, now. If Screwy Looey was telling it straight. Have you ever caught Lou in a lie, Phil? I mean ever? An important lie?"
Marasco was thinking about it. He shook his head and replied, "I don't believe Lou ever gave you anything but a straight lip, Deej. But we got to remember one thing. Lou could have thought he had something. Maybe someone else wanted him to think that."
"You ever know any boys that got face jobs, Phil?"
"Yeah. It used to be the fashion back East."
"How long before they're out of bandages?"
"Oh, two or three weeks."
DiGeorge grunted. "And the boys I knew, they went around with puss pockets and Band-Aids for sometimes a month after that. It's a messy thing, this face job."
"They're even moving hearts around from body to body now, Deej. Maybe they got better ways to give face jobs now, too."
"I want somebody to find out about that," DiGeorge commanded.
"Sure, Deej."
"Meanwhile, Franky Lucky is right back in probate. If Bolan did get a face job, Franky didn't see him at no desert corners a few days later, no matter how fancy they get with face jobs. There's only one of two ways, saying that Bolan did get carved. He either saw him in bandages, or he saw him wearing the new face. Now that's plain, ain't it? Franky Lucky could not have recognized Bolan three days after a face job!"
"That's a fact, Deej," Marasco said. He appeared to be slightly out of breath. "Saying, of course, that Lou had the straight lip, then Franky Lucky has been using a curved one."
DiGeorge sighed. "That's a fact, Philip Honey." He sighed again. "You say the boy shoots a hard hit, eh?"
"You'd have to see what I saw, Deej, before you could ever know."
"Wouldn't it be hell," DiGeorge said tiredly, "if Franky Lucky turns out to be this Bolan's new face."
Marasco lost his breath entirely. His face paled. "I wouldn't go that far, Deej," he puffed.
"I would," DiGeorge stated matter-of-factly. "That's why I'm the Capo, Philip Honey. I would. When is Victor Poppy due in?"
"L.A. International at two o'clock," Marasco replied mechanically. "Franky might have lied a little, Deej. About shooting it up with Bolan. Just to get your attention."
"I thought of that, too. I have to think of everything, Phil. Don't worry, I'm thinking. I sure want to see this gift Victor's bringing us."
"I'd have to guess that Franky Lucky is straight, Deej," Marasco stated, phrasing the strongest argument he dared.
"You do the guessing, Phil," DiGeorge replied with a weary smile. "I'll do the thinking."
Bolan stopped at a secluded public telephone booth and gambled on finding Carl Lyons at the contact number. The gamble paid off. Lyons immediately asked, "What do you know about the events at Palm Village early this morning?"
"Enough," Bolan said. "I'll trade some intel with you."
"No trades," Lyons clipped back. "Tim Braddock's at the point of death, and the most grisly damn piece of . . ."
"I know all about it, Lyons," Bolan said humbly. "Will Braddock make it?"
"The doctors are hopeful, At the very best though, he'll be out of things for quite a while."
"He's a good cop," Bolan said, genuinely regretful.
"Better than some I know," Lyons replied in a faint self-mockery. "What'd you call about, Pointer?"
"My cover's in danger. I need some intel."
"Just a minute . . . Brognola's here and frothing. He was doubling up between us and Braddock, and . . . just a minute, Pointer."
Bolan heard a whispered consultation, then the light click of another receiver coming on the line.
"Okay," Lyons said. "Brognola's on with us. You give us some words first. Who made that hit up there this morning, besides Pena?"
"I don't know all the names, but you can identify the remains," Bolan replied. "You'll find them scattered around the junction of the Palm Springs high and low roads. Six of them, including Pena."
"All dead," Brognola's smooth voice stated.
"That's right," Bolan said. "Now can we talk about my problem?"
"Who killed them?" from Brognola.
"Call it a double contract," Bolan said. "Julian DiGeorge got the idea that Pena has been informing. The other five boys were siding with Pena."
"Then the rubout had no connection with the murders of the Conns and the plastic surgeon?" Brognola asked.
"I didn't say that," Bolan replied.
Lyons snarled. "This guy is playing games with you, Hal. Bolan, you executed those men, didn't you!"
"Who's he talking to?" Bolan asked Brognola.
"They found out that Brantzen had altered your face, and they went up there to wring something out of him! That much is obvious so save all of us the time and stop playing games. You happened along, saw what they'd done to your doctor friend, and went gunning for them. Now you're saying that your cover is in jeopardy. What kind of information did Pena get back to the mob before you killed him, Bolan?"
"Just a moment, before you answer that, Mr. Pointer," Brognola said. "Please don't leave the line."
Again the sounds of a muted, off-phone discussion came to Bolan's ears. Then Brognola came back on. "Mr. Pointer," he said, "we appreciate the work you've been doing for us, and we have no wish to compromise your position. You don't have to say anything to incriminate yourself."
"Fair enough," Bolan replied.