Pendleton Don. San Diego Siege

   "I'll pretend you didn't say that," Tatum replied gruffly.
   Lyons chuckled. "I told you I owed the guy my life. I didn't tell you I owe him twice. You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess."
   "Rotten apple," the Captain rasped.
   "Sure, but we may have never known if it hadn't been for Bolan. He tipped us about the guy. I couldn't believe it at first. You know what they called Rickert ... the twenty-four-hour cop. He was a twelve-hour-cop and a twenty-four-hour Mafioso. This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did."
   "And here you are," Tatum remarked quietly.
   "Then there was Las Vegas. I was up there on special assignment with a federal strike force. Undercover job. I dummied it, and the boys tumbled to me. Beat the living shit out of me. They were hauling me to the desert to bury me alive when Bolan turned up. The guy challenged a motor convoy. Single handed. Blasted them to kingdom-come, right in the shadow of their fortress, then slipped me out of there with half of the Nevada mob on his ass. And I couldn't even walk."
   Tatum sighed heavily and said, "Hey, cut it out. I've heard all the songs about the guy. I still have a job to do."
   "Sure, that's the way I feel," Lyons said. "Bolan knows it, too. Any other way and I don't think he'd respect me. He's that kind of guy. Hard-nosed as hell when it comes to duty and ethics. Ill tell you one thing, Cap'n. I'm sure glad he doesn't shoot at cops."
   "I've heard that one, too," Tatum growled.
   "Believe it."
   The Captain relented, grinning, and declared, "Some cops I've seen, maybe he should go after them."
   Lyons sat bolt upright in the seat and smacked a hand against his forehead. "That cop!" he yelled.
   "What cop?"
   "The dude with the mustache. Hell oh hell, John, it was him!"
   "Him what? What's the matter with you?"
   "It was Bolan! Walking around your station in a uniform!"
   "Aw bullshit," Tatum snarled. "What would Bolan be doing ... ?"
   He pulled the car to the curb with a screech of tires and lunged toward his radio microphone.
   "I thought you knew the fucking guy so personally," he yelled at Lyons.
   "Aw hell, you never get that much of a look at the clever bastard, John. He's a genius at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you he's in your station house!"
   "For what?"
   "What the hell do you think for what? Where are all the boys tonight, John?"
   Tatum's hand was frozen around the microphone. He squawked, "Well Jesus Christ! Well be the laughing stock of ... !"
   He flung the microphone down and doubled back in a screeching U-turn, burning rubber toward the possibly most disgraceful discovery in twenty-six years of hard-nosed police work.
   The Executioner, for God's sake! Making a hit on the San Diego jail!
   Bolan had been required to hang around the locker room for only about ten minutes before spotting the size and type of guy he was waiting for — a young patrolman going off duty and changing into civvies.
   And it had been a simple task, after the cop departed, to pick the lock and borrow the uniform. It was a good fit. He even took the time to use the guy's brush to get rid of a bit of lint here and there. He wanted to look sharp.
   He left a marksman's medal and three fifty-dollar bills on a shelf in the locker, quickly applied a false mustache to his upper lip, and went out of there.
   He was only a few steps out of the locker room when he rounded a corner, practically colliding with Carl Lyons and another detective.
   And that was a bad moment for the Executioner.
   Of all the cops in the world he didn't need to bump into at a time like this, Lyons was first. He was one of the few men living who'd had intimate opportunities to get to know Bolan's new face.
   The bogus cop smiled faintly at his old friend of past campaigns, tucked his chin down in what he hoped would pass as a friendly nod and brazened on past.
   He kept expecting a cry of alarm — was mentally preparing himself for it and looking for a way out — but when he reached the duty desk and risked a glance over his shoulder, Lyons and the other cop were nowhere in view.
   The building was crowded and confused, lots of in-and-out traffic, standing-around traffic, and just plain officious bustling — noise level about equal to a concert by the Rolling Stones.
   Bolan stepped up to the desk and told the sergeant, "Jail pass."
   The guy glanced at the badge on Bolan's chest and reached for a paper form. "Courts?" he asked disinterestedly.
   Bolan replied, "Prosecutor's office."
   The cop grunted and shoved the pass at him.
   Cold, yeah.
   Siberian shivery cold.
   But ... so far, so good.
   He wandered around from there until he found the detention section. The jail warden's desk was flanked by a group of irritable-looking and noisy men carrying briefcases.
   Bolan had an idea who they were.
   He pushed through them and leaned across the desk to speak in low tones to the cop on duty there. He showed him the pass and told him, "D.A. wants one of your VIPs over in interrogation." He flicked his eyes significantly toward the group of civilians. "Let's not mention any names."
   He was going through the booking records as he spoke. He found the card he wanted and pushed it at the duty warden. "This one. We won't want to bring him through here."
   The cop nodded his head, understanding. He jotted something on Bolan's pass and told him, "Take him out the back. I'll call down and clear it for you."
   The man from blood nodded and went on, into the cell block, showing his pass and picking up an escort there, past the tank and along a musty row of cells.
   The escort pulled up at a door about halfway along, turned a key in the lock, and told the Executioner, "Here's your man."
   It sure was.
   Tony Danger sauntered out, a nasty smile straining at his face. 'Told you peasants I wouldn't be here for supper," he gloated.
   Bolan wordlessly signed a receipt for the prisoner, then spun him around and shoved him toward the rear of the building.
   "Watch that!" Tony Danger snarled. "I'll have your fuckin' badge!"
   Bolan winked at the escort and left him standing there at the cell door as he hustled the prisoner toward the rear exit. He signed another receipt there and took his man along a short corridor and outside to the vehicle area.
   "What is this?" the Mafioso asked suspiciously, his head jerking about in an awareness of the unusual procedure as Bolan dragged him to a car and opened the door.
   Bolan spoke for the first time since the initial encounter. "Don't argue, Mr. Danger. Just get in the damn car, please sir."
   "What? Are you nuts? A jailbreak? Hey — my lawyers will — "
   "You can't stop Bolan with a writ, Mr. Danger." The tall man in the police uniform shoved the protesting caporegime into the seat and slammed the door, then went quickly around to the driver's side and climbed in.
   "What are you saying?" Tony Danger demanded, all but frothing at the mouth in a mixture of bewilderment and indignant anger. "The guy wouldn't have the nerve to bust in there after anybody!"
   Bolan had the car moving. He nearly collided with another vehicle that came screeching into the parking lot, horn blaring. The other car whipped away just in time to avoid the collision.
   Bolan caught a glimpse of a tortured face behind the wheel of that vehicle and — beside it — a flashing impression of the amused yet somber features of the all-cop from L.A., Carl Lyons.
   Then he was into the street, accelerating with everything the Ferrari had. It became obvious quickly that there was no pursuit so he eased off and angled a glance toward his unhappy passenger.
   "What did you say, Tony?" he asked frigidly.
   "I said the guy wouldn't have the nerve to...."
   The sounds just gurgled away and the little Mafioso was turning to stone, his mouth agape, staring with a horrifying awakening at the freeze-dried face of the big guy behind the wheel.
   "Don't lose your voice now, Tony," Bolan advised him. "It's the only thing you've got between life and death."
   At that, it was a hell of a lot more than the Executioner could have had going for him, back at San Diego jail.
   Cold, yeah.
   It was what his game was made of.
   Cold blood.

16
Off the numbers

   They had cleared the area of all but official personnel and the morgue-like silence in that big hall was being well-resonated by the quivering-with-rage voice of Captain John Tatum.
   He was leaning forward with both big hands splayed out across the jail warden's desk, his face thrust to within an inch of the other poor guy's as he shouted, "Yes, I said kidnap! You let Mack Bolan stroll in here and kidnap one of your prisoners!"
   The officer was desperately trying to get the homicide chief to consider two slips of paper which he was holding between trembling fingers. He spluttered, "Hell, Cap'n, he signed the receipts."
   Tatum leaned back with a defeated sigh. There was nothing to be gained by badgering the poor bastard, the sigh seemed to say. In a voice subdued and embittered, he told the duty warden, "Okay, Tom. You go tell the watch captain not to worry, that you've got signed receipts for the missing prisoner. You can paste them to his forehead when they bring him back...to the morgue."
   The desk cop muttered, "Hell, it was just cut and dried routine. How was I to know? I can't personally recognize every officer on this force. Hell, we got — "
   "I know the strength of our force," Tatum rasped. "Now you listen. You're on duty until the chief himself says otherwise. Got that? You don't go home, you don't even go to the pot. You see nobody and you talk to nobody who isn't toting a badge, and even then it'd better be somebody you know by sight. Got that?"
   The guy nodded his head in miserable understanding.
   Carl Lyons had been watching the performance from the safe background. Tatum turned to him and growled, "What were you telling me about Bolan playing the odds? Some odds. This is the Goddamnedest most outrageous grandstand play I ever heard of."
   Lyons shrugged and dropped his eyes in commiseration for the other man's torment. Oftentimes, he realized, the flesh beneath those tough old police hides was painfully sensitive. He said, "I forgot to tell you. The guy sometimes makes his own odds. I don't know what to say, John. I just don't know."
   "Well I've got to keep the wraps on this bullshit as long as I can. Maybe something will ... hell, this is a nightmare. I don't believe it. How can I tell them — those lawyers, the D.A., the court — how do I tell them a public good prisoner has been kidnapped by a probable assassin?"
   "You're doing the right thing, if my opinion's worth anything," Lyons declared quietly. "Stall it all you can. Maybe...."
   "Maybe what?" the Captain asked, ready to accept any gleam of hope.
   "I don't know. Just maybe."
   "If Tony Danger turns up dead, I don't know ... either. The only prayer I know, Lyons, is the 23rd Psalm. And somehow it just doesn't seem to fit this problem."
   The old boy was really taking it hard.
   Carl Lyons understood. Perfectly. You put your life into a job — you worked it and sweated it with every damned thing you had — and the only time anybody ever noticed you was when you stubbed your toe and fell, face-first. Yeah, he understood.
   The deputy-chief arrived, followed moments later by the chief himself.
   A reporter from the San Diego Union, probably picking up the vibrations of something hot, tried to get in. He was all but thrown back out.
   The battery of lawyers representing the Lucasi bunch were still out there beyond those doors, raising hell louder and louder and demanding to know what was going on.
   At almost exactly twenty minutes after the awful event, the duty warden looked up from a phone call he'd just answered and called out, "Is there a Sergeant Carl Lyons in here?"
   There was.
   But who the hell would be calling him here?
   Who the hell even knew that he was ... oh hell, it couldn't be.
   In a tight voice he told Captain Tatum, "Don't cancel any bets," and stepped forward to take the call.
   Yeah, God was still in heaven.
   It was Bolan, sounding sober and troubled as he announced, "I've got Tony Danger, Lyons."
   He threw an eye signal to Tatum as he replied, "Man, you know how to hurt, don't you. Never mind the throat, just rip the heart out."
   That flinty voice told him, 'Tell your buddies not to worry. Ill take good care of their prisoner. Just borrowed him for awhile."
   "You better tell 'em yourself. Here, I'll — "
   "No wait, Lyons. I'm almost ready to pass this town. But first I have to set something up. As long as you're around...."
   The Sergeant chuckled drily. "You know I can't — "
   "You can this one. Listen to it, anyway,"
   "I'm going to put another man on the line with us, Mack. Cap'n Tatum, Homicide. Good man, take my word for it."
   "All right, but shake it. I'm on short numbers."
   Tatum was already at the extension phone. He took Lyons' nod and picked it up. "Tatum, Homicide," he announced. "Is that you, Mack Bolan?"
   The Captain's eyes lifted to Lyons as that steely other voice vibrated the receivers, some indefinable emotion registering there in that locked gaze — not awe exactly, but something closely approaching it. Tatum was a cop who could respect greatness, under the law or not.
   "It's me. Sorry if I shook your cage. I'd rather not. I'll return your prisoner as soon as he gives me what I need. An hour, maybe. Two at the most. Meanwhile I need something from your end. Soon as I get it, I'll pass this town. Didn't want to come here in the first place. Good town, San Diego. But you're infected with the creeping rot. I wouldn't even know where to begin carving it out. But I'm going to tip the bucket. It's up to you if it becomes a floor or not."
   "Wait," Tatum rasped. "Let's talk about Tony Dan — "
   "You wait," the frigid voice snapped back. "The mob boys in your town are second stringers. There's not a Capo among them, not even a serious pretender. Your real trouble is in your environment, and I'm not talking about air pollution. You've got a community structure that allows second-stringers like Lucasi and Tony Danger to get a strangle-hold on everything that's good here. Are you with me, Tatum?"
   "I'm following you," the Captain replied, almost meekly.
   Lyons could not believe it. The big tough cop was standing there getting a lecture, even responding to it with humility. Well, maybe he had it coming and knew it. He was a big man.
   Bolan was telling him, "One of your proudest citizens — Maxwell Thornton. He's not the great white father he's cracked up to be. He's a sick, miserable, harried man. The mob has the spurs in him, and they're riding the guy into the mud. Maybe he deserves it, but San Diego doesn't."
   "Yes," Tatum commented quietly. "Thornton is an important cog in our little overgrown country-club here. He's been accused of rawhiding business practices but...."
   "But nothing. He's covered with dirt. You'd be doing the guy a favor to bust him. One-to-five is a better rap than the one he's serving now. Okay, Thornton isn't the only one, but he'd be the crack in the dam. Get him, and all the other dirty straights will fall through the hole. When that happens, Lucasi and company will be out of business in this town. That's all I want. Scratch my back, Tatum, and I'll pass your town."
   "All right," the Captain replied soberly. Tell me where the itch is."
   Bolan began the telling, but Lyons only half-heard. The marvel was not the story that Mack Bolan was revealing.
   The marvel was that big tough rawhide cop, who was standing there like an adolescent boy receiving the first full course in sex education from a dad who did not believe in pulling punches, a boy with eyes opened wide in wonderment and fascination and awe ... afraid to believe and afraid not to, daring to hope and hoping to dare.
   Yeah.
   Lyons could say it with a certainty now.
   Mack Bolan was a guy who made his own odds.
   When the conversation was ended, Tatum stepped over to the duty desk and told the warden, "Just hang onto those receipts, Tom. And log out Tony Danger. Show him released to his own recognizance, as of the time of those receipts."
   The jailor looked dumbfounded, but he nodded his head in understanding.
   Then the Captain grabbed Carl Lyons by the arm and propelled him toward the big office at the end of the hall. "Time for the summit conference," he declared in a heavy voice.
   "What's the play?" Lyons wanted to know.
   "Maybe I'm crazy — or maybe I was crazy. Anyway, we're releasing that pack of filth. They'll get no protection from the law in this town. They made their lousy bed, now they can die in it."
   "You don't mean that," Lyons feebly protested.
   "The hell," Captain Tatum said, "I don't."
   Yeah. That guy also wrote his own numbers.

17
Trap play

   Tony Danger was bound, gagged and curled into the cramped luggage compartment of the foreign sportster — no doubt suffering the intimations of unavoidable death which were far more agonizing than the final act itself could ever be.
   Bolan had shed the police uniform and was now rigged for open warfare. A military web-belt encircled the waist of the black combat outfit, supporting the AutoMag's leather plus a variety of personal munitions — among these, several small fragmentation grenades and a couple of firesticks.
   The silent black Beretta was slung into a snap-out shoulder rig at his left side. Another belt crossed the chest from the other shoulder, bearing spare clips for the two autos.
   It could be a hell of a hot one.
   He hoped that Tatum had bought the idea ...and that he would find some way to sell it higher-up.
   The Ferrari was parked in the shadows of the marina clubhouse at Mission Bay. Bolan had already established the fact that Danger's Folly was in her berth and crewed. He glanced at his watch and tried not to fidget ... the numbers were getting too damned close ... where the hell was the girl?
   The pre-arranged check-in by Blancanales and Schwarz had brought encouraging news.
   Schwarz had reported: "Well it's a pretty cold trail, but I think I may have something. Been talking to some of the technicians out at Thornton Electronics. I believe that's where they reassembled the data-link gear. I got a rumble from one of the guys about some rough-terrain vehicles they brought in last month. He said a special crew was working nights only, some secret project, packaging something very mysterious into those vehicles. I didn't want to push it too hard, but I managed to get some approximate dimensions on the vehicles. Enough to say yeah, it could be. Then I picked up some cross-intelligence. Those mobile rigs, if that was them, weren't driven out of there under their own power. They were hauled away in two big vans from Thornton's trucking line. Again, at night and under tight security wraps. I'm following up on that."
   "Okay," Bolan had told him. "Play it cool, Gadgets, not too close. If you get in a jam, beep the Politician. My numbers are too tight."
   The report from Blancanales was almost as promising. "She's not in very good shape, Sarge. Tore up over Howlie, but it's more than that. She's scared out of her skull. I finally got her opened up enough to admit that it wasn't her that burnt the papers, but she won't say who did. Doesn't trust anybody, she's really frozen. She didn't know that was you, last night, by the way. I guess she's not thinking too clearly, sort of numb from the shoulders up. Know what I mean? I believe I could blast her loose if I could convince her that you're really on the job. I don't suppose you could make it up here?"
   Bolan had to tell him, "No, I'm right on the numbers. But turn on a radio or a TV. The press is into it with both feet now. Maybe she'll believe them."
   "Good idea."
   "Keep your sentinel tuned in. I may want to beep you for a later report. Also stand ready to give Gadgets some close support. He's on a tight one."
   "Yeah, I heard."
   Twenty minutes had passed since the receipt of those reports. Bolan was getting edgy. Marsha Thornton was five minutes late for their rendezvous.
   He got out of the car and went around to check on Tony Danger's air supply. The guy gave him one of those pleading looks when he opened the trunk door, but he seemed to be breathing all right.
   Bolan told him, "Pretty soon now, Tony. Then well see."
   She arrived a minute later, leaving her car in the regular parking area and stumbling breathlessly into the shadows to redeem a raincheck issued to one of the few men who had, lately, treated her with dignity and understanding.
   At the moment, Bolan was finding it difficult to go on understanding. She was still wearing the damn bikini, except that she had added a skimpy top to complete the almost non-existent ensemble.
   But then she explained, "I'm late, sorry. Max came home, first time this month he's been in by midnight. I had to lie to him. He thinks I'm on the beach."
   Bolan told her, "Maybe it was the last lie. Guess that will be up to you. Tony Danger tells me the film is on board the Folly. Ill want you to make sure it's the real thing."
   "But he told Max he'd sent it to New York."
   "Sure, that took the heat off him and put more of a screw into your husband. But a guy like Tony likes to keep his goodies close by. Anyway, he's seen the light, and he wants to let you off the hook." He pulled her to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. "There's your passport from hell," he told her.
   She said, "Oh wow," in a voice just a decibel above a whisper.
   Bolan instructed her, "Get in the car and sit tight. If you hear a ruckus, take off."
   She showed him saucer eyes and a pained smile, then stepped inside the Ferrari.
   Bolan hauled his prisoner from the trunk, set him on his feet, then shoved him toward the docks. "Breathe very carefully and live awhile," he suggested.
   The caporegime, such a strutting peacock a short while earlier, was now at the verge of collapse. These guys sometimes went this way,
   Bolan reflected. Beneath those cocky, bullyboy exteriors often beat the fluttering heart of a perpetually frightened little kid — born into despair, reared in panic, matured with violence and an outward show of disrespect for everything feared, which meant every thing. These were the guys who died blubbering and pleading — because they had found nothing to justify their lives and even less to crown their deaths. It had something to do with visions of immortality, Bolan suspected; these guys had no visions whatever beyond their own grubby little noses.
   He had to half-carry, half-shove the terrified prisoner to the docks. As their feet touched the gangway, a soft voice from the Folly's deck exclaimed, "It's that guyl"
   The Executioner's death voice quickly warned those aboard, "Stand loose, sailors. I've got a cannon down your master's throat."
   They boarded, Bolan slamming Tony Danger against the cabin bulkhead with a knee in his belly, the muzzle of the Beretta resting directly between the twitching eyes.
   He ripped the tape-gag away and commanded, "Tell 'em, Tony."
   It took the guy several tries to find his voice. When it came, it was a death rattle. "Do as he says! Don't dick around!"
   Turtle Tarantini stepped out of the shadows near the main cabin. He was giving Bolan that same fawning look of respect accorded him earlier, under far different circumstances, and it offered Bolan a variation on his numbers.
   "Welcome aboard, Mr. Bolan sir," the Turtle greeted him, the voice shaking just a little.
   Bolan snapped, "Where's your crew?"
   "Right here, sir. Behind me. You better tell 'em it's okay to come out. We're not armed, sir."
   "Step forward and stand to the rail for a frisk. I've got nothing hard for you guys, unless you give me something."
   The other two showed themselves, moving carefully, then one by one they came to the rail opposite Bolan's position and presented themselves for the weapons shakedown.
   Each one he frisked and sent over the gangway with the instructions, "Don't even look back."
   Then it was just Mack Bolan and the guy who, with perhaps some weird presentiment, had named this sleek pleasure craft Danger's Folly.
   The man who had fully learned the true meaning of folly was cringing against the cabin bulkhead, wild eyes framed around the black barrel of the Beretta.
   Bolan gave him plenty of time to get the feel of imminent death, then he pulled the pistol away and sheathed it. "Get the film," he commanded.
   The guy staggered into the main cabin, Bolan close behind. He slid back a wall panel, fumbled with the dial of a safe, and a moment later dropped a small film cannister into Bolan's outstretched hand.
   "That's all?" Bolan asked.
   "I swear."
   'If it's not, I'll be back to see you."
   "I swear!"
   "Let's go," Bolan said.
   They returned to the car — Tony Danger puffing and weaving on unsteady legs.
   Marsha Thornton stepped out to greet them.
   The deadpan gaze slid the full length of Tony Danger and she said, quietly, "Just look at that."
   Bolan opened the can of film and passed it over to her. He also handed her a pencil-flash and told her, "Make sure it's the one."
   She examined several frames, quickly, distastefully. "Yes. That's it."
   "Burn it." He gave her a butane lighter.
   "Right here?"
   He nodded. "Right here."
   She stripped the cannister, unreeling the film into a loose pile on the cement drive.
   As she worked at it, Bolan shoved his prisoner to the side of the car and told the girl, "When you get home, tell your husband all about it. Tell him the hold is gone, except what he built himself and wants to keep for himself. But tell him this. If he stays held, I'll have to come back. And I'll have to break all the holds, my own way. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
   She murmured, "Yes, I understand."
   "Tell him also that I've located the missing radio gear." He glanced at Tony Danger, then placed a cigarette in his mouth and leaned toward the girl to light it. "I'm going to hit it tonight. I'm giving him that much break. He will understand, just tell him that."
   Marsha Thornton, not at all deadpanning anything now, assured the Executioner, "I'll tell him. Thanks."
   He said, "Stand back. You'll never get it lit that way."
   He pulled her aside, thumbed off a firestick, and tossed it into the pile of film.
   It went up in a puff of brilliant incandescence, writhing and shriveling into the nothingness from which it had come, and he told the girl with the glowing eyes, "Now take off. And don't look back. Don't ever look back on this."
   She brushed his cheek with moist lips and ran toward her own vehicle.
   Bolan told Tony Danger, "You're some rotten bastard, you know that?" Then he crammed the guy into the Ferrari and they returned to town in silence.
   Bolan pulled up in front of the police station.
   The returning prisoner, baffled but uncomplaining, told the big cold guy beside him, "Listen, Bolan, I — "
   "Get out of my car, guy," the frosty voice commanded.
   Tony Danger got out and the Ferrari shot forward into the night.
   A moment later Bolan pressed the call button on his shoulder-phone, summoning the Politician to a conference.
   He told him, "Find Gadgets and get on him right away. I fed Tony the bait and dropped him off. It's All Systems Red now, so let's get into close order."
   "I've got something hot from Lisa Winters," Blancanales reported.
   "Save it 'til we regroup. I've got to spring this trap."
   "He really went for it, huh?"
   "He went for it, all right. With straining ears and licking lips."
   "Just don't let him get clean away, Sarge. He's the one that burned Howlin' Harlan."
   The Executioner's voice was tensely frosted as it snapped back, "Are you sure of that?"
   "As sure as you were that Howlie didn't burn himself," Blancanales replied.
   "Okay. Get on trap station. Get Gadgets in with all speed. This one is liable to be just one beat off the numbers."
   Damn right.
   "This one" would indeed be crowding every number at Bolan's disposal. Plus a few that he hadn't even found yet.

18
Rawhide

   John Tatum and Carl Lyons were waiting in a darkened vehicle in a stakeout position outside the police building when Bolan dropped his passenger.
   Tatum straightened quickly and declared, "There she blows. The Ferrari."
   Lyons' attention was riveted to the dishevelled man who had lurched onto the sidewalk. "That's Tony Danger, eh?"
   "The one and only." The Captain chuckled. "Looks like he's been through a grinder."
   The Ferrari was already gone, taillights faintly twinkling in the distance. "That Bolan's a cool bastard," Lyons commented.
   "Well probably never know just how cool," Tatum said, sighing.
   "Look at that. The guy's actually going inside."
   "Oh he's strictly legit," the homicide chief said drily. "Wait'll he finds out he was released over an hour ago."
   "Just hope he reacts properly."
   "He will. I'd have to mark Bolan A-plus on that score, he knows his enemy."
   "I'd still quote it at a hundred-to-one," the L.A. cop sniffed.
   "No, not that wide. Tony will call his boss as soon as he realizes it's a new game. And then I think it'll go pretty much as Bolan laid it out."
   "Hope you realize you're betting a twenty-six-year career on that," Lyons said. "I mean ... Bolan's some other kind of guy, yeah. But dammit John, he's no superman."
   Tatum chuckled. "We seem to have reversed positions," he said. "Relax, Sergeant. You don't have to take the role of devil's advocate. I'm not going off half-cocked."
   Lyons laughed self-consciously. "Sorry."
   "It's okay. I might have been a Mack Bolan myself, once. Guys like him don't come gift-wrapped from heaven or hell. They're just guys ... like you, like me. Destiny shapes 'em. Not personal destiny, none of that shit. Human destiny. Or, if you'd rather, call it a chance combination of environment and circumstances, coupled with an individual's unique abilities. Bingo, a Mack Bolan appears. I saw a few guys like him ... in the hellgrounds of Europe, Second World War. Tell the truth, Lyons, I am glad the guy came to town. Made me remember."
   "Wanta form a fan club?" Lyons asked grinning.
   "I might do that," the Captain replied soberly.
   "I, uh, hate to admit that I wasn't really listening when Bolan outlined his game to you. What, uh, what the hell … ?"
   "It's a simple power sweep," Tatum explained. "Ben Lucasi is a small-potatoes area chief with dreams of empire. What the hell has he got here, really, in a quiet town at the corner of the nation? A bit of border smuggling, maybe a bit of trading in international contraband, close access to the free-wheeling gambling interests in Mexico. Can you build a national empire out of something like that?"
   "Not without some hot gimmick," Lyons decided.
   "Well, he's found one. Pretty wild idea, really, and pretty daring when you really think about it. I wouldn't think Lucasi was capable of it. But … well, Bolan tells me that Big Little Ben is reaching to corner the horsetrack action in this country. I mean the full gambit … from bookmaking to layoff books to numbers' lotteries, racing wires, the whole thing."
   "How the hell could he manage that?" Lyons muttered thoughtfully. "The mob already has a pretty intricate structure around that business."
   "Yeah, but Benny thinks he's found a new wrinkle. One that will put him in undisputed control of a worldwide gambling wire setup. Then the entire complicated U. S. structure will have to come begging to him to get into the big action. Yeah, it's a hot gimmick ... if he could make it work."
   "How would he make it work?"
   "Some kind of ultra-sophisticated radio gear he's hijacked from the military. Bolan says that one of our leading citizens has dirty fingers over the deal. Guy heads an electronics firm that does government contract work. Bolan says he was strong-armed into the deal, desperately wants out. It's a defense security-violation rap if he gets nailed. That's what I'm pegging my whole interest on. I believe Thornton — he's the guy — I believe he's the key to a lot of infectious corruption we've been noting around town the past few years. If we could get Thornton to bust loose and...."
   Lyons observed, "That's not homicide work."
   "I'm a cop," Tatum replied quietly.
   "Yeah, you are that," the L.A. Sergeant agreed.
   "Anyway, there are plenty of unsolved homicides tied into this mess, I'm sure of that."
   "I suppose so."
   "I know so. Tony Danger there. He's Lucasi's most trusted triggerman. I know that. So do a lot of other people. He's responsible for a dozen or more homicides in my jurisdiction over the past two years. I know it. Proving it in a court of law is something else again. So ... yeah … I'm raiding the long end of the odds. Maybe something will shake loose from this Bolan blast."
   Lyons grinned,"keeping a thought to himself. Cap'n Tatum, it seemed, was a total convert. He wasn't the first. Certainly he wouldn't be the last. Mack Bolan's lonely war was becoming less lonely all the time. Give it to the guy, though, he'd built that base of unofficial support all on his own. It was hard to come into contact with the guy and not end up cheering him on ... if only from the sidelines.
   "Anyway," Tatum was explaining further, "Bolan was going to let it drop on Tony Danger that he's planning a hit on this radio equipment. He figures it's the one thing that will bring Lucasi out fighting. Hopefully it will panic the guy. He'll rush off to a wild-ass defense of his precious dream. By that time, Bolan will be right on his tail. He'll let Lucasi pinpoint the equipment for him."
   "So why aren't we staking out Lucasi ourselves, instead of sitting here waiting for — "
   "You said it yourself a minute ago," Tatum growled. "My job is homicide. I'm not running off on any wild-ass federal — "
   "What homicide?"
   "Maxwell Thornton's. Bolan is betting, and I agree, that Lucasi will order Tony Danger to hit Thornton, and quick. Hell be moving everything he's got to keep his game alive. Thornton is his pivot man. And mine. I aim to keep him alive, and I aim to nail Tony Danger once and for all."
   "God I wouldn't want to be on your limb," Lyons commented in a hushed voice.
   "Neither would I, but I'm there, so shut up."
   "One more thing, Cap'n. These guys have tried radio before. They even set up a legit broadcast station in Mexico a few years back to — "
   "Didn't work," Tatum snapped. "First of all, anybody could tune into the broadcasts. Nothing exclusive about that. Secondly, the Mexican government shut them down when our feds requested cooperation. This is a whole new wrinkle. It's more exclusive than any telephone wire. Virtually untappable, and — there he is!"
   Tony Danger had reappeared at the entrance to the police building. He appeared to be in much better shape, now — cocky, strutting down the street to the corner.
   Moments later a heavy black car swung in to the curb. Tony Danger slid in, and the car slid away.
   Tatum moved his vehicle smoothly into the flow of traffic and spoke into his microphone. "Hotel One, subject acquired, moving north toward Pacific Highway. Black limousine, tag California niner-zero-four, hotel-delta-tango. All units close per instructions and maintain surveillance. Subject turning west at…."
   Lyons unsheathed his service revolver and checked it, then returned it to leather.
   He wished, dammit, that they had been on Bolan instead of. ... All the fireworks, he knew, were headed that other way. Cap'n Tatum, the rawhiding total convert, had turned Big Ben Lucasi's fate over to the uncertain mercies of the Executioner.
   Yeah. All the fireworks would be running that other way.

19
End of track

   He watched from his eagle's perch as they rolled out of Lucasi's joint — three big limousines — and he gave them plenty of stretch, tracking the three-car procession of headlights through binoculars until they reached Interstate 5 and headed south. Then he made the jump and sent the Ferrari roaring along the interstate route in hot pursuit.
   He had them in sight again well ahead of the interchange and casually tracked them through and onto the downtown leg. It was an excellent freeway system, easily carrying the swift-moving traffic in a no-bunch, no-slow flow. It was still early evening, not quite nine o'clock; another of those San Diego Specials, full moon and blankets of stars, a night with plenty of light, kinder to lovers than to warriors … but war it had to be — and a one-shot war, at that.
   He'd promised the homicide captain that he would pass this town — so it had to be this time, this place, and this circumstance for the Executioner … there could be none other.
   The enemy procession veered east onto the city-transit leg at Broadway and kept on easterly beyond the Wabash Freeway exit. It was at this point that Bolan established radio contact with his partners.
   "Heading east on the Helix," he announced. "Just passed Wabash. Where away?"
   Gadgets Schwarz came in immediately. "Bingo. Running true. Look for them to drop out at State 94, thence southeasterly through Spring Valley."
   Bolan responded, "Roj."
   Blancanales reported, "I'm just a few minutes from that exit. Want me to bird-dog?"
   "You clear, Gadgets?" Bolan wanted to know.
   "Yeah, no sweat."
   "Okay, Pol. Swing up there. Confirm three crew wagons, Lincolns, I think, running in convoy."
   "Roj."
   It was a tight game of numbers. Bolan was not allowing himself any luxuries where Ben Lucasi was concerned. The guy was wily. Already, it appeared, the convoy had swung far out of its way in transiting the city along the south. They could have much easier cut across on Interstate 8 ... if indeed they were humping for Route 94. That would be the desert road running past the Sycuan Indian Reservation on the route to Tecate, a Mexican border town. Something rumbled deep in Bolan's memory, then, causing him to again send a query to Gadgets Schwarz.
   "Gadgets, you said to look for high ground for these radio links. Doesn't Route 94 head east at the border?"
   "Right. My present position is just west of Potrero, which is almost due north of Tecate, just a few miles over the border. You have that on your area map?"
   Bolan replied, "Finger right on it. Trace eastward, beyond the Compo Reservation. Looks like a high peak over there."
   Schwarz came back: "Right. That would be Tecate Divide, elevation more than four thousand feet. The trailers I've been tracking were parked here near Potrero as recently as today. The track fizzled out right here, though."
   "Okay, stay alert. It looks like the play is running your way."
   Blancanales checked in a moment later to confirm that assumption. "Right, check three Detroit blacks off the interstate at Spring Valley, running south on 94."
   Bolan replied, "Bingo. Fall in behind them and maintain track. I'm coming around."
   "You'll have to heat bearings to do it. They're clocking eighty."
   "I've got bearings a'plenty," Bolan chuckled. He moved the Ferrari into the upper ranges of the tach and closed quickly to the exit ramp, then rolled carefully through Spring Valley and onto the open road of the desert country. He could see the procession ahead of him, now the only lights on the road.
   "Have you in sight," he reported to Blancanales. "Drop back some, Pol. You're crowding them."
   "Right. Didn't want to chance losing them going through town. I am easing off now."
   A moment later Bolan was running-up onto the rear of the Corvette being piloted by Blancanales.
   "Coming around."
   "Roj, man — go."
   Bolan was burning rubber alongside the Mafia convoy, slumped into the racing backboard of the hot car to conceal his own face but reading occupants as he whizzed past.
   "Here's the head count," he reported, when he was well ahead. Rear car, five. Lucasi and bodyguards, looks like. Middle, eight — gun car with jumpseat. Lead car, six. They look tough."
   Schwarz immediately checked in. "I'm just dragging down here. Want me to run up to Barrett and pick up on it there?"
   Bolan was a full mile ahead of the convoy now. He told Schwarz, "Affirm. Assume station running slowly southward. Make them pass you, then tag along. Pol, you swing ahead at that point. Maintain with their lights just in view behind you."
   Both men acknowledged the instructions and Bolan went on to scout the road ahead. He went through Jamul and, six minutes later, the tiny community of Dulzura. Just below that point he passed the warwagon, tooting at Schwarz and receiving a return salute, then burned on southward toward Barrett.
   This was rugged country, desolate but pretty in the moonlight, appearing abandoned and hardly touched by the human hand or foot.
   A little side road running off eastward a few miles below Dulzura came up in his headlamps. He slowed, overshot the junction, then squealed about in a U-turn and returned for an inspection.
   A weathered sign proclaimed that this was the road to Barrett Reservoir.
   Bolan found the spot on his area map and closely studied the surrounding countryside. Then he descended from the Ferrari for a closer look at some other kind of signs.
   The hunch seemed to be right on-target. Heavy-wheeled vehicles had turned onto that road not too much earlier. He found a place on the turn where a set of double-wheels had slipped off the roadbed into the soft shoulder.
   He stood there in the cool night air, allowing his senses to flare and absorb the lie of that place, then he spoke into the shoulder-phone. "Road running east off 94, couple of miles above Barrett. It smells. Map shows possible connection over to U.S. 80. I'm checking it out. Let me know if track runs beyond this point."
   Schwarz told him, "It might be hot, Sarge. They've been moving those rigs every few days. And listen, watch it. Guy at a truck stop down near Barrett told me those rigs are not being handled by teamsters. Says it's two guys in each cab and they look mean as hell."
   Bolan replied, "Roj, thanks." He returned to the Ferrari and sent it in a dangerously fast acceleration along the little back road.
   If it had looked like no-wheres-ville out along the state highway, then this area was strictly twilight zone. Rugged, hilly, wild — with road to match.
   It would be rough going for a couple of big semi-trailers. And Bolan's "combat feel" was flowing strong in his veins. If Lucasi had just ordered those rigs a'moving again, after hearing Tony Danger's report, then … yeah, that could be blood he was smelling, for damn sure.
   And if Lucasi was in the panic which Bolan had programmed for him then, yeah, he had those rigs rolling while he raced with a gun-convoy to protect the movement.
   A few minutes later Bolan knew that he had scored. His heart shifted into combat-pump as he spotted the twin set of headlamps on a curve far ahead, running bumper to bumper, two big diesel rigs laboriously navigating that back-country road.
   He announced into his shoulder-phone, "Bingo. I have the target in sight. About ... halfway to the reservoir. Fall in close and protect my rear."