"Don't look so surprised," he replied. "And when you're ready to leave, have me or Roy go out to the car with you, just to check."
"Okay," she said, smiling warmly. The door swung closed behind her.
A few minutes later the back door opened and Roy Carver stepped back in. "It's like a morgue out there," he announced. "The whole damn neighborhood's a ghost town."
Bolan picked up his plate and walked to the sink. "It's not going to happen here tonight," he said. "I just know it. I should be with the others." He heard a distant phone ringing, its sound triggered his heightened senses.
"You can't do everything," Carver told him. "Giancarlo seems like the logical candidate for prime target. It only makes sense for you to be here."
"Yeah," Bolan returned. "But a lot of things about this deal defy logic."
The door swung open, Joey Giancarlo poking his head into the kitchen. "You gotta phone call," he said and held out an unplugged phone.
Bolan took it from him. "Where do I..."
"The jack's in the wall." Joey's face looked strained. As Bolan walked to plug in the phone and set it on the counter, Giancarlo said, "You stay away from my sister."
"Your sister's all grown up now," Bolan returned. "She can pick her own friends."
"Not you, she can't." The man pointed a finger. "Just stay away from her."
Bolan turned his back to Joey and lifted the receiver. "Belasko," he said, his warrior's senses tuned up high.
"Striker...it's me, Hal." Brognola's voice was strained.
"What's wrong?"
"They hit Stinky Barberi a little while ago."
"What about our people?" Bolan asked.
"They're still sorting through things... It's quite a mess."
"Our people," Bolan repeated.
"It's confusion here, Striker," the Fed explained. "It happened at a liquor store, and there was a fire. But preliminaries indicate that Barberi, Lomax, a counter man, plus one of the shooters were killed."
"What about Carol Niven?"
"She's really bad," he said, his voice shaky. "She was shot several times and left for dead in the fire, and she's burned over ninety percent of her body. They've already got her in surgery to amputate her left leg."
"Damn," Bolan whispered. "Damn."
"What is it?" Carver asked. Bolan waved him off.
"Anything else?" Bolan asked.
"Our man on the phone taps picked up something tonight that may prove useful."
"Our leak?"
"Yeah. They're on their way to pick him up now."
"Keep me posted, Hal," Bolan said, "and charter me a plane. I'm going to Seattle."
"But we really need you on Giancarlo," Brognola protested. "He's the important..."
"No," Bolan cut in impatiently. "They're saving him for some reason. He won't come under the gun until Ottoni's out of the way."
"Striker, I..."
"Don't say it, Hal. You told me I could do it my way. My way is to go and see Carol Niven, then head for Denver where Joan is next in line. What about the dead punk?"
"They're rushing through ID now, though he was burned so badly..."
"Let me know what you find out." Bolan looked at his watch. "I'm taking Carver with me. Get that plane ready, I'm only fifteen minutes from the airport."
Even over the long distance lines he heard Brognola's loud sigh. "I hope you know what you're doing."
"I'm setting things straight."
Bolan hung up the phone. Then he looked at Carver.
"It's Lomax, isn't it?" Carver asked.
Bolan nodded silently.
Carver's hard face softened, his eyes misting over. "Oh, man, not like that," he said. "Jesus. Neal was only twenty-four years old."
Joey Giancarlo was still standing in the doorway, shaking his head. "Some bodyguards you guys turn out to be," he said. "I'd have been better off hiring a bunch of neighborhood kids."
Bolan turned to the man, his rage a cold fire within him. Without thought, he reached out and grabbed Joey by the front of his shirt, hauled him through the doorway, then cocked a big right hand.
"Touch me and you're dead!" Giancarlo growled.
"The hell I am," Bolan replied, and took him hard to the mouth. He fell across the table, sending food and dishes crashing to the floor. With a heavy thud, he hit the linoleum.
"Thanks," Roy Carver said. "I needed that."
* * *
Ken Chasen sat on the bed in the dark, his eyes all but glued open, his brain spinning like a pinwheel. The open plastic bag of coke lay beside him, the straw poking out of it so he could easily dip down and take a snort whenever he had the urge — and he had the urge constantly.
The only light in the room came from the screen of the television set. For the eighth time he played the tape of him and Yvette, marveling at the woman — her beauty, her passion — and his own responses.
The luminous numbers of his bedside clock told him it was 3:00 a.m., at least they did when he could summon the concentration to focus his eyes on the numbers. Day or night were all the same to him now.
The phone had rung many times since Marie had taken the kids away, but he wouldn't answer it. He'd show her. He didn't need her sniveling, whiny ways. She could stay away and rot for all he cared. What did she know of what his life was like? How could she understand the pressures he had to endure from assholes like that son of a bitch Kaminsky, with his beady little eyes and his tiny soft hands and his conniving brain. Well, he didn't need any of them now. Yvette would look out for him.
He watched her on the TV, magnetized by her beautiful body and her animal nature. She charged him up, made him greater than himself. That was real love there on the screen, enduring passion beyond anything ordinary people could ever comprehend. He leaned down and snorted out of the open bag.
Suddenly he heard a noise outside. He got off the bed quietly and went to peek out the window. There were three cars in his driveway, one of them a Virginia police cruiser. Cops?
His first thought was that Marie had turned him in. Then he saw the little shit climbing out of one of the cars — Kaminsky. The man had figured him out.
He looked around the room frantically. They couldn't take him. He was only a day away from meeting with Yvette. He just needed to stay free long enough to reach her. What to do? What to do?
Clothes were his first thought. All he was wearing was a pair of jeans. Had to hurry. Hurry. He sat on the bed, nearly knocking over the bag of coke in his haste, and struggled into tennis shoes, his hands shaking. Hurry. A wrinkled T-shirt lay on the bed. No time. He grabbed it and wrapped it around the cocaine bag, then ran back to the window.
There were six of them walking toward the front of the house, the police in the lead. That probably meant a warrant. God, an arrest warrant! He couldn't let them take him. He had to get to Yvette. She'd save him. She would fix everything.
He rushed through the bedroom, charging down the dark, shadowy hall that seemed to stretch out to infinity before him. The floor seemed tilted, uneven, his house an alien landscape. He reached the top of the stairs and tripped, falling, the stairs rushing up to meet him, then helping him down. He bounced three, four times, then hit the floor hard and jumped right up, feeling no pain at all.
Hurry.
He ran to the back door. His fingers felt thick and useless as he fumbled with the lock. He could hear the front doorbell as he tore open the door, and the polite gesture struck him as funny. He ran out into the large backyard, his mongrel dog Skipper playfully running up and nipping at his legs.
Now what? He could hear their voices. They'd come around to the back door any moment. A six-foot security fence enclosed his backyard. Most of the neighbors kept large dogs to keep out the increasing number of intruders here in the suburbs. Where to go?
The dog jumped at him again and he pushed it away, looking around frantically, not even noticing the near freezing air as he ran around without a shirt. There was nothing in back except Skipper's dog
house. He looked at it. It had a hinge on its floor that allowed the entire house section to be raised for cleaning. Sure. Sure.
* * *
Hal Brognola stood out on the front lawn of the Chasen house, watching the policemen at the door unsuccessfully trying to gain entry. It was late. He was tired. There'd already been killing tonight. It took something out of him that didn't spring back as it used to.
Two of his men stood chatting quietly and smoking cigarettes as they leaned against Chasen's Corvette. "You guys go and check around the back," he said, then looked at the attorney general's liaison. "Where would he go? Any ideas?"
"I have no idea," Kaminsky said. "Mr. Brognola, this whole thing is a shock to me. I've known Ken for ten years, ever since he hired on at Justice. He's the last person I would ever have suspected of anything like this. Then there was your wiretap, and the call from Marie. The way she sounded, he could be anywhere."
One of the cops walked up to report. "I don't think he's in there."
"We have to know for sure, Sergeant," Brognola said. "Break in. That's what the warrant's for."
"Yes, sir."
The man hurried off to his cruiser, coming back with a large crowbar and heading to the door.
"Where did he hang out when he wasn't working?" Hal asked Kaminsky. "What did he like to do?"
"He was... is, a workaholic," Kaminsky said. "Three times a week we played racquetball in the basement gym, and the other nights we'd stop by for a drink at Phillips. That was it as far as I know."
Brognola looked at the man. As far as he knew — what a line. Here was a top Justice Department lawyer who had compromised the security of the United States and run thick and fast with organized crime, and nobody knows anything.
There was a rending of wood as the door cracked and splintered under the relentless drive of the crowbar. When it gave with a final loud creak, the police rushed in with drawn weapons.
"I'm going to go look around back," Brognola said, walking off. Kaminsky went with him.
"What will happen to Ken?" he asked as Brognola reached the already open gate, a small dog running out as he and Kaminsky walked in.
"You tell me, Counselor," Brognola replied. "Our federal statutes provide pretty stiff criminal penalties for the kind of conspiracy Chasen's been involved with, but they never seem to hold up once you guys get in there plea-bargaining and making compromises."
"Was the wiretap legal?" Kaminsky returned.
"I'll take the Fifth on that one."
"Well, that answers my question," Kaminsky said as they wandered into a large, well-kept backyard with edged walkways, gardens with a few fall flowers, a doghouse and a brick barbecue grill. "It's true that if he was willing to turn on his sources, given the illegal nature of those sources, well..."
"Don't tell me," Brognola said. "He could end up as a protected witness himself."
"I'd probably suggest that very thing," Kaminsky acknowledged.
* * *
Chasen sat cramped up in the doghouse, the smell all but overpowering, his limbs sore and aching. He'd heard several people's voices in the backyard, one of them Kaminsky's. But unfortunately, due to the nature of his hideout, he couldn't hear what was being said.
He hated them, hated them all. He wished he could just jump out of the doghouse and take on them all, but he held himself back. Later. There'd be other chances. And besides, there were different, more powerful urges to deal with at the moment.
Unfolding his T-shirt, he quietly eased the plastic bag out of it, gently cradling the white powder like a baby.
8
Bolan hated hospitals, especially late at night when the lights were turned down and white-clad women with silent shoes glided wraithlike through antiseptic corridors, making the place seem like a huge mausoleum. He and Carver walked down the hall of the fifth floor intensive care unit, both silent as they tried to deal with their losses in their own way. Bolan hadn't known Lomax or petite, conscientious Carol Niven very well, but he had liked them. They'd been willing to give of themselves unselfishly and without question, which was far more than he could say for the people they'd been protecting.
The outcome was a tragedy to Bolan, as was every wasted life.
He didn't need to look at the room numbers to find his way, but just headed toward the big state trooper who stood guard at the end of the hall. The man's face was somber but alert as he moved up to address him.
"My name's Belasko," Bolan said.
"We had a call about you from the Justice Department." The trooper, a lieutenant, sized him up. "They brought her down from surgery about thirty minutes ago."
"How does it look?" Bolan asked.
The man shook his head and looked at the floor.
"Can we go in?"
The trooper nodded. "Fine by me, but the doctors might have other ideas." He stepped away from the door, pushing it open for Bolan and Carver.
They walked in. Carver gave a strangled groan as they approached the bed. She was swathed in bandages, the sheets oddly flat where the leg that had been taken off should have been. Four IV lines were dripping blood and clear fluids into her body, while tubes in her nose and mouth helped her breathe and keep her chest clear.
A white-coated doctor was bent over her, checking vital signs and writing on a chart. He had heard Carver's exclamation, and walked over to them, his face set angrily.
"Would you please leave," he said in an exaggerated whisper. "My patient can have no visitors."
"Is she conscious?" Bolan pulled identification out of his wallet and showed it to the man.
"In and out," the doctor told him, turning to look at her. "But she can't talk."
"How is she?" Carver seemed unable to take his eyes from her.
The man lowered his voice even more. "If she lives through the night it will be a miracle. Now please..." He tried to usher them toward the door.
"If she's conscious I must try to speak with her," Bolan said.
"No. Absolutely not. She's been through enough."
"Other lives depend on it," Bolan returned. "No disrespect intended..."
"D-doctor..." Niven rasped weakly from the bed. "Please..."
The man tightened his jaw and moved to the woman, putting his ear near her mouth. In a moment he returned to Bolan and Carver. "Please keep it as brief as you can," he said. "Every bit of strength she uses to talk takes away from what she needs to live."
"I understand," Bolan said, moving past the doctor to stand before Niven. Her face was slack and expressionless, already given over to death. He'd seen that goodbye look many times and found himself saying his own silent farewells to her even as he watched.
He bent down close to her. "I'm so sorry," he said.
"I b-blew it," she rasped. "But I g-got...one of them."
"You did just fine," Bolan said softly. He heard Carver sob beside him, tears running freely down his face.
"I know this will be hard for you," Bolan said, "but you must try to help me a little so I can get the people who did this to you. Do you remember anything at all?"
"Not after the sh-shooting started," she whispered. "I just remember... pain. But before... before..." She closed her eyes for several seconds, biting her lower lip. She took some shallow breaths and opened her eyes. The hair was singed completely from her brows and lashes. "They came in a w-white Cadillac. I remember... saw it at B-Barberi's house, but didn't think... think..."
"Never mind that." Bolan turned to Carver. "Take notes."
He nodded, his face strained with sadness as he reached into his sport jacket for the pad and pen.
Bolan turned back to the dying woman. "How many?" he asked.
"F-four. With sh-shotguns."
"Now this is very important, Carol," he said. "Think carefully before you answer."
She nodded silently.
"Okay. What were the men like? How were they dressed?"
"P-punks," she said. "Trashed Army... fatigues. They en-enjoyed it. God, they..."
<
br /> The woman's eyes widened in remembered horror, her body coming up off the bed despite her injuries.
The doctor rushed back over, saying, "I told you not to do this."
"We're nearly finished, Doctor," Bolan told him.
"No, that's it."
"Doctor... please," Niven said as the doctor eased her back to a reclining position. Every movement was obviously agonizing.
The doctor backed away, glaring at both men.
"Your description didn't sound like Mafia hoods," he said.
"N-no," she whispered. "Not... Mafia. More like... like mercenaries."
Bolan looked at Carver, who raised his eyebrows in confusion as he wrote, then Bolan turned back to Niven. "Can you remember anything else?"
"Long... braided hair," she whispered. "And one of them... them..." Her eyes widened in fear. "Burnett... they c-called him... Burnett." She was breathing rapidly now, excitedly, her bandaged hands shaking in front of her. "Get him... oh, God... he's... insane! Please... get him... please. Please!"
The doctor was there at once. "That's it!" he snapped. "No more. Leave now." He turned to tend to the woman, small moans and cries escaping from her trembling lips.
"Mike..." Carver said.
Bolan took him by the arm instead and led him out of the room into the hallway. Carver was shaking, his lips pulled tight.
"I'm gonna kill those sons of bitches," he said low, his hands balled into fists. "I'll tear them apart with my bare hands if I have to, but so help me God..."
"No!" Bolan said firmly. "We'll get them. We'll get them in Denver. But not that way."
"You saw... you saw..." the man told him.
"Listen to me," Bolan said. "All you ever get with hot blood is a slab in the morgue. We'll get them because it's our job, and because they're mad dogs who have to be taken off the streets. But we'll do it cold and in control. There'll be time to mourn when this is all over."
"You must be made of ice," Carver accused him angrily.
"No, Roy," Bolan said, hardening himself to his own memories. "I'm not made of ice. I'm just selfish. I don't want to lose any more friends."
The Killing Urge Page 10