Tatum’s hand was frozen around the microphone. He squawked, “Well Jesus Christ! We’ll 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 g
uy 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. I’ll 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 flood 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.
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