San Diego Siege

by Don Pendleton

  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 we’ll 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. I’ll 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 guy!”

  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 o
f 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.

  “We’ll 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 for 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 riding 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. He’ll 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.