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 — "
&
nbsp; "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 tho
se 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."
Schwarz reported, "They just passed me, running hell-bent. Pol is coming around now. Do we hit them out here or allow them to close some first?"
"Let them close," Bolan commanded. "Just stay on their tail. From the moment you hit the turn-off, run dark. There's plenty of visibility out here without lights."
"Affirm."
"Watch it, Sarge," Blancanales growled.
"Name of the game," Bolan replied.
"I'll run on down about a half-mile beyond the junction, then double back."
"Okay," Bolan agreed tightly. "Watch this road.
It's a bitch."
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