"Thanks, Bear. I'll check back with you after I visit this Harbor Yacht Club. Right now that's the only lead I've got."
"Be careful, big dude," growled Bolan's friend with fervor.
"Always," Bolan assured him.
He broke the connection, returned to the Corvette and guided the sports car in the direction of the Lake Michigan shore, allowing himself to experience again the white-hot anger that threatened to explode from the fire burning in his gut.
This strike by the Executioner into Chicago had been shadowy from the beginning. Not so much in what Bolan intended to do...
that was as clear-cut as could be...
but in what exactly David Parelli had up his sleeve.
The ripples, the angles being lined up with blood money in a bid for something big stretching all the way from this young Mafia turk to the corridors of power in the nation's capital...
all of that now took a back seat, as far as Bolan was concerned, in light of what Parelli did for kicks in his spare time.
Child molester.
The two words burned like naked flame into his heart.
He would have to keep a check on his rage when he moved through the Windy City tonight on this kill hunt, because blind rage could make a soldier careless. He had to find Parelli. Bolan wanted that more than he remembered wanting anything ever before in his life.
Something in the back of his mind...
and he couldn't pin it down...
told him that the awful things he had seen on Parelli's VCR were only the tip of another iceberg in these murky waters.
Missing children had become a national epidemic in America.
A living nightmare that devastated families, feasting on the innocence of the helpless.
The children.
Was Parelli tied in with something like that?
Yeah, Bolan would find out.
As long as an animal like Parelli walked this earth, children everywhere were in danger of ending up like those kids on that horrible clip.
Bolan realized he was gripping the Vette's steering wheel harder than was necessary.
He lightened his grip, pulling the rage back under control.
Undercurrents in Chicago were making themselves perceptible to him, but just barely, on this night of blood.
Politics.
A cop who hung out around a Mafia homestead.
Child abuse.
Mafia.
And a tough, spirited fighter woman who called herself Lana Garner.
Who was Lana Garner?
Where was she?
He steered the Vette on at the legal speed through the sparse evening traffic.
2030 hours.
He wanted to floor the gas pedal and push on deeper into this tangle with all the speed it deserved, but he could hardly afford being pulled over for a traffic violation at a time like this.
Bolan carried all sorts of phony id, but at this moment the trunk of the Vette carried the tools of his trade, the weapons that he had shed after his night hit on the Parelli estate.
He had donned his civvies over the blacksuit and removed the night camouflage from his face before driving to phone Kurtzman. He now wore the Beretta and the AutoMag in their respective shoulder holsters beneath his jacket.
At this hour the downtown Chicago area would be crawling with itchy cops after that free-for-all along Lakeshore Drive, so Bolan could not afford to take chances. But as he drove closer to the Harbor Yacht Club where Parelli just might be hiding out, the Executioner contented himself with the knowledge that much would change before this night was over.
Tonight the Man from Blood would survive or perish in the hellfire he would rain on Parelli and any other child-molesting scum who got in his way.
Bolan was ready to risk that and more to stop these walking lice, to even the odds for the victims who had suffered at their hands.
The hellfire already unleashed would be nothing compared to what was to come.
It would be a night of hellfire for Chicago.
5
Nobody at the Harbor Yacht Club spared more than a glance at the big man in repairman's coveralls and cap.
Bolan had discovered the value of role camouflage many years before, in Vietnam. With this outfit, picked up at a department store on the way in, and some grease from the rental car smeared carefully on his hands, he blended in, looking for all the world like a mechanic on his way to work on a boat.
The club was situated on the lakeshore just north of the mouth of the Chicago River.
While not as elegant or exclusive as the marinas along the Gold Coast, it was home to quite a few expensive craft.
Including the Lady Denise.
Bolan's gaze flicked over the yacht as he approached. There was no one on deck, no sign of a crew. Someone had to be on board, though.
No way would Parelli leave his boat unguarded, not after dark in a city like Chicago.
And there had been the scrawled phone number of this yacht club on Parelli's bedside pad...
Bolan was ready for action; for anything.
He had purchased coveralls that snapped down the front rather than zipped, so that they could be opened with one quick yank.
The Beretta rode in shoulder leather and the coveralls were baggy enough to conceal Big Thunder in its fast-draw rig on Bolan's right hip.
There were a few other surprises stashed about his body as well.
He strolled up to the railed gangplank that led from the slip to the yacht.
"Hello, Lady Denise," he called. "Anybody on board?"
There was movement in the shadows of the companionway leading down to the cabin.
Bolan tensed, ready to throw himself to the side and unleash the AutoMag if need be.
A burly guy shambled out of the cabin to glare at him.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Bolan identified the guy right away, not by name but by type.
Another goon. Hired muscle, but the man did not appear to be overly concerned by the arrival of this mechanic. A pistol formed a lump beneath the hood's ill-fitting jacket, but he made no move toward it.
Bolan grinned at him.
"You the skipper of this boat?"
The guy scowled.
"Do I look like the skipper? What the hell do you want?"
"I'm supposed to take a look at the heating unit."
"There's nothing wrong with the heating."
"All I know is what my boss told me." Bolan shrugged. He pulled a blank scrap of paper from his pocket and pretended to refer to it. "A Mr. Parelli, I think it was. Wants the heating checked over. Guess he's fixing to live on board a while, huh?" Bolan glanced toward the choppy night waters of Lake Michigan. "Sure hope he ain't planning on going yachting tonight."
The frown on the goon's face got deeper as he was forced to think. He turned to the cabin.
"Hey, Jake," he called inside. "Come up here a minute, willya?"
Another muscleman plodded up the steps and emerged onto the deck. Though cut from the same mold, Jake looked a little more intelligent. His gaze moved from his buddy to the mechanic and back again.
"Who's this guy?" he asked Jake.
"Says he's here to look at the heating."
"The boss didn't say nothing to me about it. And why at nine at night?"
At the foot of the gangplank the man in the coveralls spread his hands.
"Hey, you don't want me on board, it's no big deal to me. I'll just go back and tell 'em to tell Mr. Parelli you said to forget it."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Jake said hurriedly. "I didn't say you couldn't check out the heating, f'chrissake. Come on aboard."
Bolan hid a slight grin.
Nothing scared guys like this more than the idea of inadvertently offending their boss.
He strode up the gangplank to the deck.
Jake put out a big hand to stop him.
"If you're a mechanic, where the hell are your tools? You ain't got no toolbox."
&nbs
p; "I'm not a mechanic, pal. I'm a technical diagnostician. I listen to the gizmos and look 'em over and then I tell the mechanics what to fix. My tools are all up here." Bolan tapped his temple with a forefinger.
"Oh."
Clearly, Jake did not know what to make of Bolan but he was not going to disagree yet, either.
Bolan walked confidently to the companionway.
Jake and the other hood followed close behind.
"We're going to have to keep an eye on you," Jake growled.
"Suit yourself," Bolan grunted. "What's the matter, afraid I'm going to plant a bomb or something?"
Ominous silence from the two hoods was their only response.
He cast a last glance around before descending into the cabin. There was practically no activity around the yacht club at this time of the year, at this time of night.
A speedboat was moored on one side of the Lady Denise but it was empty. The slip on the other side was deserted.
Good enough, thought Bolan.
No civilians in the immediate vicinity.
He glanced over his shoulder at the two hardguys, who were crowding down the steps behind him.
"One of you flick up the thermostat for me," he said.
"You do it, Hughie," said Jake. "I'll watch this guy."
"Gotcha," Hughie rumbled.
Bolan figured his strategy. When they reached the cabin, he would take care of these two, then search the yacht.
He was now sure he would not find Parelli here.
Boarding the yacht had been too easy.
But he might find something that would clear up the strange feeling he had about what was happening tonight in Chicago.
Hughie said to Bolan, conversationally, "You know, when you came up to the boat, I thought for a second you might be that Bolan guy. I heard he was around."
Jake stopped short on the steps, causing Hughie to bump into him.
"Why don't you keep your friggin' mouth shut?" he grated.
Two steps below, the Executioner also stopped and turned toward the two with a querulous look on his face.
"Bolan? You mean the Mafia guy?"
"Nah, he fights the Mafia," Hughie corrected.
"Will you shut up?" Jake snarled. "This dope's here to work on the boat, not to keep us company."
"Hell, I didn't mean nothin'..." Hughie began.
The sound of an approaching engine cut him off.
Jake and Hughie exchanged puzzled glances, then turned around to head back up the steps.
Jake paused long enough to glance at Bolan.
"You go ahead to the engine room. We'll go see who that is and be right with you."
"Sure," said Bolan, nodding.
He waited until both of them disappeared onto the deck, then catfooted back up the stairs after them.
He heard Jake say, "What the hell are those clowns doing?"
Bolan stopped at the head of the companionway, spotting Jake and Hughie standing by the rail, watching a speedboat cutting fancy capers in the cold gray water close by.
There were three men in the boat but they were too far away for Bolan to identify.
The speedboat raced in closer.
Bolan stepped up onto the deck.
Jake glared over his shoulder.
"Thought I told you to go below."
Then Jake's eyes widened as the mechanic ripped open his coveralls to reveal the tight-fitting blacksuit beneath.
Bolan's right hand darted under the coveralls to snatch the Beretta from shoulder leather.
Jake yelled, "Hughie!" then started to grab for his own gun.
Bolan had not had Jake and Hughie in mind when he grabbed for his hardware. He had discerned the two passengers in the approaching speedboat raising automatic weapons into firing position.
The small craft surged forward with even more speed, veering straight toward the yacht.
Suddenly orange tips of flame lanced from the subguns as the men in the speedboat opened fire.
Jake and Hughie had turned their backs on the speedboat to concentrate on Bolan, perceiving him to be the greater threat. They started to spin toward the speedboat at the first sounds of autofire.
Too late.
The incoming rounds chewed splinters from the gunwale of the yacht, then lined up on target.
Slugs stitched up Hughie's back, slicing bright red seams into his jacket before bursting out his front, taking most of his insides with them. The lethal hailstorm punched the hood forward, making the deck slick with blood.
Jake realized his mistake about the same time the bullets from the gunners caught him in the side, tumbling him into the railing. But he was not fatally hit yet. He straightened and tried to turn around, still clutching his pistol. He lifted it, managed to trigger off one round before another subgun burst slammed into him, pitching his body off the side.
Bolan hit the deck.
Hundreds of slugs razored through the air above him.
He twisted out of the coveralls and tossed them aside. He rammed the Beretta back into its harness, then unleathered Big Thunder.
Bolan's combat senses were on full alert.
Jake and Hughie had stood at the rail for several seconds while the speedboat had approached, yet the gunners had not opened up until Bolan appeared from the companionway.
The two thugs were just unlucky to have been in the way.
This was a planned hit, Bolan realized, and he was the target.
That told him something about the caliber of enemy he was up against.
It was a trap!
Parelli had expected Bolan to search that house, that bedroom. The Mafia savage had expected Bolan to discover the telephone number purposely left on that note pad.
The speedboat full of gunners had been cruising offshore with the Lady Denise under surveillance, waiting for Bolan to walk into this setup.
Gunfire continued to riddle the yacht. Bolan reached into the discarded coveralls and came out with one of the surprises he had stored in its roomy pockets.
He yanked the pin from the grenade. Holding it in his left hand, he came up in a crouch that let him see over the gunwale.
The boat veered away, this time to keep from smashing into the yacht, the graceful curve of the turn putting it roughly parallel to the bigger craft.
The gunners continued blasting nonstop, gun flashes lighting up the night, reflecting from the water like strobe lights.
Bolan showed himself several feet away from where the men concentrated their fire. He fired twice, Big Thunder bucking hard in his grip, before they could adjust their aim.
Both .44-caliber projectiles missed the moving speedboat, but served their purpose anyway. For a few seconds, the gunners became more interested in seeking cover than in killing Bolan, giving him time to pitch the grenade.
It hit the water a little aft of the speedboat, disappearing into the foamy wake before detonating a split second later, the explosion kicking up a plume of water.
Bolan heard a scream above the roar of the boat's engine.
As the spray thrown up by the grenade's blast hissed back down like a miniature rain shower, he spotted the speedboat banking away from the yacht, the subguns silent.
One of the gunners writhed in his seat, hands covering the bloody mask that had been his face before the shrapnel shredded it.
The other killer appeared to have lost his weapon when the explosion rocked their craft.
Bolan held the AutoMag at full arm extension and lined its barrel on the torso of the boat's pilot. He squeezed the trigger.
The boat bounced on the water, causing Bolan's bullet to miss.
He triggered the .44 again, with the same result.
Much as Bolan wanted to search this yacht, he wanted those killers even more, wanted one of them alive.
They were a direct link to Parelli.
A sure thing rather than a gamble and a hope.
He dashed to the other side of the yacht, reaching down to snag the discarded coverall
s. He grabbed two more grenades and a combat knife out of the pockets.
One of his booted feet pushed off the gunwale as he vaulted it. He landed running on the dock.
The Executioner spotted some people moving around now on the other boats moored nearby, staring at him curiously.
The speedboat moored next to the Lady Denise was a four-seater, much like the one the assassins were using.
Bolan leaped into the pilot's seat.
There were no keys in the ignition. He reached under the dash, found the right wires and twisted them together.
The engine turned over, missed a few times, then suddenly caught with a throaty rumble.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"
Bolan looked over his shoulder. A man came running down the dock toward him, waving his arms, gesticulating angrily.
Bolan leaned back in the seat, knife in hand, and slashed the mooring line. He returned the blade to its sheath, ignoring the shouts. He started working the controls.
The prow of the boat was pointed toward the middle of the lake, so all Bolan had to do was feed power to the throttle.
The speedboat shot forward across the choppy surface of Lake Michigan.
The wind was rising, making the water even rougher now.
Bolan spun the wheel with the heel of his hand, sending the craft into a tight turn. He planted his feet firmly to maintain his balance as the little boat skimmed the waves.
Ahead of him, he could see the killer craft.
It cut through the water at a frantic clip, moving away from him.
It looked to Bolan as if the hit mission was forgotten and all those guys wanted now was to get away from the Executioner.
The mouth of the Chicago River opened to the left.
The boat with the Mafia punks headed that way, and a moment later they vanished around a headland.
Bolan fed more juice to his own craft.
It skirted the promontory and he whipped into another turn.
The killer boat came back into sight.
The engine of Bolan's craft hummed smoothly. The icy night air lanced his exposed flesh like tiny needles. He sensed his vessel had more power than the other, as he slowly closed the gap.
The Lakeshore Drive bridge flashed by overhead.
Save the Children te-94 Page 5