He removed the shades himself when she stepped inside the warwagon. Mother and daughter had a noisy and tearful reunion while Bolan went out and attached the rented car to a tow bar at the rear of the larger vehicle.
Inside again, he gave the ladies his purchases from the variety store — bluejeans and flannel shirts, deck-shoes, bandannas for the hair — and told them what to do with them.
While they changed, he sent the warwagon cruising north along the coast to a small beach house several miles along. This was his "rear base," rented shortly after his arrival in the area and not used until this moment. The house was semi-isolated, fully stocked with foodstuffs and other necessities adequate for a week-long stay, snug, secure. Bolan would have put his own kid in there.
He told the ladies, "There's no phone. Which is good — there won't be the temptation to start calling around for news. There's a radio — use that, instead. I want you to stay here and keep out of sight until you hear different from me personally. Your lives are now in your own hands. Keep it that way."
He went out then, and the younger lady followed him onto the porch. "So it's Prisoner of Mom," she said with a wry smile. "What's the matter — can't take the heat?"
He replied, "Well take up that question later. Love and death don't make a very winning combination, Dianna." He smiled. "I'll give you a chance to eat those words. Later."
She smiled back and said, "Sure."
"Watch her," Bolan cautioned, referring to the mother. "She didn't get the baptism you did. Make sure she doesn't have movie ideas about blood and guts."
The girl winced. She asked, "What are you going to do to Allan?"
Bolan shrugged. "The guy is wearing the mark of the beast. I didn't put it there. He did."
"Well sure, but ..." She tossed a quick glance through the open doorway. "She couldn't possibly love the man, Thor. But they have been man and wife for over six years. I-I just ... don't judge him too harshly."
Bolan frowned as he told the girl, "I don't judge, Dianna. I don't even condemn. I just read the marks, and I fulfill. These guys are their own judge and their own jury. Hell I'm just the executioner."
"That's tough, oh that's tough," she argued quietly. "Wish I could be that tough, but I'm not. Neither is my mother. Don't — please don't ..."
Tough, sure. Bolan's dreams were haunted by the wraiths of weeping widows.
"No promises," he said gruffly. "But I will play it by the ear. If the fates should smile on Allan, okay. If not ..."
She said, very quietly and almost conspiratorially, "You know, it's funny — I'm not the least little worried about you. You're so — so damn awesome. What are you, Thor Bolan? What makes you tick?"
The senior version edged through the doorway at that moment to officially join the conversation. Margaret Nyeburg said, "If you'd been watching television this morning, Dy, you wouldn't have to ask that. Go on, Mr. Bolan. Do what you must do. I'm sorry, yes, I have been listening. Don't risk one of your fingers for the sake of Allan Nyeburg."
Bolan gave them both a flash of warm blue eyes and a quiet farewell.
That was a mighty cool lady back there, he was thinking as he wheeled the warwagon back toward town. Some day, if she was damn lucky, the junior miss would be just as cool — and as beautiful.
Nyeburg really had to be some kind of sick dude — to shit on a woman like that. On women like that.
Bolan, however, was no doctor. He did not cure, he eradicated. This was his focus. To change focus would be to dilute the effect. And the "effect" was all he had going.
At that moment, he was "going" for Allan Nyeburg. With the active assistance of the man's wife. The lady had given Bolan a list of addresses and phone numbers. They pertained to Nyeburg's "illness."
If you're looking for a junkie, watch the pushers.
Bolan was off to watch the pimps.
At the far side of the country, an agitated young man with hat pulled low over his eyes was stepping into an official vehicle at the national airport in Washington, D.C. He was the object of the most closely guarded government secret since the Manhattan Project. His name was Leo Turrin. He was ranking boss of the Pittsfield arm of a larger Massachusetts crime family. He was a popular and "coming" young "executive" in the far-flung empire of la Cosa Nostra, enjoying the confidence and respect of the ruling council as well as the general rank and file. The secret was that he was also Sticker — the code name for the most sensitive government agent in the undercover ranks.
Only one man in Washington knew the true identity of Sticker. That man was Harold Brognola, the top official in the government's anti-crime program. Curiously enough, Brognola was also the official charged with the responsibility to "stop Mack Bolan."
Curious, because these two men were the closest friends Mack Bolan had in the world. It had been largely through Bolan's activities that Turrin rose so swiftly through Mafia ranks. And it had been largely through Bolan's mob-busting heroics that Hal Brognola had become such an impressive figure on the Washington scene. Both of these men privately acknowledged their debts to Mack Bolan even while discounting his own debts to them — which were many.
It was a rare occasion for Turrin and Brognola to make direct, personal contact — and very risky. Brognola was a bit testy, in fact, as Turrin slid into the car beside him. "What's the panic?" he growled.
They shook hands as Turrin growled back, "No panic and stop worrying. I'm well covered. The boys think I have a woman stashed down here. You are kinda cute, at that, you know."
Brognola cussed under his breath. "Maybe you're covered but I'm not so sure I am. This town has gone insane, Leo. Pure crazy. Nobody trusts anybody. I go over this vehicle with a de-bugger before every use. I'm afraid to make love to my wife in my own bed, except in whispers. The whole town is paranoid."
"Well, it's your White House," Turrin commented with a droll smile. "Hell, I live with that stuff forever. It's about time you boys in Washington took some of the heat."
The official chuckled drily. "It's getting so you can't tell the players without a scorecard, Leo. Seriously. I'm worried sick. This country could topple."
"It's that serious?"
"It is. I wish I could tell you — no I don't. I wouldn't burden anyone with that. Besides you have problems enough of your own. Now, dammit, what's so urgent?"
"I just came out of a meeting with the old men in New York. Ducked out to La Guardia and hopped the commuter right down, zip zip. Marvelous age, isn't it."
"Full council?"
"Yeah. In spades."
"Since when do they let you into the councils?"
"Since today. Special invitation. I'm the Bolan expert, you know."
"Ah hell, not that again. Seattle, eh?"
"Yeah. Hal, they're fielding a special killer force to go get that guy."
Brognola grimaced. "I quit worrying about Mack Bolan a long time ago. They've sent forces out before. Anyway — our Seattle office says there's some question that Bolan is even there. Have you heard from the guy?"
"Not since New Orleans," Turrin said. "But he's there, all right."
"Why? Nothing else is there, not that I've been able to ascertain. Except for a few small nickel and dime operations that Bolan wouldn't wipe his feet on."
"That's what I thought, too," Turrin replied. "But ..."
"But what?"
"Well, hell. You know how the mob feels about Mack Bolan. They'd rather have him than Canada. I mean, they fantasize fucking his bleeding head instead of hot twats. They'd spend anything and do anything to get a good shot at the guy. And, like you say, they've sent forces before. But, Hal ... these old men are pole-vaulting all over the offices up there right now, have been all day. I kept expecting Augie to go into relapse, he's so nuts over this thing. I mean they're frothing at their collective mouths. They're scared to death, I'll tell you. This isn't just a usual hate-Bolan week. They're really shook up."
"Over what?"
"Hell, that's what I couldn't learn.
All I know is that something big — something superfragile big is about to happen out there in Seattle. And they're losing their minds over the Bolan presence."
"That's why you came down?"
"That's why. I've been ordered out there."
Brognola sighed. "How many guns you taking?"
"Just my usual crew. The killer force is being put together from St. Louis, Denver, Phoenix, and Frisco. Two hundred — now get this — T-W-O hundred guns. The meanest boys in the west. I don't have any command. I'm just there, as an advisor, strategist. Guy by the name of Franciscus will be the top gun. Heard of him?"
Brognola worriedly shook his head. "Me either. He's not a made man, either. Independent contractor. Ex-soldier, with combat credentials. The old men were heh-hehing all over the joint, rubbing their hands in anticipation and congratulating each other over the pickup on this guy. They seem to think he'll be a match for Bolan's combat M.O. But there's something else about this guy that ..."
"Yeah, what? Don't stop there." "The guy's already in Seattle."
"So he's been there, since before Bolan showed. That's too much for mere coincidence. Isn't it? I think ... Hal, I believe Franciscus was already there — for the other thing, the big thing whatever it is. And somehow it all ties in to ..."
"To what?"
"Hell, I don't know. How do you express gut hunches? This Franciscus is a military type. He was a captain of infantry, brushfire forces. And he's not made. So what the hell were they setting up for that guy in Seattle? Of all damned places, Seattle!"
Brognola's usually impassive face had settled into grim lines. "Treasury is looking into the Seattle thing, of course," he said quietly. "There were two hundred automatic weapons discovered in that warehouse out there this morning. So far it's being handled as a routine case of illegal trafficking in restricted weapons. But... now you say they're fielding two hundred gunners."
"Could that be a coincidence?" "I'd hate to bet on it," the official replied with a worried smile. "What the hell do you think they're doing?"
"I've thought of a million things, all too crazy. I don't know, Hal. I do know how hard it is to scrape up two hundred good gunners on a moment's notice. If the weapons were already there, and if the two hundred boys were already stashed around waiting for the call — then by God I'd punch the umpire before I'd settle for a coincidence call."
"You're right. And they couldn't have been primed and waiting for Bolan to show. That's too ridiculous."
"Aw no," the undercover man said quickly. "I told you, the old men are half out of their minds because the guy did show."
"Do you think those wiseguys were already putting together a paramilitary force? Are you saying that Bolan tumbled to it, and that's why he's there?"
Turrin gave a heavy sigh and cracked his knuckles through a long silence. Presently he replied, "Like I said, I haven't talked to the Sarge since New Orleans. I don't know what the hell he's onto. But I'd bet my life on this much. He's onto something, or he wouldn't be romping. And the old men wouldn't be stomping."
"Hell, I guess I'd getter get out there, too," Brognola decided.
"My plane leaves in an hour."
"So will mine," the official said. "Ill take fifty marshals. Maybe I can scrounge up another fifty when I get out there. Where will you be?"
"I'll be at the best hotel they have. Leave messages for Joseph Petrillo."
"Fine. You'll know where to reach me."
Turrin chuckled without humor. "Sure you can afford to leave Washington behind for a few days?"
"Hell, I'm traveling from one to the other, the city to the state."
"Yeah," Turrin said, "but what a contrast in smells, eh?"
"Well see," said the Justice Department official.
"Sure," Turrin replied. "I guess we'll see plenty."
They would.
Already, the war drums were throbbing throughout the Pacific Northwest.
10
The brew
Bolan moved his base camp to a commercial campground on the eastern approaches to the city. There he changed clothes and snacked while going through the stuff from Nyeburg's vault. The only thing of any immediate interest there was a ledger with some rather cryptic notations, and the lockbox — which contained twenty thousand dollars in crisp new $100 bills.
He dropped half of the money into his warchest and deposited the rest in his coat pocket, stowed the other stuff, and drove the Fairlane into Seattle.
It was six o'clock when he hit town. The rain had stopped but the skies continued to threaten and were bringing on a premature nightfall.
He scored on his first stop, which had been carefully selected from the list of possibilities. It was a small "models and escorts" agency located in the hotel district. Bolan could smell a guy like Nyeburg all over that joint.
The guy at the desk was about fifty, fat, balding, with a perpetual smile — and he looked as though he had perhaps grown into the chair.
Bolan placed a shiny new hundred in front of the guy and said, "Hi."
"Hi," grinning boy replied. "What's that for?"
"That's for you," Bolan said, matching the smile.
"Yeah?"
"Sure. I got nine more just like it to say that you're the man for me."
"Whatta you got — a sales convention?" The guy snickered. "Or do you just want to die happy."
"Doesn't everybody?" Bolan kept right on smiling as he counted off nine more bills and asked the guy, "What will that get?"
"Any damn thing you want," said laughing boy.
"I want a guy with about a two hundred dollar a day habit."
"Huh?"
"Guy about forty. Never won a beauty contest but not too horrible, I guess, as Johns go. Pretty wealthy. Likes 'em for lunch, likes 'em for dinner, and now and then for a midnight snack. I think you've been servicing the guy. I'm trying to locate him."
The smile hung in there but the spirit didn't. "Hey now wait a minute there. I don't know what you're saying and I don't want any. I get involved in nothing, bud, nothing."
"You'd better get involved in this, bud. My way or trouble's way."
Eyes that had seen everything and every kind of guy were now sizing up the Executioner. "You're not a cop, huh."
"Course not. But I want the guy and I want him tonight." Bolan's smile outdid itself. "Save us all a lot of trouble. Make yourself a thousand bucks in the bargain."
The fat man carefully picked up the money. "I think I know the guy."
"You sent him somebody today. Right?"
"Sure. Every day. With this guy, it's a constantly revolving door. I sent him something an hour ago."
Bolan placed his warbook on the desk and opened it to a clean page. "Put the address there."
The guy did so, in huge block print. Then he asked Bolan, "You know about where that is?"
Bolan glanced at the book and replied, "Not exactly."
"I figured you're not from here. Who is, these days, eh?" He sighed. "It cost my client twenty bucks extra for cab fare. It's across Lake Washington on I-90 East. Take the first offramp to Lake Sammamish. Stop at a gas station out there and ask for directions. It's a wooded area. You get lost easy."
"He get service out there regularly?" Bolan idly wondered.
"Out there? Naw. Once or twice before this, maybe. When this guy needs, he needs. He don't care where he is. You're right — that bit about lunch. I send 'em to his office — isn't that rich. Every man's fantasy — a broad under the desk keeping him alert during the boring daily routine."
"Not every guy can afford to indulge that fantasy," Bolan said.
"This one can. You said two hundred a day? Try three and four, some days."
Everybody loved to gossip.
Bolan said, "That's worse than smack."
"Sure it is. On that much smack, he'd be dead long ago. Frankly, I don't get it. I even asked the girls what the hell he does with 'em. He screws 'em, that's what. Sure, sometimes a half a dozen different girls the sa
me day. I still can't believe it. I wish one of those sex surveyors would come around and survey me. Boy, what I could tell 'em."
"You paying protection?"
"Aw no, no. We keep a low profile, nobody bothers us. No open solicitation, no street walkers. Good girls, clean and all."
"Nobody's tried to muscle you?"
"Aw hell, no. This is a quiet town. Where you from?"
"East," Bolan said. "People like you don't have a chance there. The mob runs it all."
"Oh well, hey, we've got no mob here." The guy was getting nervous. "Don't uh, don't get any ideas, friend. I mean, if you're thinking of some little muscle action on your own. You wouldn't last a day. I said I wasn't paying protection. That doesn't mean I don't have it."
"Relax," Bolan said. "I was just wondering if this superjohn of yours was actually paying or ..."
"Oh hell, he pays. Cash on the line."
Bolan thanked the guy and got out of there.
He did not particularly like the feel of the situation. His mind nibbled briefly at the idea of set-up but discarded it as too unlikely.
As for the Lake Sammamish area, it rang out okay. It fit the situation. Good place for a quiet pad where a guy could get away from it all when the need was there. Margaret Nyeburg, if she'd come entirely clean, did not know of such a place. Which made the ring even cleaner.
Bolan had early-on discarded the thought that Nyeburg may have gone to the island. It was out of his league, totally out of reach. Nyeburg was a face, not a head — and it mattered not at all that his face officially owned the place.
Nyeburg wasn't even made. Bolan's chief interest in the guy lay in the "domino chain" idea. He had to spark a chain reaction somewhere. Nyeburg seemed the likeliest domino in the line.
The guy had wasted no time getting out of sight.
Margaret had said that he'd received this early morning call which "lasted no more than thirty seconds."
Tommy Rotten didn't make that call; the kid couldn't coherently say that much in that space of time — certainly not enough to send Nyeburg in panic to the men in New York, which is immediately what he did — that five minute long distance conference.
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