Bolan trotted down the alley. "April?"
A gray figure peeled away from the shadows, stepped into a spear of light from a street lamp. April. He had not known how truly anxious he was about her until that second.
She held him, then they turned to gently lift Allison to her feet.
"The target?" Allison gasped, her teeth clenched in pain.
"They didn't identify it."
April cursed.
"But I think I know what it is," Bolan said. "If I'm right, we have to move fast. Or God help a whole mass of innocent victims."
12
"You sure about the location?" The Fed chewed his soggy cigar and sighed. "Scratch that question."
"Fair question, Hal," Bolan said on the phone. "But I gave you the facts just as I got them. Dante hoped the good weather would hold. It's been raining in northern California for the past week. That combined with his comment about smog suggests Southern California. And they specified Sunday. What's going down on Sunday that involves half a million people?"
"The OPON Festival," Brognola replied. "One People One Nation. A twenty-million-dollar country-and-western festival in Riverdale. The TV news has been showing the crowds that have been gathering there since Wednesday. And the gates didn't even open until this morning. Make that yesterday morning. It's twelve minutes into Saturday already."
Bolan peered through the glass phone booth at April. She sat in the front seat of the car, her head leaning against the headrest, her eyes closed.
"I'll say one thing for Dante and Zossimov," continued Brognola, speaking from Stony Man Farm. "They picked the best day for it. By the end of Friday there were about two hundred forty thousand people attending. By Sunday, they expect half a million. That's when the really big names appear. Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, the Oak Ridge Boys, Alabama, Fleetwood Mac and Linda Ronstadt."
"Which means the stars will be targets as well as the audience."
"Have to be. There's no way to be selective with that size of a crowd." Brognola paused. "How's Sally Benson doing?"
"A.k.a. Allison Dubin? She's fine. We put her in Divine Providence Hospital and they've patched her up. There'll be some nasty scars on her face, but the doctor said plastic surgery can take care of that. With luck."
"Seems that around the time she was being admitted," continued Hal, "a certain football player was being checked into the Williamsport Hospital with some sort of nervous condition. Doesn't look like he'll be playing pro ball very well for a while."
Bolan shrugged. "It's a tough game," he responded.
"That's what I said."
"You come up with anything on Bleeder?"
"Not yet. I've run the name through the computer. Spelled it several different ways. I'm still waiting for the results." A deep puff on the cigar. "One question, Mack."
"Sure."
"Why didn't you kill Dante when you had the chance?"
Bolan peered through the glass again, watched April wriggle in her seat. Then she opened her eyes, glanced around for him, waved to him through the windshield. He waved back.
"Believe me, Hal, there's nothing I wanted to do more than nail that bastard's flesh to the wall. But when I heard him say that Zossimov had everything set up already, I knew I had to wait. If I'd blown Dante away, chances are good that Zossimov would have continued the operation without Dante. At least with him alive, we have a chance of picking up his trail and tracing him to Zossimov. We have to find out how they intend to attack that many people."
"The whole thing's crazy, Mack. The place will be crawling with security guards, not to mention the audience itself. The place is swept twice a day for bombs. They even have air surveillance. How are they going to do it?"
"Beats me. All I know is that I'm not going to let it happen."
Brognola sighed wearily. "Hang by that phone a few more minutes. I'll call back as soon as the computer's regurgitated its dinner."
Bolan hung up.
April opened the car door. She climbed out and stretched. "What's the word from Hal?"
"He thinks they're going to strike a music festival, a big one, at Riverdale, near L.A."
She walked over to Bolan, slid her arm around his waist. He rested his hand on her shoulder, then hugged her close against him. They leaned up against the fender of the car and watched the vehicles shooting by on Route 15 like flaming meteors. Next to them was a 24-hour doughnut shop with one customer, a Valley Farms dairy truck driver. The waitress was leaning over the counter reading the newspaper.
April spoke at last. "People listening to music, enjoying each other. And those animals are going to use that opportunity to kill people. Just to make some obscure political point."
The phone in the glass booth rang.
Bolan started for it. If Hal had the information they needed, there would still be a chance to stop the slaughter. If not . . .
13
Larry "The Bleeder" Strohman was running scared. As he bounced through the house with his nylon Sports Sac traveling bag slung over his shoulder, he grabbed any object he passed and threw it in. Some clothes, a couple of paperback mysteries, sunglasses, broken pen. He just couldn't think very straight.
Dante was supposed to have been back two hours ago. He had taken Bleeder's car and rounded up two other toughs and sped off for Williamsport, laughing about what he would do to that undercover Fed. But there was still no sight of him, not even a phone call. What if something had gone wrong? The cops might be on their way here right now!
He had to get out. Hide. His sister would let him stay in her mountain cabin, as long as her husband Tom didn't know. Tom did not like Bleeder. But then neither did Bleeder's sister.
He jogged into his study on unsteady legs and began rifling through the rolltop desk. He stuffed his wallet into his pocket and clamped his address book between his teeth while he crammed a checkbook into the bulging bag.
That's when he heard the explosion.
At least it sounded like an explosion. The loud disintegration of wood was shattering to him. He stood, frozen in motion, teeth chomping into the soft leather address book. Bile rose in his throat.
Bolan plunged through the doorway. Garbed in blacksuit, the Beretta 93-R held at arm's length in double fists, his presence was undeniable. The dark hole of the barrel stared hungrily at Bleeder's forehead.
Bleeder's mouth dropped open, the address book tumbled to the floor. It was a judgment from heaven and a punishment from hell all staring at him from those icy eyes.
"In here, April," Bolan called out. April appeared seconds later after checking the other rooms. The Linda semiautomatic pistol was gripped in both hands like a submachine gun.
"Doesn't seem to be anyone else here," she said.
"Just us chickens," Bolan said to Bleeder. Bleeder dropped his bag. Something inside shattered. "How'd you get in here?" he croaked.
"We busted your door down, that's how." "What do you want?"
"Dante!"
Bleeder recoiled from Bolan's shout, stumbling backward a couple of steps into the desk. "Who are you? Cops?"
"We're the ones with the questions. And the guns."
"Where's your warrant?"
"I'm about to perforate your lungs with it."
Bleeder shook so much he groped behind him for the desk chair. He swiveled it around and collapsed in it. He crossed his legs in an effort to hide his wet pant leg.
Bolan walked over to him and pressed the cold muzzle against Bleeder's forehead. "Last time, pal. Where's Dante? The operation at Davey Jones's is busted. Where would he go next? How would he get out to California?"
Bleeder gaped at Bolan, shocked by how much the stranger knew. A trickle of blood bubbled from one nostril. He sniffed it back in. "I don't know anything," he whined, his voice pinched with fear. "Go ahead and shoot. Kill me. Go ahead."
Bolan swore to himself. From what little Hal Brognola had been able to tell him about this creep, he had always been self-destructive, a wimp, bullied by everyo
ne in his life, especially the Weather Underground. Just their luck that for once in his life the punk decides to become a political hero, preferring to take a bullet than talk.
Damn, they didn't have the time for this. Eventually Bleeder would talk, given the right combination of pain. But Bolan did not have that much time.
"Listen to me, Strohman," Bolan threatened. "Sir," April interrupted. "May I see you a moment?"
Bolan nodded grudgingly, backed up until he stood next to her.
"You agree that fear is more effective than the pain?" she whispered.
"Sometimes."
She smiled at him and handed him her gun. "I'll be right back. Need something from my purse." She dashed out the door. Bolan glared icily at Bleeder, both barrels hovering at the guy's heart. April returned in less than a minute. Her right hand was balled into a fist as she walked toward Bleeder. When she stood in front of him, she thrust out her hand and opened it. Bleeder flinched at the movement.
Sitting on her palm was a white oblong pill. "Swallow this," she ordered harshly.
"Wh-what is it?"
"Never mind. Just do it. Unless you'd prefer my friend to start using his knife on your privates."
Bleeder shivered. Reluctantly he picked up the pill and turned it in his hand like a strange jewel. Finally he squared his shoulders and popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it.
April glanced at her watch. "You have five minutes. It'll seem much longer because of the nature of the chemicals."
"Chemicals?"
"Same basic ingredients your Soviet buddies use in Yellow Rain. It makes your blood vessels burst. Soon you'll feel a hot rush on your skin, which happens right before the blood starts to seep through your pores. It means your internal organs are dissolving."
Sweat beads bloomed across Bleeder's face. "Now, where's Dante?"
"Why should I tell you anything?" he groaned. "I'm dying anyway."
"Because of this." She pulled an orange oblong pill from her pocket. "The antidote. It completely reverses the process."
"I—I can feel my skin tingling already," he gasped. "Feels hot and burning."
"A little ahead of schedule," she shrugged, bouncing the orange pill in her palm. "It's just a matter of minutes now."
Blood oozed from his nostril. He swiped at it with his hand, stared at the smear. "It's worse than usual," he said hysterically. "Thicker."
Bolan looked at his watch. He nodded at April. "Let's go. He's not going to talk."
"Guess you're right," she said as she pocketed the orange pill.
"Royce Banjo!" Bleeder blurted out.
April spun back to face him. "What about him? He's a country singer."
"That's where Dante would have gone next. At least, that was his plan." Bleeder wiped frantically at his nose, sobs racking his skinny frame. "Royce is sympathetic to our cause and agreed to give J.D. cover as a roadie with his band. He's giving J.D. a lift on his chartered jet. They're probably on their way to Los Angeles by now. Royce is supposed to play at that phony Woodstock, the OPON Festival."
"What do you know about OPON?" Bolan asked.
"Nothin'."
Bolan stared at him a moment, watching the fear shake his body. Bolan decided the punk meant it. "Okay," he said to April.
April tossed Bleeder the orange pill, which he caught with both hands and quickly swallowed. His throat was so dry it took several gulps to get it down.
Then Bolan lashed Bleeder to a water pipe that ran down the wall of the room. A call to Brognola would ensure that someone would be by to pick him up and keep him out of circulation for a while.
"Just what was it you gave him back there?" Bolan asked April. They were speeding toward a military airbase. Hal had arranged for them to hitchhike a jet ride to California. "Whatever it was, it sure did the trick."
"Niacin," she smiled. "Available from the drug store. I take it sometimes with my vitamins. High-potency Niacin opens your pores, gives you a flushed feeling. Perfectly harmless, but it can be scary if you've never taken it before."
"Then what was the 'antidote'?"
"Vitamin C. Want one? Tasty."
Bolan laughed as he wheeled the car through the sparse early-morning traffic.
14
"How do I look?" she teased, striking a model's pose that showed her full curves to their best advantage, her warm smile bright with intelligence.
Bolan pointed through the windshield at the guests streaming into the large house. "Better than anybody here."
"Considering the cost of some of those outfits, I'll take that as a compliment. You know, this is the first party you've ever taken me to."
"Oh, yeah, how about Hal's birthday party a couple of months ago?"
"I mean outside of Stony Man Farm. Besides, I arranged that whole party, you didn't take me."
"Close enough."
"Boy, do you have a lot to learn about women."
"How much?"
She smiled at him. "Not much."
His eyes remained fixed straight ahead, studying the guests as they parked their cars and ran laughing into the large Spanish-style house in the Brentwood Hills. The sound of a live band rippled through the night.
Bolan and April Rose had taken advantage of down time on the jet flight to catch some sleep, though neither felt really refreshed at the moment. It was 9:21 P.M. on the Saturday night before the massacre planned for Sunday.
Bolan knew no details yet, but he knew it would be a massacre. That was Zossimov's specialty, his gospel. And in Dante, Zossimov must have found the perfect disciple in death.
Royce Banjo's fame as an "outlaw" country singer made it easy to track him down. Brognola had ordered surveillance of Banjo's chartered jet when it landed. But if there was one thing celebrities were good at, it was losing whoever was following them. Most had specially trained bodyguard-drivers able to shake them free from adoring fans or potential kidnappers. It was the only way most could get any privacy. Royce Banjo was no exception. His limo, containing himself and Dante, had left the two FBI agents scratching their heads somewhere on Pico Boulevard.
It had taken some legwork, but the party tonight was not much of a secret. The house was rented for Royce Banjo by his record label. The caterers had arrived several hours ago, followed by the band and finally the guests. But still no sign of Banjo. Or Dante.
"Do you think he'd throw a party and not come to it?" April drummed her fingernails on the dashboard.
"That's what being an 'outlaw' means. Breaking rules."
"Maybe there's some other way in."
"There is," Bolan pointed. "He'd have to climb down the hill there through that patch of woods. Not likely."
"Sometimes these parties go on all night, even a couple of days."
"Yeah, we had a couple parties like that in Saigon."
"I mean he might not show up for hours, if at all."
Bolan nodded. "I know." He looked at his watch. "And we can't keep waiting here. Let's go."
"What?"
"Let's go in and ask some questions."
April watched him get out of the car and shrug into a corduroy sports jacket from the trunk. He fastened the middle button, partially concealing his blacksuit.
"You look like a record producer," she said. "It's the suede patches on the elbows, I think."
Bolan jammed the Beretta in his waistband at the hollow of his back and motioned to April. "Come on, you party animal. Let's boogie."
There was no one at the door to question them; it wasn't that kind of party. In fact, the front door was wide open, allowing people to flow freely. The crush of bodies generated waves of thick heat. That and the heavy cloying scent of marijuana made the rooms seem even smaller.
The band was playing "Take This Job and Shove It" in the next room; the Vibrations from the amplifiers rattled the framed movie posters on the walls. The steady din of several hundred people talking, laughing and singing at once made normal conversation impossible.
Bolan cupped
his hands around his mouth and pressed them close to April's ear. "Ask around for one of Royce's band."
She nodded, made an okay sign with thumb and finger, and started tapping men on the shoulders. It took a few times and a lot of propositions before she finally found someone who pointed out Royce's bass-guitar player.
"Over there!" she shouted into Bolan's ear. "The big one in the Lakers jacket and cowboy hat."
Bolan held April's hand and moved through the tight crowd. Drugs were being openly exchanged, including small vials of cocaine. Wearing only black bikini panties and a bow tie, a pretty young woman was dancing in the middle of a circle. A man in a rhinestone tuxedo was vomiting in the pot of a six-foot-tall rubber tree in the hallway.
Moving through the crowd was like being swallowed by a python, Bolan thought. The throng swelled and constricted like the throat muscles of the snake, urging the doomed animal deeper into the stomach. At one point the crowd slammed shut between Bolan and April and he had to yank her roughly through.
At last they stood before the bass player, Tim Manton, as Bolan recalled from Hal's briefing. Manton was a few inches shorter than Bolan, but fifty pounds heavier, most of it settled around his gut. A thick leather belt girdled his stomach, fastened by a huge silver buckle that said, "Rock 'n' Roll Must Die!"
He had a can of Coors in one beefy hand, the other was wrapped around the shoulder of a skinny girl about sixteen years old. Her lipstick was smeared onto her chin and she giggled constantly.
"Tim Manton?" Bolan asked.
"Yup." Manton adjusted his towering cowboy hat, battered and stained with sweat. He guzzled the rest of his Coors and handed the can to the young girl. "Get me another, babe."
"Sure, Tim." She giggled and ran off.
"What can I do you for, partner?"
Bolan smiled, looked cautiously around before offering his hand. "Jim Melville, RCA." Danton's eyes lit up. "Nice to meet you, Jim." "This probably isn't the right time, but, hell,my little darlin' here thinks you're terrific."
Executioner 057 - Flesh Wounds Page 8