San Diego Siege te-14 Page 10

  She wet her lips and told him, "Well, you'd have to ask her about that."

  He replied, "Okay. I will."

  She swiveled about and wrapped her arms about Bolan's neck in one swift motion, kissed him lightly on the mouth, then released him.

  "Five minutes ago," she said breathlessly, "I was starved half to death. And hating myself for it. I'm not hungry now. You'd better go while you can."

  "I'll want a rain check on about an hour of your time, at my demand," he told her. "And it has nothing to do with hunger."

  "You've got it," she assured him. "Now split, before my monster awakens."

  Bolan believed her.

  And he split.

  But his monster had already awakened, and he was hungry as hell.

  "Howlie had been crumbling for months," Blancanales reported. "They got into him on little stuff, nickle and dime jazz, during his GHQ stint at Saigon. I guess he was a little bitter over the deal he got, you know, and he was ripe for the approach. You know how a guy like Howlin' Harlan must have felt at a logistics desk, God's sake."

  "Yeah," Bolan agreed.

  "Anyway, he was in a position to set them up for dumping contraband into the PX and service club circuits. Thornton was dragged into it from this end, via his transportation outfits. He even hijacked some of his own trucks and collected insurance on the loss. Anyway, he was able to provide bonafide shipping orders and such for the loot and he even had a couple of freighters in the play. They were running everything from shaving lotion to hootch. According to Thornton, Southeast Asia, for awhile there, was the prime dumping grounds for the hijack rings."

  "Cute," Bolan commented.

  "Yeh. When these guys do something, they do it big, don't they. Well, according to Thornton, he wasn't getting that much out of it. He figured the risk exceeded the profits, most of which was going to the mob anyway. But they had it into him, and he had to go along."

  "What were you saying about Howlie?" Bolan reminded him.

  "Well, he was nickle-and-diming it during his last few months at Saigon. After his retirement, Thornton helped him set up here. Thornton swears it and I don't know why he'd want to He about it now ... Howlie didn't know what he was getting into, not at first. Oh sure, he knew he was selling his influence at the Pentagon. I guess they all do it, most of these retired officers. Why not? It's legal, right? And it's about the only way they can make a military career pay off when things have gone sour for them. Who needs a guy who has spent his whole life deploying troops around a battlefield, right?"

  "Go on," Bolan prodded.

  Schwarz took it from there. "You know what a feeder horn is, Sarge? It's part of a radio transmission system, sort of like microwave but still operating at radio frequencies. It puts out a controlled emission that's beamed like a spotlight, only it's tighter than any spotlight. It's line-of-sight stuff. The other end of the system uses a dish-antenna for receiving, and you have to shoot directly into the dish or there's no reception."

  "Radio point-blank," Bolan commented. "We had them in 'Nam."

  "Right. Data links for radar, electronic counter-measures."

  "Ultra-sophisticated," Blancanales put in.

  "Absolutely," Schwarz agreed. "I have no idea what a rig like that costs, but you can bet it's mighty heavy. You can set them up for mobile use, and that gets even costlier. Besides that, if you're going to own a system like that then you've got to have people who know how to operate and maintain it. Now why. ..." He paused, grinned, and swiped at his nose with a balled fist. "Why would you think an outfit like the Mafia would want a million-dollar toy like that?"

  Bolan showed the electronics expert a sober smile and said, "Data link, right?"

  "Right."

  "With Agua Caliente just a few miles across the border."

  Schwarz looked disappointed. Bolan had spoiled his punch line. "That's it," he said. "The track down there has a complete foreign book betting service for tracks all over the world. These dummies are trying to set up a foolproof link between Mexico and Vegas. At mountain peak to mountain peak line-of-sight, do you know how many feeder-horn relays they'd have to have?"

  Bolan commented, "They think big, Gadgets." He shrugged his shoulders. "And if it's costing them nothing...."

  "Well yeah, but God what they have to go through to get the stuff. That's what finally stuck in Howlie's craw. He helped them get two systems already, without even realizing what he was doing. Then he stumbled onto it and tried to freeze them out. It was a neat racket and I'd like to meet the guy who thought it up. Thornton's electronics subsidiary is subbing on a military contract for a whole bunch of these rigs, complete systems. Thornton supplies various components used in the final assembly. One of Howlie's companies had the final inspection and quality assurance contract for the military. Through quality rejects and a lot of juggling, they managed to piecemeal-out enough rejected components to assemble two complete systems. They've got them holed up somewhere right now, Thornton swears he doesn't know where, until they get enough to complete the link to Vegas. But God, it was a sweet idea. I guess they marked the QC rejects as salvage, cancelled out the serial numbers, and buried all the records of the final transactions.''

  "Or burned them," Bolan said. He was remembering a thick stack of ashes in the Winters fireplace. "Could those be the papers Lisa Winters was yelling about?"

  "It's beginning to make sense," Blancanales said thoughtfully. "Howlie was a poor sap, a dupe. He dug up the records and took them home ... maybe to study them and confirm his suspicions. Once he knew, he told them to go to hell."

  "He would do that," Schwarz said musingly.

  "He'd have to have an edge on them somewhere," Bolan pointed out. "And his edge was the records. He could expose the whole scheme by publicly producing those records."

  "Mexican stand-off," Blancanales said. "He'd also be incriminating himself. So he couldn't just haul off and let fire. But ... as long as he had those papers...."

  "Right," Bolan agreed. "So why would he burn them? He had the boys over a barrel."

  "Maybe he just couldn't keep them there," Schwarz said quietly.

  "It's why he sent for Able Team," Blancanales decided.

  "Too late," Schwarz murmured.

  "Too late for the living," Bolan told them, ice creeping into his voice. "But not too late for the dead. Come on. We're moving out."

  "Where to?" the Politician inquired.

  "You, to see a young lady. Concerning a stack of papers and why they were burned."

  "Wait'll I comb my hair," Blancanales said, grinning.

  Bolan stabbed Gadgets Schwarz with his eyes. "You've got the cold job," he warned him. "Find that stolen gear."

  Schwarz's eyelids fluttered rapidly, but all he had to say about the assignment was, "Okay. So I'll bundle up good."

  Bolan did not share the secret with his buddies, but he had saved the really cold job for himself.

  It was time to spread the tar around.

  He had to roust Tony Danger.

  Even if it meant rousting him from a jail cell.

  He did not know it at that moment, but a jail cell was precisely where he'd have to go to nail the guy.

  15

  Cold play

  It was getting dark out when Carl Lyons and John Tatum decamped from the Captain's office, headed toward a quick meal and a few casual moments of relaxation before facing the long night ahead.

  It had been a rough day of dreary police work — interrogations, questioning of witnesses, seemingly endless conferences with city and county officials, and finally the big Mafia roundup of outraged and bitterly complaining local honchos.

  That last had been the worst, in Tatum's book. The mob had plenty of clout in the area, at every court level, and it had been damn tough just getting an overnight hold on the swaggering bastards without specific charges to book them on.

  A legal eagle in the D.A.'s office had finally come up with one of those old "public good" statutes which was at least f
irm enough to base an argument upon until morning.

  Maybe that would save the night, anyway.

  Tatum paused at the duty desk to sign himself out, and he told the young cop from L.A., "I don't know, maybe Braddock is right and this is the best way to cope with the problem. Maybe we can just stalemate the guy out of town. It may be an ounce of prevention, but it sure isn't good police work, not in my book."

  'The important thing is to hold down the fireworks," Lyons remarked. "Bolan isn't all that big and bad. And I guess he figures there's always a next time. He'll play the odds, that's for sure. For him, the numbers say don't push it— another time is coming."

  "It'd better not," Tatum replied grimly. "One more killing and this town will blow sky high. God, the pressure. Did you feel it in there?"

  "I felt it," Lyons admitted.

  "And the press hasn't even got ahold of it yet." The Captain glanced at the clock above the duty desk. "That is, for another five minutes. I don't know how the word gets around, but they tell me the city-hall phones have been burning all afternoon."

  "Concerned citizens," Lyons suggested wryly.

  "Yeah, very important concerned citizens."

  "That should tell you something."

  "It tells me plenty. But what the hell can I prove?"

  Lyons shrugged. The Captain finished signing-out and they went on along the corridor toward the vehicle area.

  A tall patrolman in an immaculate uniform, sporting a thinline mustache, swung in from a side corridor, nodded his head cordially at Lyons, and went on by.

  The sergeant from L.A. grunted and asked the San Diego homicide chief, "You allowing face hair down here now?"

  "Had to," Tatum said grumpily. "They got a constitutional right ... and they also got a damn good union. What the hell. So long as it's not too far out, what's the harm? You gotta sway with the times, I guess. We're not still running around in Toonerville Cop uniforms, are we."

  Lyons grinned. "No, but the Toonervilles wore face hair."

  "So, change is sometimes a healthy thing ... even in a town like San Diego."

  "That's right," Lyons agreed. He stepped outside and took a deep breath. "You've got a sweet town here, Cap'n."

  "Thanks."

  They walked to the Captain's personal vehicle. Lyons slid in beside Tatum and told him, "Maybe you shouldn't feel so bad about a Bolan visit. The guy has a way of clearing the air, making things even sweeter."

  "I'll pretend you didn't say that," Tatum replied gruffly.

  Lyons chuckled. "I told you I owed the guy my life. I didn't tell you I owe him twice. You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess."

  "Rotten apple," the Captain rasped.

  "Sure, but we may have never known if it hadn't been for Bolan. He tipped us about the guy. I couldn't believe it at first. You know what they called Rickert ... the twenty-four-hour cop. He was a twelve-hour-cop and a twenty-four-hour Mafioso. This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did."

  "And here you are," Tatum remarked quietly.

  "Then there was Las Vegas. I was up there on special assignment with a federal strike force. Undercover job. I dummied it, and the boys tumbled to me. Beat the living shit out of me. They were hauling me to the desert to bury me alive when Bolan turned up. The guy challenged a motor convoy. Single handed. Blasted them to kingdom-come, right in the shadow of their fortress, then slipped me out of there with half of the Nevada mob on his ass. And I couldn't even walk."

  Tatum sighed heavily and said, "Hey, cut it out. I've heard all the songs about the guy. I still have a job to do."

  "Sure, that's the way I feel," Lyons said. "Bolan knows it, too. Any other way and I don't think he'd respect me. He's that kind of guy. Hard-nosed as hell when it comes to duty and ethics. Ill tell you one thing, Cap'n. I'm sure glad he doesn't shoot at cops."

  "I've heard that one, too," Tatum growled.

  "Believe it."

  The Captain relented, grinning, and declared, "Some cops I've seen, maybe he should go after them."

  Lyons sat bolt upright in the seat and smacked a hand against his forehead. "That cop!" he yelled.

  "What cop?"

  "The dude with the mustache. Hell oh hell, John, it was him!"

  "Him what? What's the matter with you?"

  "It was Bolan! Walking around your station in a uniform!"

  "Aw bullshit," Tatum snarled. "What would Bolan be doing ... ?"

  He pulled the car to the curb with a screech of tires and lunged toward his radio microphone.

  "I thought you knew the fucking guy so personally," he yelled at Lyons.

  "Aw hell, you never get that much of a look at the clever bastard, John. He's a genius at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you he's in your station house!"

  "For what?"

  "What the hell do you think for what? Where are all the boys tonight, John?"

  Tatum's hand was frozen around the microphone. He squawked, "Well Jesus Christ! Well be the laughing stock of ... !"

  He flung the microphone down and doubled back in a screeching U-turn, burning rubber toward the possibly most disgraceful discovery in twenty-six years of hard-nosed police work.

  The Executioner, for God's sake! Making a hit on the San Diego jail!

  Bolan had been required to hang around the locker room for only about ten minutes before spotting the size and type of guy he was waiting for — a young patrolman going off duty and changing into civvies.

  And it had been a simple task, after the cop departed, to pick the lock and borrow the uniform. It was a good fit. He even took the time to use the guy's brush to get rid of a bit of lint here and there. He wanted to look sharp.

  He left a marksman's medal and three fifty-dollar bills on a shelf in the locker, quickly applied a false mustache to his upper lip, and went out of there.

  He was only a few steps out of the locker room when he rounded a corner, practically colliding with Carl Lyons and another detective.

  And that was a bad moment for the Executioner.

  Of all the cops in the world he didn't need to bump into at a time like this, Lyons was first. He was one of the few men living who'd had intimate opportunities to get to know Bolan's new face.

  The bogus cop smiled faintly at his old friend of past campaigns, tucked his chin down in what he hoped would pass as a friendly nod and brazened on past.

  He kept expecting a cry of alarm — was mentally preparing himself for it and looking for a way out — but when he reached the duty desk and risked a glance over his shoulder, Lyons and the other cop were nowhere in view.

  The building was crowded and confused, lots of in-and-out traffic, standing-around traffic, and just plain officious bustling — noise level about equal to a concert by the Rolling Stones.

  Bolan stepped up to the desk and told the sergeant, "Jail pass."

  The guy glanced at the badge on Bolan's chest and reached for a paper form. "Courts?" he asked disinterestedly.

  Bolan replied, "Prosecutor's office."

  The cop grunted and shoved the pass at him.

  Cold, yeah.

  Siberian shivery cold.

  But ... so far, so good.

  He wandered around from there until he found the detention section. The jail warden's desk was flanked by a group of irritable-looking and noisy men carrying briefcases.

  Bolan had an idea who they were.

  He pushed through them and leaned across the desk to speak in low tones to the cop on duty there. He showed him the pass and told him, "D.A. wants one of your VIPs over in interrogation." He flicked his eyes significantly toward the group of civilians. "Let's not mention any names."

  He was going through the booking records as he spoke. He found the card he wanted and pushed it at the duty warden. "This one. We won't want to bring him through here."

  The cop nodded his hea
d, understanding. He jotted something on Bolan's pass and told him, "Take him out the back. I'll call down and clear it for you."

  The man from blood nodded and went on, into the cell block, showing his pass and picking up an escort there, past the tank and along a musty row of cells.

  The escort pulled up at a door about halfway along, turned a key in the lock, and told the Executioner, "Here's your man."

  It sure was.

  Tony Danger sauntered out, a nasty smile straining at his face. 'Told you peasants I wouldn't be here for supper," he gloated.

  Bolan wordlessly signed a receipt for the prisoner, then spun him around and shoved him toward the rear of the building.

  "Watch that!" Tony Danger snarled. "I'll have your fuckin' badge!"

  Bolan winked at the escort and left him standing there at the cell door as he hustled the prisoner toward the rear exit. He signed another receipt there and took his man along a short corridor and outside to the vehicle area.

  "What is this?" the Mafioso asked suspiciously, his head jerking about in an awareness of the unusual procedure as Bolan dragged him to a car and opened the door.

  Bolan spoke for the first time since the initial encounter. "Don't argue, Mr. Danger. Just get in the damn car, please sir."

  "What? Are you nuts? A jailbreak? Hey — my lawyers will — "

  "You can't stop Bolan with a writ, Mr. Danger." The tall man in the police uniform shoved the protesting caporegime into the seat and slammed the door, then went quickly around to the driver's side and climbed in.

  "What are you saying?" Tony Danger demanded, all but frothing at the mouth in a mixture of bewilderment and indignant anger. "The guy wouldn't have the nerve to bust in there after anybody!"

  Bolan had the car moving. He nearly collided with another vehicle that came screeching into the parking lot, horn blaring. The other car whipped away just in time to avoid the collision.

  Bolan caught a glimpse of a tortured face behind the wheel of that vehicle and — beside it — a flashing impression of the amused yet somber features of the all-cop from L.A., Carl Lyons.