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  “Yeah, but you already gave me five minutes,” Conn pointed out. He scratched at the fresh scar traversing his ribs, tilted his hat further down across his forehead, and said, “And now I’m giving you five seconds to get your fat ass outta my office. Beat it, Big City. Run and get your warrants.”

  Resisting suggestions that he “mob up” at the DiGeorge villa, Mack Bolan had maintained his accommodations at the resort hotel in Palm Springs while enjoying a free and ostensibly unrestricted run of the estate. He knew, of course, that few of his movements within the villa went unwatched and he suspected the existence of hidden observation posts behind various walls and ceilings. He had even discovered “bugs” in his hotel room. He had nevertheless managed to gather considerable intelligence concerning the combine’s operations, such as the information he had been passing to Carl Lyons of the Pointer Detail. Contacts with Andrea D’Agosta had been both rare and fleeting, and characterized by a marked hostility on the girl’s part. Through idle conversation with the other “soldiers,” Bolan had learned that the girl had been but 20 years of age when her husband of less than a year drowned in a boating accident near San Pedro two years prior to Bolan’s entry into Andrea’s life. She was, of course, tolerated and deferred to by the palace guard but—as far as Bolan could determine—not actually liked by many of the men in DiGeorge’s command. She was “the Capo’s kid” and as such could do no wrong. She was variously referred to as “the American beauty rose”—“Miss Hot-ass”—“Th’ damn debbatant”—and “Deej’s bitter harvest”—none of these, however, within earshot of DiGeorge or his daughter or any of the officers in the guard.

  Bolan had managed to identify himself with the common soldier, though most of them understood that he was “in probate” and undoubtedly destined for high rank in the organization. They talked freely in his presence and delighted in the gossipy tidbits which Bolan dropped in their midst from time to time. In less than a week of in-and-out presence at the villa, Bolan already could boast a considerable cadre who were ready to follow him up the trail of exaltation. “Franky Lucky’s going to get a territory,” was the consensus, and many bored (and relatively poor) palace guards were hopeful of being taken into his crew when the big day arrived. Bolan encouraged this type of thinking, though never overtly, and was quietly marking certain soldiers for his possible use in an emergency.

  As Bolan was departing the villa on the night of October 21st, he took the short cut across the patio to reach the parking area, resulting in one of his infrequent encounters with Andrea D’Agosta. She was seated beside the pool in a deck chair and wore a light wrap over her bathing costume. Bolan paused beside her chair and said quietly, “How’s it been, Andrea?”

  “Oh it’s just been a ball,” she replied in a dull voice. Her eyes flashed up to his then and her face became animated. “Haven’t you been told that the pool is out of bounds to you hoods?”

  “I guess I forgot,” Bolan replied. He smiled. “No, that isn’t true. I was hoping I might run into you.”

  “You ‘ran into’ me once too often, Mr. Lambretta,” she said coldly.

  “I’m sorry, Andrea,” he told her, and moved on.

  “You’ll be a lot sorrier when Victor Poppy gets back from Florida!” the girl hissed.

  It was more the tone of voice than her words that halted Bolan. He spun slowly on his heel and retraced his steps to stand in front of the deck chair. “What do you mean?” he asked in a subdued voice.

  Andrea’s eyes darted about the patio. She lifted her arms to him and pursed her lips. Bolan bent to the embrace but she avoided his kiss, moving her mouth to his ear. “They think you might be a phoney,” she whispered. “I’m betting you are. What is it… FBI or Treasury?”

  Bolan pulled her out of the chair and clasped her to him, burying his lips into the soft flesh below her ear. “What’s this about Florida?” he murmured.

  “Phil Marasco sent a goon there to get a man out of jail. The man says he knew you, years ago, in New Jersey.”

  Bolan kissed her full on the mouth. She gasped and curled her fingers into his hair. “Get me out of here, Franky,” she moaned.

  “Don’t worry, I will,” he assured her. “Just play it cool. You understand?”

  She nodded and began silently crying. “It’s awful to feel this way about your own poppa, but I hate him,” she sobbed. “I just hate him!”

  “Save the hate for someone who deserves it,” Bolan advised her.

  “He deserves it, all right,” she said. “I want you to look into something for me, Frank. Promise.”

  They kissed again. Bolan said, “What makes you so sure of me, Andrea?”

  She ignored the parry. “Promise!” she hissed.

  He nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find out how Chuck really died,” she whispered.

  Bolan furrowed his brow and said, “Who’s Chuck?”

  “Charles D’Agosta, my husband.”

  Bolan stiffened and drew away to stare into her eyes. She read the question in the gaze and nodded her head emphatically. Bolan grunted, “I heard he drowned.”

  “Chuck was an expert yachtsman,” she whispered. “And he could swim before he could walk. Promise me you’ll look into it.”

  Bolan said, “I promise. Now what about this Florida deal? Who’s the guy?”

  “I don’t know. But they’re bringing him here to confirm your identity.”

  “If you hear something else, let me know. Get word to me somehow.”

  “Then you really are someone else,” she whispered excitedly.

  Bolan grinned and stepped away from her. “Maybe I just don’t like surprises,” he said. He blew her a kiss and went on across the patio.

  As he rounded the corner to the parking area, a figure moved out of the shadows and held up two fingers in the peace sign. Bolan recognized the smooth-faced youth who had been assigned to Andrea’s guard.

  “I spell peace p-i-e-c-e,” the bodyguard said with a low chuckle.

  “So do I,” replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He squeezed the youth’s shoulder and went on to his car.

  The boy held the door for him as he climbed inside, then closed it and leaned down to peer admiringly through the open window. “When you leave here, Lucky, I’d be proud to go with you,” he confided.

  Bolan winked and said, “I’ll remember that, Benny Peaceful.”

  The bodyguard grinned delightedly. “Hey, that’s a name that could stick,” he said.

  “Bet on it,” replied Bolan. He wheeled around, flashed his lights at the gate guards, and sped through with a clutch-jumping whine of the powerful engine.

  “There goes Franky Lucky on the prowl again,” observed one of the guards.

  “I’m glad my name ain’t Mack the Blacksuit Bolan,” said the other.

  “Ain’t I,” replied the first quietly, staring after the fast-disappearing tail lights.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE INTERROGATION

  Philip Marasco awakened Julian DiGeorge at shortly past dawn on the morning of October 22nd and said, “Five of the boys are missing, and I think they’ve gone out to join up with Pena.”

  “Who are they?” DiGeorge growled sleepily.

  Marasco thrust a coffee-royal into his Capo’s hands and inserted a lighted cigarette between his lips. “What’s left of his old crew,” the chief bodyguard reported. “Willie Walker and that bunch. I bet they’ve known where he was all this time.”

  “You better get the word to Franky Lucky,” DiGeorge said.

  “I already tried. Too late. He’s gone. I’d guess he’s up there right now for the hit. You want me to send ’im a crew?”

  DiGeorge’s eyes focused on the clock. He sipped at the laced coffee, took a drag on the cigarette, then looked again at the clock. “Naw,” he said finally. “Too late for that now. I guess we get to see, Phil, just how good this Frank Lucky is, eh?”

  “It’s not even likely odds, Deej,” Marasco worriedly pointed
out.

  DiGeorge sighed. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Let’s wait’n see before we start mourning our dead, eh? You better get a couple of cars ready, just in case though.”

  Marasco moved abruptly toward the door. He whirled about to say something, changed his mind, and went out the door muttering to himself, “I guess that’s about all we can do now.”

  Lou Pena stirred, then sat bolt upright on the bed. A quiet voice announced, “It’s okay, Lou, it’s me, Willie.”

  The bedside lamp came on. Willie Walker, smiling grimly, leaned over the bed and fitted a key into the handcuffs with which Pena was manacled to the metal bedpost. “When did they start the bracelets routine?” he asked.

  “Just last night,” Pena whispered. “Christ, it’s about time you was showing up. I had the signal out since yesterday afternoon.” He drew his hand free and massaged the wrist, then reached hurriedly for his clothing. “This guy blew it, and the L.A. cops are after Lou Baby’s ass.”

  “No need to be quiet,” Walker informed him. “We got the cop.”

  Pena grunted. “How about the old lady?”

  “Her, too. You better hurry it, though. This Franky Lucky might be making it here most any time.

  Pena staggered into his trousers and said, “Who the hell is Franky Lucky?”

  “Oh hell, there’s a lot been going on you don’t know about,” Walker told him. “This Franky Lucky is a rodman from the East. He’s got a contract on you, Lou.”

  Pena’s eyes flipped wide with alarm. “Awww,” he said unbelievingly. “Deej wouldn’t go that far.”

  “The hell he wouldn’t.” Walker had knelt and was slipping socks on Pena’s feet as the grizzled Mafia veteran was struggling into his shirt. “He thinks you made a singin’ deal with the cops. The boys have been lighting candles all night. They’re even making plans for a secret wake.”

  Pena’s fingers fumbled with the buttonholes at the shirtfront. He seemed stunned. “We gotta get to ’im,” he mumbled. “He’s gotta call it off. I just about got this thing sewed up now. You get on a phone, Willie, and tell ’im. I’m right in Bolan’s tracks now. Tell Deej that Bolan got a face job, right here in th’ Village. Tell ’im I been all this time finding that out. Tell Deej I also know the guy that give ’im the face job, and I’m right now finding out what this Bolan looks like now. You tell ’im that, Willie, and get ’im to call off this hit.”

  Walker nodded his head in somber agreement. “I’ll try, Lou, but you know how these things go. Whattaya got in mind? I mean …”

  “I’m going after this plastics man. You know the place, this rest home on the east side.”

  Walker appeared dazed. “Well hell, I guess we should’a known,” he said. “Listen. Four boys are watching outside. Don’t worry, they’re with you. You take ’em on over there. I’ll try to call Deej from here, then I’ll join you over there later. But we better make it quick. Somebody comes in here and finds the cop and his old lady and some hell is gonna cut loose in this town.”

  Pena slipped into his coat. “You know how much I ’predate this, Willie.”

  “Sure, sure,” Walker said. He handed Pena a gun and dropped some loose bullets into his coat pocket. “You better beat it.”

  Bolan’s Mercedes rolled quietly through the early-morning stir of the village, past the blackened hulk of Lodetown, and halted at an outside phone booth two blocks beyond the square. He consulted the directory, found Robert Conn’s home address, then drove three blocks further on and parked the Mercedes on a side street several doors down from the Conn residence. He opened a gun case, withdrew a long-barreled .38, checked the load and spun the cylinder, affixed a silencer, and jammed the weapon into the waistband of his trousers, then walked up the alley behind the row of houses.

  He found Genghis and Dolly Conn in their bloodsoaked bed, their throats slashed, the bodies cold in death. Bolan muttered his regrets and quickly searched the rest of the house. Finding nothing of value, he immediately withdrew and returned to his vehicle. He put the car in motion and slowly circled the block once, pondering the unexpected development. Then a chilling thought struck him. He wheeled the Mercedes about and proceeded directly to New Horizons. He parked at the rear beside a dark Plymouth, noted a radio microphone clipped to the dashboard of that vehicle, and cautiously entered the clinic. He paused just inside the door and elevated his head, as though sniffing the air, then drew the .38, checked the snub .32 reposing in the sideleather, and advanced quietly to Jim Brantzen’s private quarters.

  Big Tim Braddock lay just inside the door to Brantzen’s apartment, curled on his side, blood soaking into the carpet under him. A pistol lay several feet away. Bolan knelt quickly and felt Braddock’s forehead. It was clammy. Bolan grunted and stepped cautiously into the kitchen.

  He found Jim Brantzen, clad only in pajama bottoms, stretched out on the dining table, his head dangling over the edge. Bloodied pliers and wirecutters lay beside him on the table. Bolan winced and a guttural snarl tore up through the constrictions of his throat as he inspected his friend’s mutilated body. Of all the atrocities Bolan had witnessed in the hamlets of Vietnam, he had never seen anything to equal the ferocity of this obvious interrogation. They had twisted the nipples out of his chest, probably with the pliers. The entire torso was a raw pulp of mutilated meat. The ribs gleamed through bare spots where the flesh had been stripped away. The surgical fingers of the right hand had been whittled to the bone. Both earlobes were missing, his nostrils were slit up both sides, laying bare the bridge of his nose, and deep grooves had been carved beneath each eye. Worst of all, to Bolan’s way of thinking, the hideously tortured surgeon was still alive … and aware.

  His breath was coming in ragged gurgles, blood bubbles forming about the mutilated nostrils, and all in the overtones of a ceaseless moaning. A bloodsmeared bottle of whiskey stood on a nearby stand, a stained towel lay in a pan of cold water; evidence, to Bolan, that the valiant surgeon had been repeatedly forced to maintain consciousness.

  Bolan’s hands moved carefully beneath his friend’s head and he tenderly lifted it. “Who did it, Jim?” he asked with a shaking voice. “Who did this?”

  Brantzen’s eyes flared, dulled, then flared again. The lips moved, dribbling a red foam in the painful whisper: “They … called him … Lou.”

  Bolan nodded. “I know him. I’ll get him, Jim.”

  “He … knows … sketch … has sketch.”

  “I’m going to get him, Jim.”

  “He … He … knows …” The right hand jerked up; glazed eyes stared at the skeletonized fingers; then the eyes closed, and Jim Brantzen died.

  Tears squeezed past Bolan’s tightening eyelids. He groaned, “Oh, God!”… then he gently let Brantzen’s head down and walked jerkily into the other room. Braddock’s eyes were open and he had rolled onto his back. Bolan knelt over him, opened the coat, and found the wound. The big cop had caught it in the gut. “You okay?” Bolan asked him.

  “No,” Braddock wheezed.

  “How long ago, Braddock?”

  “Five minutes … maybe ten.”

  “Hang on, I’ll get an ambulance,” Bolan told him. He went quickly out the door, through the lobby, and into Brantzen’s surgical chamber. There he found compresses and hurried back with them to the fallen policeman. Bolan peeled away the clothing and applied the compresses to the wound.

  “I’ll bet you make it,” he told Braddock.

  The Captain merely stared at him, obviously in too much pain for conversation.

  “I hope you do,” Bolan added. He returned to the lobby, phoned for an ambulance, and made a hasty exit. Moments later, the powerful Mercedes was screaming around the curves of the high road to Palm Springs. Bolan thought he knew where he could intercept a torture-murderer. He was, in fact, betting his very life on it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE HIT

  The six men were squeezed into the speeding car, Willie Walker in the front seat with a veteran triggerman named Bo
nelli and a younger wheelman who was called Tommy Edsel because of his one-time membership in a club of Edsel automobile enthusiasts. Screwy Lou Pena, all expansive smiles and high humor, took up nearly half of the rear seat. Wedged in with him were one Mario Capistrano, who had been recently released from the Federal Reformatory at Lompoc, and Harold the Greaser Schiaperelli, a 59-year-old Italian-born contract specialist who had been deported three times but had never spent a night behind bars.

  Willie Walker freed an arm and leaned over the backrest, saying, “Lemme take a look at that picture, huh Lou?”

  “Nothing doing,” Pena objected, happily patting his jacket pocket. “Deej gets first look at this little jewel.” He smiled archly and added, “After all, it’s my passport back to the livin’, Willie. Let’s not be throwing it around the car, huh?”

  “You’re not forgetting,” Walker pouted, “that us guys put our necks right up there with yours.”

  “I’m not forgetting,” Pena assured him. “Don’t you ever get to thinking that way, Willie. And Deej won’t hold nothing against you when I explain this was all in the plan. He might be a little sore but he’ll get over that quick enough. When he sees this picture, eh? Hell. Didn’t he tell me not to come back without Bolan’s head? Well, I got it.” He tapped the pocket again. “I got Bolan’s head.”

  “Hell it ain’t even a picture,” Tommy Edsel remarked. “It’s just a drawin’, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah but what a drawin’,” Pena said. “A drawin’ for a face job ain’t just no drawin’, you know. Hell, it’s a blueprint.”

  “That back there made me sick at my stomach,” Capistrano complained. “I never saw a guy turned into a turkey like that before.”

  “Yeah but don’t you forget, Mario, a singing turkey,” Pena said. “Hell, I don’t enjoy that kind of stuff any more than anyone else. His own damn fault, you gotta say that.”

  “You did that to his fingers after,” Capistrano grumbled.

  “That was for the lesson,” Pena patiently explained. “Those guys gotta know they can’t get away with it. Don’t worry me with no blues now, Mario. Today’s my day and I’m gonna enjoy it. You wanta walk back to the Springs, just say it.”