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  “What’s happening?”

  “I’m hoping your encyclopedic mind can tell me that. Put a federal district judge in your computer for me. The name is Daly.”

  “Yeah. Edwin, I think. Ohio, northern district.”

  “That’s the one,” Bolan assured him.

  “Far as I know, he’s clean,” Turrin reported.

  “Maybe that’s the problem, then,” Bolan mused.

  “Someone leaning on him?”

  “I think so, yeah. I’ll need some help here, Leo.”

  “Okay. I’ll get you all his present sitting cases. What else?”

  “A lady. Name is Susan Landry.” Bolan spelled it. “Age twenty-three, residence Cleveland. Eyes blue, hair brown, height five-six, weight one twenty-five. Everything in the right place and plenty of it. Carries a BankAmeriCard and Master Charge. Do you need the numbers?”

  “No. What’s her problem?”

  “Remaining alive.”

  “I see.” The little fed sent a heavy sigh across the connection. “Do you ever meet any other kind, guy?”

  “Not usually,” Bolan admitted wryly. “I need her pedigree, Leo.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. But listen. You’re liable to encounter a lot of those in Bad Tony’s territory. He collects them by the bushels.”

  “I don’t read it that way with this one,” Bolan said.

  “Well … okay. But listen, that guy cleared a cool five mil’ last year on his porn interests. He’s got everything from vibrating dildoes to snuff films. So—”

  “Give me that last again.”

  “You know what a snuff film is.”

  “I think so. But let’s make sure.”

  “Sickies. The star always dies. I mean really dies.”

  Bolan sighed. “Yeah, okay. South American traffic—right?”

  “Not exclusively,” Turrin said. “Not even usually, anymore. I’ve heard about a couple that were made in this country.”

  Bolan said, “Okay, thanks. Maybe I’m closer than I thought. About, uh, that judge, Leo …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Look into his love life.”

  “Okay.”

  “You might want to do a number on the Pine Grove Country Club, too.”

  “That’s in Cleveland?”

  “Metro area, yeah. Something’s out of focus there. You’ve heard of the Cleveland Fifty?”

  “Should I?”

  “Maybe not. It’s a social tag, the cream of local society. Pine Grove is their club. But a couple of Bad Tony’s legbreakers were making like it’s their own private playground.”

  “Did you say were?”

  “That’s what I said, yeah.”

  Another strong sigh came back at Bolan. Presently the little guy told him, “Watch that guy, Sarge. He’s not called Bad Tony for nothing. I mean, he kills for kicks. You know?”

  Bolan said, “I know. How do you read him as the Boss of Bosses?”

  Turrin seemed to be considering the idea. There was a long silence, then: “He’s got balls enough, that’s for sure. And you’ve given him a clear track. Yeah, sure. There’s no one here anymore to tell him no. He never got along too well with the New York crowd. Most of his ties lead westward. Big land interests in Arizona and Nevada. But … yeah. If he could come up with the right deal, I think the others might go along. He could be your man.”

  Bolan said, “Nothing is on the surface here, Leo. But every time I close my eyes, I see a giant octopus writhing all over this town. It’s being eaten. And I can’t even find the feast.”

  “Look for fat men, then,” Turrin wryly suggested.

  “Exactly what I’m doing,” Bolan told him. “Okay. I’ll try to hit you again sometime today. Go back to your warm bed. And tell the lady hello.”

  “She lights a candle for you every morning, Sarge.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Turrin chuckled. “Any other guy in the world, I’d be jealous. There’s a lot you don’t know, guy. I bet there’s thousands of candles burning in your name right at this very minute. Hey. I light one myself.”

  Bolan was genuinely touched but he kept the secret. “Stay hard, Leo,” he said, and hung it up.

  Candles were okay, sure. As symbols of care and concern, they said a lot. Bolan’s guns were the same kind of symbols, though, and they also said a lot. They said that Mack Bolan cared. His cares were getting stronger, too, the deeper he delved into this Cleveland mess.

  “Thanks for the candle, Leo,” he muttered, and went to the bedroom to look in on the latest care.

  It was a terrible, grotesque dream. She was sailing on Lake Erie when this horribly violent squall came from nowhere and nearly capsized the boat. The waves became monstrous, continually washing the deck and clutching at her, trying to drag her overboard. And the rain was beating down in a merciless wind-driven torrent, entering her mouth and nose and choking her. It was terribly dark and she could not even see the shore. The squall was driving her farther and farther out and she could not bring the boat around. Then suddenly this huge giant appeared, way out on the horizon, suspended above the water, towering over everything—a man, but a giant of a man—clad in a black, tight-fitting suit of some sort, belts and military things strung across his chest. The squall was driving her straight toward the giant. She was very frightened—no, she was positively horrified. The giant was holding out his arms, reaching for her across a vast distance, those arms growing longer and longer … uh, no … huh-uh. This was a friendly giant. He was going to rescue her from the storm. His eyes were all warm and concerned—but just a moment earlier they had been …

  She sat bolt upright on the strange bed in a strange room and fought to keep the hysteria down, wishing the dream would come back. The friendly “giant” was standing there at the foot of the bed with those same worried eyes, bringing all the reality back in a crashing realization of all that had been.

  “You’re looking better,” he said in an incredibly soft voice, then immediately left the room.

  Better than what? she wondered vaguely. Her hair was stringing down around her shoulders, the blouse was ripped and dirty, her skirt was damp and wrinkled beyond hope. So what the hell had she looked like before?

  The giant returned, carrying a small plastic tray with two plastic cups. He sat down beside her and placed the tray on her lap. “I made some hot chocolate,” he said solemnly. “Let’s give it a try.”

  Any man who offered a girl hot chocolate in bed, in the middle of the night, could not be all bad.

  She sampled the offering and told him, “It’s good, thanks.”

  He took his cup and moved to a chair. In that same solemn tone he’d used with the chocolate, he told her, “We need some words, if you’re feeling up to it.”

  She was “feeling up to” a screaming fit, that was what, but she replied, “Sure. For openers, thanks. I don’t know where you came from but God I—” She was suddenly very strongly aware of the dampened clothing and then—entirely illogically—flamingly embarrassed.

  But he was a nice guy, yes. He turned away from that as he asked her, “How much do you remember?”

  Very quietly she replied, “I remember you dressing me. Then I guess I passed out.”

  “I meant before that.”

  “Oh, I remember every dismal detail,” she said dully.

  “Stand up,” he said.

  “What?”

  He smiled soberly. “Check out all your parts.”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, lying through her teeth, “just fine.”

  He stood up and went to the door, then turned back to tell her, “The bathroom is straight ahead. Use the terrycloth robe on the back of the door, if you’d like. Your purse is on the dresser. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  And he left her sitting there all damp and misty-eyed hysterical with a cup of damn chocolate in her lap.

  He was not the most talkative damn giant she’d ever met! But he sure got the message across. Get yo
urself in hand, Susan. You must look like the Witch of the West!

  Wow, damn, what a man!

  She struggled off the bed and wobbled to her feet, snared the purse, and took her cup of chocolate to the bathroom. It was an apartment, pretty nicely appointed but rather neutral—highrise. She could see—hell, she was at the Gold Coast.

  She stripped off the abused clothing and examined her hurts, then stepped into the shower and gave it all the heat she could take. The hair was hopeless, just hopeless. She toweled it dry and piled it high, then draped the towel around it. If you can’t fix it, hide it—right? Right. The terrycloth robe was ridiculous. Susan was no small kid, but that damn thing made her feel like an underprivileged elf. She gathered it around and cinched it up as best she could.

  She felt like a damn teenager!

  Her heart was pitty-patting. And she could hardly wait to get that sober giant in sight again.

  This was ridiculous!

  She stepped into the kitchen and told him, “All my parts are here. Thanks to you. Say, you are really—I mean, you were something fine back there. And we’re total strangers. I mean …”

  Those concerned eyes were tearing her up. He said, very softly, “I know who you are, Susan. What I need now is what you are.”

  “That makes us even then, superman,” she replied, looking him up and down. “I know what you are. All I need, I guess, is who.”

  He gazed at her for ever so long, no expression at all in those eyes; then he told her, “I’m Mack Bolan.”

  “Oh God,” she said weakly.

  And she wished that she was on the lake, sailing her boat in a storm.

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  About the Author

  Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful that it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1977 by Don Pendleton

  Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-8581-9

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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