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  “You tell me what the hell,” Bolan growled. He punched the weapon into the guy’s belly and shoved him against Rickert’s desk. “Where’s the man?”

  “H-he not here! Gone—he left!”

  The still smoking muzzle dug deeper. “Know what happens if I let fly right now, amici? They’ll be sucking your intestines off the blinds with a vacuum cleaner.”

  The guy had no heart for this sort of thing. Instant sweat appeared on the forehead and the eyes rolled as he yelled, “I swear he left! What can I—what do you—”

  Bolan plugged that attempt with another vicious jab into the belly. The guy sucked it in and turned deathly pale. Bolan could see the mind inside buckling. He maintained the pressure and said, “Make me happy.”

  “Okay, okay.” the guy replied quietly. He was trying to pull it together and also reaching for a bit of dignity. And Bolan was willing to give him that. “He said he was going to Bur-bank.”

  “What’s so great about Burbank?”

  “We got a plant there, a facility. By the airport. We got this problem.”

  “You’ve got a problem right here, bud.”

  “I know but … this broad, see—we caught a broad. She had a court order, see, which we think is a phony. ID, too, you know—federal, federal ID, also probably phony. It’s a hell of a sweat. See, we—”

  “You know who I am?” Bolan growled.

  “Sure. You’re D’Anglia. I was here when you—I was in the back room.”

  “I don’t know who you are, friend.”

  “I’m Lambert. I’m the auditor.”

  “The hell you’re Lambert.”

  “Oh, well, of course, changed from Lamamammamamma …”

  The guy’s tape was stuck. Bolan said, “Changed from what?”

  “Lamamammafria. You can see why I changed.”

  “What do you audit?”

  “I audit the—you know—I audit this account … for them.”

  “What account?”

  “SecuriCom. I keep an eye on Rickert and his boys.”

  “You stink, Lamamamma.”

  “What? I don’t—what did I? …”

  “Some auditor. These guys walking away with the whole thing and you never tumbled to it? You want me to believe that?”

  “I don’t understand—I didn’t know …”

  “That broad works for me, guy.”

  “Well, we didn’t—I didn’t know! Rickert said—and I figured—I didn’t know what to you saying the guy is kinky?”

  “You know damned well he’s kinky!”

  “No, I—listen—please—don’t pull that trigger!” The dignity had gone to hell. “I’m sorry about the lady! They’re taking her up to Bur-bank. Rickert’s meeting them there! I swear—now I swear that’s all I know about it! But if you say he’s kinky then he’s kinky. By god. I’m sorry. I really didn’t—”

  Bolan pulled the ’79 out of the guy’s belly and slapped him across the temple with it. He fell onto the desk and slid to the floor, apparently unconscious.

  So far, so good.

  Time consumed: about a minute, maybe two.

  He explored the back room—a plush little inner sanctum without windows—and found another way out.

  Ten seconds later he was in the battle cruiser and pointing her nose toward Burbank.

  As he eased onto the street, he could see throngs of curious folk on the sidewalk in front of the building and a couple of police cruisers at the curb with lights flashing. Far down the boulevard, a procession of fire vehicles were approaching the scene.

  Bolan had cut it pretty damn close, yeah. But he was now much closer to April Rose—and that had suddenly become the new game in town. Rickert could not have more than a ten minute lead on him. And maybe he could even reduce those numbers just a bit in the chase to Burbank.

  The firemen could relax—there were no fires to fight in that joint.

  Most of the fire was in Bolan’s belly and it was building by the moment. He’d damned sure better find that girl alive and well. Otherwise, Sly Charlie was going to discover the true meaning of holocaust. And there would be no place in time or space to avoid that reckoning.

  Bolan was in love with the lady, for sure.

  That, too, was a reckoning to be met—even if it occurred beyond space and outside of time.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE TURNING

  “They’ve located Mr. Brognola, Chief. They’re patching you through, now.”

  About damned time. He’d only been waiting for—

  “Brognola here.”

  “Tim Braddock, Hal.”

  “So they told me,” sighed the familiar voice. “It’s the only reason I’m here. What brings you to my table? Long time no see. By the way, I did hear about your new appointment. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” But he had not called for back-slapping. “Where are you?”

  “I’m, uh, not in Washington at the moment.”

  “I didn’t ask you where you’re not, Hal.”

  The guy was not about to tell him, either. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m hoping you can tell me. I received a rather reliable tip awhile ago. Concerns you, I believe.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I think so, yeah. It says a certain subject is operating in my town again. I thought you could confirm that for me.”

  “A certain subject? Can’t you do better than that?”

  “I’d rather not. We both know who I’m talking about. Let’s leave it that way. Is it true or not true?”

  The fed sighed then chuckled lightly into the connection. “How would you rather have it?”

  “Not true.”

  “Then it’s not true.”

  “Damnit!” Braddock snapped. “Don’t play games with me! I don’t want—”

  “Have a cigar, Tim.”

  The son of a bitch. How did you stay mad at a …? “I gave up smoking when I made deputy chief,” Braddock said sourly. “Public image and all that. I’d sort of like to keep the image. You know. No smoke around my head.”

  The federal voice was sober and calm as it told him, “I know how you feel. If an apology would help …”

  “It wouldn’t. Call the guy out, Hal.”

  “I didn’t send him in, Chief. How could I call him out?”

  “But you knew about it.”

  “I won’t confirm or deny that, either. I’ll say this: there will be a public announcement early next week. From very high. And you will find no smoke about your head. That’s the best I can give you, for now.”

  It was true, then—the new rumor. It could be very strange, thought Braddock, the way the world sometimes turned. That other time, back near the beginning of Braddock’s involvement with this “certain subject,” the world had been a far different place. The subject was just another kid from ’Nam, gone haywire and running amuck in the civil society. Tim Brad-dock was just beginning to move up in the administrative ranks. Harold Brognola was leading a local federal task force on organized crime. A different world, yeah. Then the world had turned. Mack Bolan became the symbol of red-blooded American heroism and the absolute scourge of the Mafia conspiracy. Tim Braddock was turned into a deputy chief of one of the most respected police departments in the world. And Brognola had become head honcho of federal law enforcement everywhere, advisor to presidents and a consultant to Interpol.

  Yes, the three B’s—Bolan, Braddock, Brognola—intertwined by fate and circumstance—or perhaps by parallel destinies, if you could add a touch of romanticism to the strange ways this old world had turned.

  “It’s a clean phone, Hal,” he said quietly. “What’s going down?”

  “You don’t really want to know that,” was the calm response.

  “Okay, maybe I don’t. But tell me, anyway. Is it true what I’ve been hearing from Washington?”

  “About our subject?”

  “Same subject, yes.”

  “Yes, Tim. It’s true.”

  We
ll damn! He could not keep the quiet elation out of his voice. “Okay, I’ll ratify that—smoke on the head or not. It should have come long ago.”

  “We tried to send it long ago. The guy wouldn’t accept it. I’m not altogether certain he’s going to accept it this time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s given us a conditional go, that’s all.”

  “What’s the condition?”

  Brognola gave a long, tired sigh. “He’s insisting on a second mile.”

  “A second what?”

  “Mile. Like the condemned man, back in the age of romance. The last mile, you know. The guy did his, and then some. Now he says he’s got to do it again.”

  Braddock did not fully understand. “You mean the whole damned? …”

  “Once around lightly, this time … or so he says. He calls it a mop-up. I call it insanity. Did you hear about yesterday?”

  To be sure. “I heard, yeah. But I didn’t get all the—”

  “We didn’t release it all. I can tell you, though, between buddies, that the heartland of the nation has been thoroughly pacified, to use a military term. It will be a long time before they can gather the pieces for another try. And we’ll be there, bet on it, to fit some pieces of our own into the picture. So …” Another deep sigh. “So I really can’t argue with the man. He’s doing a hell of a job on these people.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen a few of his jobs,” Braddock murmured. “I can’t see what he’s going for here, though, this time. I haven’t found any pieces forming a fit of any magnitude since he did it here the first time.”

  “There have been, uh, movements, Tim.”

  “Gee, thanks for telling me. When did you—”

  “I didn’t. He did.”

  It was Braddock’s turn for the deep sigh routine. “So he’s taking it apart again, eh?”

  “I hope so, yes. That’s the general idea. Hey. Don’t fault me, buddy. I have no control over this subject. Hell, I just trot along behind and try to pick up the broken pieces.”

  “Is that what you’re doing now?”

  “Huh?”

  “Huh hell. You heard what I said. Is this a round-robin telephone connection, Hal? Are you in L.A.?”

  The fed chuckled. “Relax. We’re trying to cover the guy, that’s all. I’ve got my orders straight from—well, no, let’s not politicize it. No room for that. I understand, though, they got a full bipartisan okay from Capitol Hill. The thing is set. It’s going, to work. If we can just keep him alive for five more damn days.”

  “Did you say five days?”

  Counting this one, right. He said six days. Yesterday was day one. Listen to me, Tim …” The guy was becoming emotional—a rare scene, for that one. “It would be the most terrible—it would be—if this subject should fall to police guns, for God’s sake—why, I just don’t think—it would be a national calamity. Talk about politics—the good citizens of this nation would rise up in their wrath to behead us all. And we’d deserve it. We can’t let—”

  “You don’t have to sell me,” Braddock growled. “On the theory, anyway. I have to live with the realities, though. We still have wants on the guy and some of them are yours.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And I’ll tell you something, Mister Fed. A good L.A. cop does not play politics. He doesn’t play national opinion polls, either. He plays good guys and bad guys. As of this moment, our subject has been rather thoroughly identified as a bad guy. I can’t call twenty thousand cops in here and tell them to look the other way when a certain bad guy lopes past waving a gun and hurling grenades. Wouldn’t do it if I could. If they can do it for one, then they could decide when and where to do it for any—all on their own. We can’t run a department that way. The law is the law—and that’s the way it has to stay. So what are you suggesting to me, Federale?”

  Brognola very quietly replied, “Hey, Chief, it’s your nickel. I’m suggesting nothing. Can I go now?”

  “You don’t suck me away that easy, mister. I think you’d better come in. We need to—”

  “Nothing doing, Tim—sorry. I really can’t. If the subject is right, we’ll only be around for a few hours, anyway. Suffer us to that extent. I’ll make you a promise. If it goes beyond nightfall, I’ll come in and we’ll put the heads together. How’s that?”

  “That’s awful,” Braddock replied, but he knew it was the best he was going to get. He laughed lightly and added, “But I’ll expect you for dinner.”

  “Deal,” Brognola said quickly. “Now you promise me.”

  “Promise you what?”

  “You won’t react to wild tips and rumors of war. You won’t throw up a damned Maginot line like the last time.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Braddock replied lightly, “the taxpayers are growing restless over irresponsible spending. We can’t squander the manpower on rumors of war. However …” The tone became heavier as he continued. “When the shooting starts, Hal, you know damned well what our reaction has to be.”

  Brognola growled, “Yeah, I know that. Okay. I’m saying goodbye for now.”

  “One more thing, old pal.”

  “Okay, hit me.”

  “Are you carting a federal judge around with you?”

  “Where would you get such an idea?”

  “A piece of police routine that hit my desk this morning. It says that this special judge has been magically appointed and transported overnight to alleviate some of the overload in this district. I was just thinking how convenient that could be for a—”

  “Okay, you got me. He’s mine. It’s one hundred percent legal, strike force authority, so don’t let—”

  “Say goodbye, Hal. I believe the shooting has started.”

  “Literally?”

  “Literally, yes. Goodbye, Hal.”

  He put the phone down and turned troubled eyes to the uniformed cop who was fidgeting in the open doorway. “What’ve you got, Johnny?”

  “You said you wanted to be alerted to any reports of paramilitary activity or the like.”

  The shooting had started, yeah. He’d seen it in Johnny’s eyes even while he talked to Brognola. “Let’s have it.”

  “Offices of a security outfit on Sunset Boulevard, Chief. Explosions and gunfire. Street cops on the scene say it looks like a war zone.”

  The deputy chief did not need an on-the-scene assessment. His gut already knew, and the scene was clearly imaged in his mind.

  Charlie Rickert worked for a “security outfit” on Sunset. And Rickert had longtime associations with certain criminal elements of the community.

  “No more rumors,” Braddock muttered.

  “Sir?”

  “We’ll have to sound an area alert. Advise Communications to stand by for—no, cancel that. We’ll await confirmation. Send Hallowell and his experts to the scene. Tell him I need solid evidence to justify a Hardcase Two.”

  The cop’s eyes flared at that one. He’d been around during the original Hardcase—several damned turns of the world ago. “Well bullll shit,” he said softly, forgetting himself for the moment.

  “It’s not applesauce, Johnny,” Big Tim growled, perhaps too quietly for the officer to hear.

  And indeed it was not. It was the most unpleasant task ever to burden a law enforcement official. He had to do his damndest to catch or kill a man whom nobody really wanted caught or killed. Except the Charlie Rickerts of the world … and their rotten-ass compatriots.

  “Wait, Johnny, I—”

  Too late. Johnny had already quietly closed the door and departed on his assignment.

  Too late, yes.

  The world keeps turning, Bolan. Get off, man—get off while you can!

  But he knew the guy would not. That guy would only be carried off.

  So be it, then. So be it.

  CHAPTER 10

  CONNECTIONS

  That tight coagulation of districts, communities and municipalities loosely referred to as Los Angeles could be a nightm
are for the unwary visiting motorist, who had been conditioned to believe that some methodology of rhyme or reason should accompany the laying out of a city’s streets and thoroughfares. Even the highly vaunted freeway system, which serves more vehicles per capita than anywhere else in the world, could bring a lump to the throat and a quiver to the heart at bumper to bumper speeds of 60 mph and more, with vehicles often hurtling along five or six abreast into dead men’s curves, offramps, onramps, upramps, downramps, spirals and clover-leafs—not to mention the bewildering complexity of instructional signboards flashing past faster than the mind can comprehend or even assimilate.

  Bolan had to guess that the energy consumed on those freeways each day could probably heat the homes of the entire rest of the nation.

  And this was midday traffic. Shudder the mind to even contemplate the peak hours of this madness.

  The city of Burbank borders the Los Angeles districts of Hollywood and North Hollywood.

  It should be a simple matter, then—shouldn’t it?—to journey from Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood to the Hollywood-Burbank airport.

  Wrong.

  It seems that Griffith Park, Forest Lawn, Warner Brothers, Universal Studios and the Hollywood Hills form the natural boundary between Hollywood and Burbank. If a guy was determined to stick to the freeways, he could journey east along Sunset to the Hollywood Freeway, then cut back northwest for several miles to North Hollywood, then onto the Ventura Freeway running due east again for a long run to the Golden State Freeway for another jog northwesterly for five miles or so to San Fernando Boulevard and the airport.

  Or … he could take the Hollywood to Barham Boulevard then take his chances on the arterials all the way through the city of Burbank in a full south to north transit.

  He could also go on up to Universal City and take Lankershim and Vineland … or …

  Or, of course, if he was fortunate enough to be driving a vehicle with an onboard navigational computer, he could simply turn the whole problem over to the electronic brain.

  The computer advised Bolan to proceed north on Highland for an interchange with the freeway near the Hollywood Bowl, then off at Barham and on to Hollywood Way, which would take him to the southeast corner of the airport and the terminal access. So much for freeways, which figured into that route for only a mile or two.