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  “It’s nearly midnight, Tim,” Foster reminded the captain. “Some of our people have logged fourteen straight hours already.”

  “I’m getting you some more people,” Braddock assured him. “I want this thing covered. I want it—”

  He was interrupted again by the same uniformed officer charging through the doorway. “They’re at it again!” he reported breathlessly. “Just hit Tri-Coast Records in Burbank!”

  “A recording company?” Braddock seemed stunned. “What makes you think it’s Bolan? I don’t get the—”

  “I don’t know about that,” the officer said. “It’s at the distribution warehouse out on Studio Way. They just said some guys are running around out there throwing firebombs and shooting up the place with choppers. Sounds like a Hardcase to me!”

  Braddock was already out the door, the officer on his heels, the group of lawmen following close behind and spilling into the special Hardcase control room. Braddock spun on them and barked, “Get going! I’ll feed you via radio!”

  The detail leaders about-faced and jogged into the corridor, heading for the garage. Braddock, at the control console, depressed a button and bawled, “Dispatch. Hardcase alert, all available units. Code 7-10 and double it! Burgank Studio City, Santa Monica, Glendale, converge on Alpha that is Alpha Four, and stand by further.”

  He did not wait for an acknowledgement from the central dispatcher but flipped another switch, picked up a pedestal-type microphone, and began hurling instructions into the Hardcase special network.

  Sergeant Carl Lyons, jogging down the long tunnel toward the garage at the side of Lieutenant Foster, said, “Is this guy for real? Three hits in one day! He moves fast!”

  Foster was getting winded. “Makes you wonder why we haven’t won the war in Vietnam, doesn’t it?” he panted. “And I’m getting the feeling that we’re losing this one.”

  “We’ll get ’im!” Lyons snapped. “I just want to meet the guy face to face, that’s all.”

  “Myself, I think we oughta call in artillery and air support. This’s no job for cops. That bastard might have a Sherman tank out there. He might have a goddamn B-52, and I wouldn’t be a damn bit surprised.”

  Lyons chuckled and split away. They had reached the garage. He sprinted to his car, which his waiting partner already had in motion. Lyons hoped they would catch Bolan in the net this time. He wanted to meet the clever bastard face to face. He wanted to thank him for making a total idiot out of the quote most promising young detective sergeant on the force, unquote. He wanted to thank him with a bullet up each nostril.

  “Okay, break off!” Bolan yelled into his radio. The warehouse was blazing furiously, great mushrooms of roaring flames boiling high overhead and turning night into day for a hundred yards in all directions, intense heat generating into an inpenetrable barrier surrounding the long structure.

  “Yea, man!” Chopper Fontenelli sang back. “Listen to it sizzle. Whatta they make these records out of, anyway?”

  Bolan was jumping for his vehicle, parked along the fence at the back of the lot. He jumped inside, clipped the radio to a fixture above the dash, and fishtailed along the graveled back lot in a full-power swoop toward the warehouse office at the far corner. There he collected Boom-Boom Hoffower, who had been standing a casual guard over a small collection of warehouse employees, evacuated just prior to the incendiary attack. Hoffower swung the door open and nonchalantly slid into the seat alongside Bolan.

  “And I forgot to bring the marshmallows,” he sighed.

  Bolan grunted into the gears and sent the little speedster whining along the macadam drive. They flashed through the open gateway and skidded into the street, then straightened in a full-throttle roar toward the distant line of hills. They were free and clear. Bolan tensed over the wheel and poked a finger at the transmitter button. “Chopper! Where away?”

  There was no response to the query. Bolan’s foot held steady on the accelerator. Hoffower fidgeted, then reached for the radio. Just as his hand closed on it, Fontenelli’s voice came thought in a breathless wail. “Sarge! Fuzz all over the place!”

  Bolan muttered something under his breath. His hand and foot moved in concert, the hand toward the radio, the foot heavy on the brake. The Corvette was still sliding to a squealing halt when he barked into the radio, “Situation, Chopper!”

  Fontenelli’s excited voice flashed back immediately. “My gas tank blew! Vehicle’s burning! I’m hurt. Fuzz crawling heavy. Gate blocked. I’m sewed in!”

  The Corvette was spinning into a U-turn across the country road, Bolan twirling the wheel with one hand and operating the radio with the other. “Get to the northwest corner of the fence and lay low. I’m coming after you.”

  “Make it damn quick.”

  “Cool it! Just cool it and watch for me! We’ll get you out, Chopper!”

  Carl Lyons could see the flames leaping high above the valley floor. The wail of sirens and the heavy gut-rumble of fire trucks were lacing the night and adding to the unreality of the scene. His driver tromped the accelerator pedal and leaned into the curving approach to the warehouse area just as the radio crackled and Captain Braddock’s crisp tones joined them. “Hardcase units 1, 3, 5, and 7, attention—Hardcase alert—Zone immediate! Divert and stand by further.”

  “Christ, they’re hitting in Hollywood, too,” Officer Evers commented, glancing at Lyons. His foot faltered on the accelerator.

  “Forget it, we’re on this one now!” Lyons snapped. They were threading between a line of parked patrol cars. Uniformed officers in white helmets and carrying riot guns could be seen moving cautiously on from in the compound. A fire captain was vigorously waving Lyon’s vehicle through, to clear the drive. Firemen were darting about in the intense heat, dragging hoses and other paraphernalia.

  Braddock’s voice had returned to the air. “… screen across all Zone 2 intersections between King Five and King Nine. Close and apprehend. Unit 3, acknowledge.”

  Evers stared morosely at Lyons. “Are you going to acknowlege?” he asked tightly.

  The sergeant was leaving the vehicle. He leaned tensely back through the doorway and said, “You acknowledge, if you want to. Tell him we’re already here and I’m out of the vehicle.”

  “I better acknowledge,” Evers replied, reaching for the mike. Lyons was even then out of earshot, moving swiftly into the confusion.

  George Zitka was pounding along a narrow alleyway, a canvas bag suspended from his shoulder. Deadeye Washington loped along at his heels, the long legs moving in an effortless stride, an automatic weapon riding across his chest, a smaller bag dangling from a huge hand. They angled across a deserted parking lot, passing to the rear of a taco house, and spurted across Vine Street. A Ford sedan eased around a corner, moving slowly. They ran alongside the Ford for a short distance, passing weapons and other burdens through the open windows; then the doors opened, and Zitka and Washington flung themselves inside, the car already picking up speed.

  Gunsmoke Harrington, behind the wheel, asked anxiously, “How’d it go?”

  Washington chuckled and said, “Scared the pee out of bigshot Varone. He insisted we take the money—just plain insisted. We obliged him.”

  Zitka was panting with exertion. “We caught ’im throwin’ one into some hot little blonde.”

  “Yeah?” Harrington swiveled his head about in a long stare at Zitka, then almost reluctantly returned his attention to the road. He swung into a sidestreet and gunned along in second gear to the next intersection and swerved into the approach to the Hollywood Freeway. “How come I miss all the fun?” he groused.

  “Hell, he was having the fun, we wasn’t,” Washington replied. “Anyway, she seemed almost glad to see us. He was probably making her put out to get herself on a record. I hear these guys do that.”

  A police car, beacon flashing angrily, tore past them in the opposite direction. “Wonder where he’s going?” Harrington asked, grinning.

  “I bet he’s headed fo
r that recording studio,” Zitka said. He flashed an amused glance toward Washington. “You know—that place back there where we heard all the commotion?”

  Deadeye Washington was all smiles. “Sounded to me like somebody was just tearin’ hell out of all that expensive equipment. Wonder who’d want to do a thing like that?”

  The Ford was on the freeway ramp and angling for a shot into the traffic. Harrington stiffened momentarily, his eyes following a speeding vehicle that had just zipped past them. “There goes Bloodbrother,” he announced. “Looks like our timing was perfect.” Harrington found his spot and moved the Ford smoothly into the flow of traffic. “Wonder how the sarge is doing with his strike.”

  “Don’t you worry none about that man,” Washington said softly. “He knows where it is, man, and what it is and how it is. Don’t you worry none about that soul.”

  Sweat was running down Carl Lyons’s arms and dripping from the tips of his fingers. He could not have said, moments earlier, whether it had been the incredible heat or some sutbborn cop’s instinct that had driven him to this corner of the yard, but the muffled explosion along the fence corner suddenly assured him that fate had placed him there, whatever the form of persuasion. He sensed, more than saw, the movement of the tall grass near the fence. His weapon was in his hand before he even realized it, and he was in a weirdly frozen eyeball-to-eyeball encounter with a grinning ape and a light machine gun. The man was clad in army fatigues and a dark beret, with crossed, solid-state two-way radio was strapped to his shoulder. He was kneeling on one knee and grinning up at Lyons over the sights of the very efficient-looking automatic weapon.

  “Drop it,” Lyons instinctively commanded.

  “Huh-uh,” the other man said, still grinning.

  The noise and confusion a bare hundred yards distant seemed entirely remote and part of an entirely different reality, the dancing firelight adding to the weirdness of the scene.

  “This is no Mexican standoff, Bolan,” Lyons said, his voice slightly quivering in the contained excitement. “I’m police officer, and I’m ordering you to drop your weapon.”

  “I’m not Bolan. Go ahead and shoot. You’ll reach hell one sure step ahead of me.”

  Lyons’s blood ran cold as another voice joined the conversation. It was cool and deliberate, and it was saying, “Thumb off, Chopper, and walk away.” A tall man was standing on the outside of the chain link fence. Lyons suddenly understood the explosion that had focused his attention to the spot. The center post was half-concealed in a cloud of black smoke; it was twisted grotesquely, and torn strands of the chain link were clinging to it. One section of the fence was curling back toward the next supporting post. They had blown the fence.

  The tall man with the cold voice was holding an army .45 at arm’s length, and he was pointing the gun at the grinning ape.

  “I ain’t used to walkin’ away, Sarge,” the ape snarled.

  “It’s either walk or be carried, Chopper,” the cool voice advised.

  Lyons experienced a vague sense of mental confusion. The big guy was taking his part. “Just a minute,” Lyons said thickly. “No one is walking away.”

  “Start walking, Chopper,” the tall man commanded sternly, ignoring Lyons’s protest completely.

  The ape was still grinning but without humor. A growl rattled in his throat; then he got slowly to his feet, his eyes remaining hard and unflickering on the lawman.

  Lyons felt dazed. His ears roared. The .38 police special seemed to be hanging out there in front of him of its own volition; yet he was very strongly aware of the slowly tightening pressure of his finger upon the trigger. The ape took a slow backward step, then another, carefully placing his feet on the uneven ground. Lyons angled his gaze toward the tall man. “You’re Bolan,” he said.

  The man nodded curtly. “No fight with you, Officer,” he said lightly.

  “Since when?” Lyons asked. He did not recognize the sound of his own voice.

  Bolan was moving softly toward the ape now, getting between the slowly retreating figure and Lyons. “Never have,” he intoned soberly. “You’re right, and I’m right.” His eyes flicked toward the burning warehouse. “There’s the wrong ones. There’s my fight.”

  The ape was fading fast now. Lyons wondered vaguely why he was just standing there. Bolan’s .45 was now moving slowly down and in. He eased it into the flap of the holster. “Now I’m walking,” he said softly.

  Lyons shoved his pistol to full arm-extension toward the tall, black-clad figure. “You’re under arrest, Bolan,” he snapped.

  “I’m walking,” Bolan repeated. He spun on his heel and faded silently into the darkness.

  Lyons stared unbelievingly at the spot where The Executioner had stood. He lowered his revolver and poked it angrily into the holster. The sound of running feet advanced from the confused din at his back, and a moment later two uniformed officers drew up alongside him.

  “I thought that explosion came from back here,” one of the officers exclaimed. He knelt down and laid a hand on the section of fallen fence, then hastily jerked it away. “Damn, it’s still hot. You see anything, sir?”

  “Must have been a timed explosive,” Lyons muttered. “Damn thing practically blew up in my face.”

  “You didn’t see anything, eh?”

  “No.” Lyons gazed out into the darkness beyond the fence. So—he’d met the clever bastard face to face. And let him simply walk away. “No, I didn’t see anything,” he said calmly.

  Chapter Eight

  THE BORNING DEAD

  It was just a few minutes before 3:00 A.M., and Zeno Varone knew that there was no sleep in the cards for him this night. He had been pacing back and forth across his sumptuous office for fully ten minutes, ever since the investigating police cleared out, his anger building into a great weighted ball right in the middle of his throat, and he knew that ball would not dissolve until he could spray it back out onto the lunatics who had placed it there. He halted in midstride, legs spread far apart, and brought a fist crashing onto the back rest of a leathered chair.

  “How the hell did they get onto me?” he yelled. “How did they know?” He whirled about and jabbed a stiff index finger toward the man who calmly perched on the corner of his desk. “You find out! You hear me? That’s what you’re getting paid for!”

  The other man casually took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “Don’t remind me of my sins, Varone,” he replied lightly. “Don’t get too shook up, either. We’ll have this guy on ice soon enough.”

  “Soon enough?” Varone was all but frothing at the mouth. “I’m telling you, right now is not soon enough. Those sonsabitches walked out of here with twenty grand—yeah, yeah, not like I told your pals—twenty grand in cool cash that wasn’t even mine. That was family money. Not to mention, hell, not to mention what they did downstairs. I don’t even know if my insurance will pay off on this stuff. They’ll probably call it an act of war or something. Do you realize? I’m out of business. I’m out of business until I can get all that stuff replaced.”

  The other man nodded his head soberly and leaned across the desk to crush out his cigarette. “I wonder how your distributor, Strecchio, is taking his loss?”

  “Hell, he don’t have a nickel of his own in Tri-Coast. It’s all organization money, every nickel of it. What’s he got to cry about? The discs were mine, not his.”

  The man grunted, then eased onto the floor and stepped over a window, thrust his hands into his pockets, and gazed down onto the street. “You’ve overlooked the most important item,” he said.

  “What have I overlooked?”

  “Well, we’d managed to keep your name clean all this time. You’re not in our files, you’re not on the Attorney General’s list—but somehow you got yourself onto Bolan’s list. So now you’re on everybody’s list and in everybody’s files. Bolan exposed you, Varone. He blew the whistle on you.”

  “That son of a bitch!”

  “Yeah
. You hadn’t thought of that, eh?”

  “Listen! You gotta do your job! You hear? We ain’t been giving you two grand a month to just—”

  “Cut it!” the man demanded, his voice deepening in anger. “Don’t ever tell me what my job is, Zeno. My job is what I make it. And don’t ever tell me what you give me. And for God’s sake, don’t fall apart. Now—we know a lot about the guy already. We know how he operates, we have a line on some of his vehicles, and pretty soon—pretty soon—we’ll have this Bolan on ice. Don’t sweat it.”

  “I’m calling in the family.”

  “That would be your very worse mistake! Why do you think they left you living, Zeno? Don’t you see this is what they want you to do?”

  “Don’t tell me. Your cops—they’re pretty hot stuff, eh? They run a tight city, eh?” Varone began laughing in an almost hysterical outburst. He went over to the liquor cabinet, mixed whiskey and water in a careless blend, and gulped half of it down. The other man was glaring at him with an angry frown. Varone wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, “That’s the same thing I told ’Milio, you know. Well, where’s poor ’Milio now? Huh? Let me tell you something, Mr. Hot Stuff. Your cops are dead on their ass. Know that? They’re from nowhere. I’m going to bring some real class into this problem. I’m not going to sit back and let this guy dance lightly around, stealing and killing, slapping me on the ass, terrorizing my broads, tearing up my property. I’m not going to do that. You’re outta your mind if you think I am.”

  “You’re making the same panicky mistake ’Milio made,” the visitor pointed out. “You’re deciding to fight the guy on his terms.”