The Executioner (№3) - Battle Mask

The most interesting scuttlebutt in the bullrooms all had to do with the demise of Hardcase and the uncertain future of Big Tim Braddock. This information saddened Lyons; he had a great respect for the hard-boiled Detective Captain, if not outright affection. Lyons was, of course, in no small measure responsible for Braddock's failure to apprehend the Executioner. This was a sore point to his conscience and a constant irritant to his sense of duty and loyalty; still, Lyons continued his silent argument that even a cop's first duty was to his own sense of personal ethics. In this context of understanding, he had pursued the only course open to him in his handling of the Bolan case. Twice he had turned his back and allowed the Executioner to walk away from him. Braddock had never known of this treachery, of course, and Lyons himself simply could not regard his actions as treacherous. The life of one damn good man had hung in the balance, and even Big Tim Braddock and his ambitions had been outweighed on the scales of Lyons' ethics.

In every sense, then, Lyons was happy to be off Hardcase. He hoped never to see or hear of Mack Bolan again. He picked up his assignment, a nightwatch in Vice, and went up to check in with his new lieutenant. Lyons was welcomed to the squad, they chatted briefly, then the young Sergeant went into the bullroom with a stack of directives and memorandums which required his reading. At shortly past midnight, while still poring through the bulletins, his new partner, Patrolman Al Macintosh, informed Lyons that he was wanted on the telephone. "Switchboard says it's an eyes-call," Macintosh added.

"I don't know any Vice informants, Al," Lyons replied, glaring ruefully at the imposing pile of reading matter. "Why don't you take it."

"Guy asked for you personally, Carl," the Patrolman reported.

Lyons raised his eyebrows in surprise, scooped up the phone, and said, "Sergeant Lyons here."

"This is long distance so let's keep it brief a muffled Voice responded. "I want you to set me up with a federal narcotics agent. I have some information they'd like to have."

"Why me?" Lyons asked. "Where'd you get my name?"

"Reliable source," the voice replied. "I can't be too careful. Neither can you. Will you set it up?"

"I can try," Lyons said. He signalled quietly to Macintosh. The other officer went into the next room and lifted an extension telephone on the same line. "Give me your name and number," Lyons requested, "and I'll get back with you as soon as possible."

"You know better than that," the caller said, chuckling. "Can I get you at this same number at five this morning"

"I'll try to arrange it," the Sergeant replied. "I can't promise anything."

"You try. Get me a name and number I can unload this info to, and make sure it's straight. This is hot, very hot, and it can't wait too long."

"Why don't you just unload it on me?" Lyons suggested. Macintosh, staring at him through the open doorway, gave Lyons a wink.

The caller hesitated shortly, then: "I don't think you want to get involved in this."

"I can pass along anything you have to the proper person," Lyons assured him.

"This has to do with a narcotics smuggling ring. It's Mafia, Lyons, and it's big, damn big. I've got names, dates, and routes, bills of lading, all kinds of junk. It's too much for a telephone contact. And I don't want any middle men."

"I'll meet you someplace," Lyons suggested, smiling across the open space at his partner.

"You're sure you want in this?"

"It's my job, Mister . . . Mister . . ."

"Why don't you just call me Pointer. You be thinking it over. I'll call back at five to complete the set. Don't mess it up, now."

A sudden and stunning suspicion jolted the Sergeant. "This isn't Bolan, is it?" he asked.

Without a pause the reply came, "Word has it that Bolan is dead."

"Oh?"

"I'll call at five."

"Let me see if I have this straight," Lyons said hurriedly. "Are you inside the Mafia, Pointer?"

"I sure am."

The connection was then broken. Macintosh replaced his instrument and quickly rejoined Lyons. "This could be the biggest thing since Valachi," the young Patrolman commented excitedly.

"I'm just glad you heard it," Lyons replied. He pushed aside the stack of reading matter and scraped his chair back. "Let's go tell the Lieutenant. Pointer said he was calling long distance. I wonder how long a distance. I wonder where he got my name. I wonder what the hell his angle is."

Wonders would never cease, as Sgt. Lyons was to discover shortly. A few hours later, Big Tim Braddock would draw his new assignment also The life and fortunes of Mack Bolan, who was very much alive and well in Palm Springs, were beginning a new weaving which would involve them all in a new and violent tapestry of terror.

At 7:30 on the morning of October 21st, a new and highly secret undercover detail was launched at the L.A. Hall of Justice. Code-named Pointer, the operation was the ultimate in inter-agency cooperation and was staffed by Carl Lyons and Al Macintosh of LAPD; Harold Brognola of the U.S. Department of Justice, Racketeering Investigative Group; Raymond Portoccesi of the Los Angeles FBI Office; and U.S. Treasury Narcotics Agents George Bruemeyer and Manuel de Laveirca.

Mack Bolan's Lambretta mask was opening the Mafia doors to the fresh air of law enforcement, and the Executioner's unrelenting war on the giant crime syndicate was entering a dramatic and suspenseful new phase. As the various threads of the weave began coming together, pain and terror and violence and wholesale slaughter would stalk that gray no man's landscape separating the just from the unjust, Mack Bolan's definition of hell.

Chapter Fifteen

Inquest

Willie Walker and his crew had returned some days earlier with a completely negative report concerning the status and whereabouts of both Mack Bolan and Lou Pena. "That town is clean as a whistle, Deej," Walker reported. "If they've got this Bolan buried up there, nobody knows it. We pumped everybody from the Mayor to the gravediggers. As for Screwy Looey, he ain't left no tracks nowhere. If you would ask me, I'll have to say it looks like Looey is layin' low. Or else this Bolan got to him and left 'im in a shallow grave somewhere."

Walker and his crew were returned to a red-alert status and diffused into Palm Springs environs in a quiet but continuous patrol operation. All important visitors arriving at the DiGeorge country estate, of which there had been an unusual number in recent days, were convoyed from and to the airport by strong security crews, and the villa itself was a veritable armed camp. Andrea D'Agosta was under virtual house-arrest and was rarely seen about the grounds; on occasional brief visits to the family swimming pool, she had been closely escorted by several watchful members of the palace guard.

Tensions had seemed to grow rather than to dissipate and by the 21st day of October, Julian DiGeorge's uneasiness had reached an intolerable level. He summoned Philip Honey Marasco to his chambers in the early afternoon and told the burly bodyguard, "I'm getting a nervous feeling about Screwy Looey. I wonder if you could find somebody to get in touch with him."

His face an impassive mask, Marasco replied, "Looey should know better than to worry you this way, Deej. He shouldn't make you go looking for him."

"You're thinking like me," DiGeorge said. "We know what's what, Phil. Screwy Looey is laying low on me."

"A guy shouldn't be afraid of his own family," Maraseo commented. "I think it's his pride, maybe. He told some of the boys he wasn't coming back without this Bolan's head."

"Somebody," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, "ought to put the word out that Screwy Looey had better get back home."

Marasco thoroughly understood the tone of this genteel conversation. To an outsider, DiGeorge's complaint might have sounded like nothing more than idle fretting. In the language of the Family, however, the message was as clear as a military command. Marasco jerked his head in a casual nod and replied, "I'll put the word out, Deej. Is there anything special you want said to Looey?"

DiGeorge studied his fingertips and said, "In this thing of ours, Philip Honey, we either stand together or we die alone."

Marasco briefly drummed his fingers on DiGeorge's desk, then said, "Yeah," and turned to leave.

"What are you making on Franky Lucky?" DiGeorge asked casually.

Emotion entered Marasco's features for the first time during the interview. He turned back to his boss with a heavy frown. "Everything checks, Deej, but hell, I just don't know. All the boys like 'im. He's tough and hard as a rock, but he don't go throwing his weight around. It ain't like he's trying to make up to everybody, you know . . . I mean, he don't step away from trouble, he just don't go looking for any. And the boys like 'im, I mean like they kind of look up to 'im, you know . . . But I just . . . don't . . ."

"Yeah. I know what you mean, Phil. Something bothers me, too, and I just can't finger it. You're sure his history checks out, eh?"

Marasco's frown deepened. "Yeah, it all checks. He don't leave many tracks, though. I guess he's been pretty much of a loner. But I finally got a line on a guy that knew 'im out in Jersey. The guy's in jail down in Florida, though."

"You know what to do about that," DiGeorge said quietly.

"Yeah. I already started the routine to spring 'im, but it does take some time, you know. Meanwhile I sent Victor Poppy down. He'll make the conversation and he ought to be back tomorrow sometime. Then maybe we'll know just how lucky this Franky Lucky really is."

"You know, I hope this boy checks out," DiGeorge said, sighing.

"So do I," Marasco replied.

"Meanwhile you watch 'im."

"Sure, Deej."

"We're going to have to open the family up some, you know. I'm going to take it up with the Commissione. And I'd like to sponsor this Franky Lucky. I just hope he checks out."

Marasco turned away again. He paused with a hand on the door and said, "He's got his own ideas. I'm letting him run around all he wants to outside. If this Bolan is still around, I'm betting Franky Lucky is the boy to come up with him."

"Yeah, yeah," DiGeorge said tiredly. "And don't forget about Screwy Looey."

"I'll have the word out in ten minutes, Deej."

"You know what I want, Phil."

"I know what you want, Deej."

In such simple and seemingly casual terms were the preliminaries established for a Mafia murder contract. Screwy Looey Pena was behaving irrationally, to DiGeorge's thinking. Irrational behavior, went that thinking, was usually indicative of a guilty conscience. Capo Julian DiGeorge was intensely curious as to the reasons behind Lou Pena's continued avoidance of the family home. He would either have those reasons within the next 24 hours, or a murder contract, or both. Philip Honey Marasco, at that moment, knew precisely what his Capo wanted.

Thirty minutes later, no one at the DiGeorge villa knew precisely what anyone wanted. The electrifying news that rattled the family group arrived by way of a breathless "runner" who was brought to the villa in a chartered helicopter. The messenger, a "soldier" in Tony Danger's crew, received an immediate audience with the Capo and excitedly told him, "They busted us wide open, Mr. DiGeorge. I mean everywhere. They knocked . . ."

"Waitaminnit, waitaminnit!" DiGeorge growled. "They who?"

"Federals, I guess. They knocked over our warehouse in Chula Vista and picked off all the stuff, even the stuff under the floors. Tony Danger wasn't a block away, he just got away in time. He says to tell you the Mexicans picked up Morales just after he got off the stockpile shipment. He's try'na get word to the boats, but he ain't so sure it ain't too late for that."

DiGeorge passed a weary hand over his eyes and muttered, "What about the boats? What about 'em?"

"I don't know what about 'em, Mr. DiGeorge. Neither does Tony. That's what I meant. Tony don't know . . ."

"Tony don't know if his ass is on or off," DiGeorge snapped. "I mean how much of the stuff is on the boats?"

"Oh, well the whole stockpile, Mr. DiGeorge. That's what I . . ."

"Where is Tony Danger now?"

"He went down to the port to . . ."

"Then he's a damn dumb bastard!" DiGeorge growled. "If they know everything else, then they know about the port, too. He probably walked right into 'em, Okay. So we got a rat somewhere in the woodpile. You get in that whirlybird and get on back down to San Diego. If you find Tony Danger you tell him Deej says to kill everything, I mean all of it, everything stops. And you tell him that Deej personally wants the rat, so don't go taking nothing on himself. Now you go on. On your way out, tell Willie Walker and Philip Honey I want 'em in here right now."

Some minutes later, while the villa seethed with excitement, DiGeorge confided to Walker and Marasco. "I've just had this feeling. Something has been wrong, and I knew it. Now I guess I know what. I'm thinking about two names right now. You know the names I'm thinkin' of?"

"Screwy Looey," Marasco quietly replied.

"Franky Lucky," said Walker.

"Okay, but let's not jump too fast," DiGeorge cautioned them. His gaze fell speculatively on Marasco. "See if you can raise Victor Poppy and see if he's got any news for us. Let's see how lucky Franky Lucky is."

Marasco nodded his head solemnly and went to the telephone.

"Start the juice going," DiGeorge told Willie Walker. "Any place Screwy Looey could have lit down. Get into our connections uptown, gather up whatever crumbs you can find about this rumble, and see what can be put together."

Walker curtly nodded his head and departed. Marasco was direct-dialing an area code in Florida, reading the number from a pocket-sized spiral notebook. He completed the dialing and turned about to gaze at DiGeorge as the connection was being made. The conversation was brief, with Marasco doing most of the listening. Then he hung up and released an almost sad sigh.

"Okay," DiGeorge said impatiently, "what's the bad news?"

"Victor Poppy says this guy hasn't seen Frank Lucky in over five years. The guy says the last he heard, Franky Lucky had got drafted and got it in Vietnam."

"Got what?" DiGeorge asked tensely.

"Killed, Deej."

The room became very quiet. After a moment, DiGeorge said, "The guy in Florida could have heard wrong."

"It's like hearsay evidence," Marasco agreed.

"We got to give this Franky Lucky a chance to clear it up for us."

"I hope he can, Deej."

DiGeorge released a long sigh. "So do I. You let me handle it. When is Victor getting back with this Florida boy?"

"He says he already oiled the wheels and they're turning pretty fast. He hopes maybe tomorrow. Maybe even sooner."

"Okay. You tell Franky Lucky I wanta talk to 'im, eh Phil?"

Marasco said, "Soon as he gets back."

"Where'd he go?"

Marasco shrugged his shoulders. "I told you, he's got his own ideas about things."

"Maybe his ideas are too big, Phil."

"Could be. He's been here just about all day though, Deej. Left about an hour ago. I can't hardly buy this boy as an informer, I just can't hardly believe it."

"Aaah hell, Phil," DiGeorge said miserably, "I've been making plans about sponsoring this boy. You know that. I like 'im, too. But I don't like any boy that well, and you know that too."

"I know that, Deej"

"You better get something ready, just in case."

"I'll have it ready, Deej. And I'll send him in as soon as he gets back."

"You do that." DiGeorge spun his chair about and stared glumly out the window. Several of his armed "soldiers" could be seen strolling the grounds. "Yeah, Phil, you do that."

Chapter Sixteen

The contract

Carl Lyons arrived in the city of Redlands, just east of Los Angeles, shortly after dark on the evening of October 21st. He proceeded directly to a drive-in theatre and parked in the second row behind the concession building. Following instructions received earlier, he left the vehicle immediately, went to the snack bar, and purchased a candy bar and a box of popcorn. Moments later he returned to his car, a rear door on the passenger side opened and a man slid into the seat behind him. Lyons continued staring toward the screen and said, "Mr. Pointer?"

"That's me," the man said. "How did it go?"

"You were right on target, Pointer," Lyons replied. "We netted 20 kilos of H and about a ton of pot."

"They've been bunching it up, scared to move it with all the attention at the border crossings," Bolan-Pointer commented, chuckling.

"The best part," Lyons added, "is that we took out their entire supply line, from the Mexican side all the way."

"That was just the acquisition route," Bolan told him. "I have details here of one of their distribution set-ups. I'm leaving it on the back seat."

"I'm going to turn around," Lyons announced casually.

Bolan lit a cigarette and said, "Okay. But you won't see anything."

The police sergeant swivelled about with one arm on the back rest and peered into the darkness of the rear corner. He made out only a lean figure in a lightweight suit, a felt hat pulled low over the forehead "We'd like to have your name," he said faintly.

"You'd better be satisfied with what you're getting," Bolan replied. "You know a town called Blythe?"

"Sure, it's just this side of the Arizona border." The policeman was still trying to make an identification. He noted that his informant wore tight-fitting suede gloves. The cigarette glowed faintly as the man took a heavy drag, allowing Lyons to see enough to produce a curious feeling of letdown. "I guess I've been halfway thinking that you were Bolan," he said.

"And now?"

"Well I know you're not Bolan. The voice is close enough, but not the face. Okay, Pointer. What about Blythe?"

"It's in the package I'm leaving you. There's an old B-17 base near there. It was closed down right after World War Two Being used now as a public airport, but very little traffic. A lieutenant by the name of Gagliano is running the operation there, in an old building that used to be a hangar. It's a powder plant."

"A what?"

"It's where they cut the H, dilute it down, and package it. Then they wholesale it out from that point. Deliveries are made in small, private airplanes. The wholesale end of it is all done by air. I don't have any poop on the retail lines, and I gather that the organization isn't even working that end of it."

"How's the market?"

"Frantic, since the border pressure. The stuff's been stockpiling on the Mexican side, retail outlets are flipping for buys."

"Price should be good, then," he said.

Bolan grunted. "They're buying uncut H at a little over two thousand per kilo, then wholesaling the cut stuff at a going price that has lately gone to 14 thou the kilo."

Lyons whistled softly. "The profits in junk," he commented in an awed tone.

"Yeah. I wouldn't recommend moving on Blythe right away. They'll be cooling it after your hit this morning."

"We let one of their boats get through," Lyons said. "We're watching it."

"Good thinking. Play it right and you can line up their entire wholesaling operation."

"You know," Lyons said thoughtfully, "you could be Bolan."

His guest laughed and replied, "You just won't t let it go, will you?"

"You think like him and you talk like him and it wouldn't take too damn much to make you look like him."

Bolan laughed again and replied, "The word's all around that the guy got it at Palm Village."

"We've never found a body. Just how much do you know about Palm Village, Pointer?"

"An old gunner by the name of Pena was in charge up there. Somehow he's missing in action, or something. The whole mob is wondering about him."

"Pena is in custody," Lyons said.

"Yeah?"

"You interested?"

"I guess I am. Fair exchange?"

"No reason not to tell you," Lyons said. "The news is probably out by now, anyway, or will be. Braddock went up there today and busted the thing wide open."

"What do you mean? What thing?"

"The Palm Village police have had Pena under protective custody since shortly after the fireworks up there. His own request, as I understand it." Lyons laughed. "That head cop up there is something else. He's been hiding Pena in his own home. No charges, no nothing — just sanctuary. Or that was the way Braddock read it." The policeman's eyelids dropped to a half closure and he added, "Aren't you going to ask me who Braddock is?"

"I know who Braddock is," Bolan replied coolly.

"I know who you are, too," the Sergeant said. "You're Mack Bolan."

"You're out of your mind," Bolan said laughing.

"It's a good face job, Bolan. I had no idea it could be done so quickly. What's your cover? Maybe I can help you strengthen it."

"Thanks, but you're still out of your mind." Bolan cracked the door and Lyons got a good look at the face as the interior light flashed on. "I'll give you a call for the next setup."

"Do that," Lyons murmured. "One of the people in this detail would be interested in anything you might learn about the Palm Village massacre. He'd appreciate some intelligence, asked me to tell you that."

"Who's the interested party?"

"Agent named Brognola, Justice Department. He's interested in rackets."

"Everybody's interested in rackets these days," Bolan said. "Brognola, huh? I'm not sure I like the name."

"Hell, he's straight. Just because his name sounds Italian, you can't . . ."

"I know, I know," Bolan protested, chuckling. "Some of my best friends have Italian names." He got out of the car and walked into the darkness.

Julian DiGeorge stepped forward to greet Franky Lucky with a wide grin and a warm clasp of arms. "Come on in, siddown, siddown," the Capo said. "I was just fixin' some drinks. You still with Scotch?"

Franky Lucky Bolan smiled tiredly and dropped into a chair. "Sure, that's great, Deej," he replied. Philip Marasco leaned over to light Bolan's cigarette. DiGeorge thrust a glass of Scotch and ice into his hand and settled into the other chair. They sat in a sort of triangular arrangement, with Bolan at the point. The implications of the overly warm hospitality were not lost on Bolan. He realized that a lot of effort was being exerted to put him at ease. Outwardly, it worked — but his mind was seething with the possibilities of directions which the interview could take.

"You're looking tired, Franky," DiGeorge observed. "You're sure a go-getter. I guess you don't hardly stop all day long, eh?"

"It's not that bad," Bolan said. "I'm used to depending all on myself. I'll get used to an organization around me pretty soon."

"Feel like you're getting any closer to this Bolan?" Marasco asked quietly.

"Yeah and something else, too," Bolan replied quickly, staring steadily at the bodyguard. "What's this I hear about the big Mexican bust?"

"Just one of those things, Franky," DiGeorge put in hurriedly. "We learn to roll with the punches. Forget it. Hey, you always worked alone, eh? You never were in the army or navy or anything?"

Bolan snickered and flashed a broad grin to Marasco. "Hey, Philip Honey, does the boss think I'm that big a sucker?"

DiGeorge chuckled and hid his eyes in his glass. He sipped the drink, then came back with, "Only suckers put on the uniform, eh? Did you burn your draft card, Lucky?"

"Only suckers burn their draft cards too," Bolan said genially. "There's better ways. Some guys I heard of even bought themselves a stand-in."

DiGeorge's eyebrows elevated and his eyes locked with Marasco's. "Yeah, I guess I've heard of something like that myself," he said thoughtfully.

"They're not getting no uniform on Franky Lambretta," Bolan said tightly. "Behind a uniform, behind bars, it's all the same. No, thanks." He waved his hand as though to dismiss the entire subject, saying, "Listen, Deej, I stumbled onto something today maybe you should know about. Especially since this big Mexican bust everybody's talking about."

"Yeah?" DiGeorge was smiling archly at Marasco. His gaze flicked to Bolan. "Where you been all day, Lucky?"

"That's what I'm talking about. Listen. I was up around Palm Village. Now I've heard the boys talking about this Screwy Looey Pena. Listen I think the guy is a bird in a gilded cage."

Marasco's hand jerked toward his pocket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes. DiGeorge exhaled sharply and said, "What're you onto, Lucky?"

"Just this. Screwy Looey has been cozying it up with the cops at Palm Village. All this time. And get this. There's no charges on him, nothin'. I make it that he asked to be held."

Marasco's cigarette broke in half and fell to the carpet. He hastily retrieved it and tossed it into an ashtray. "Jesus!" he said.

"What was I telling you, Phil," DiGeorge said softly. "Wasn't I telling you just a few hours ago that someone needs to talk to Screwy Lou?"

"What made him fall apart?" Mamsco asked.

"The question is, who puts him back together again?" DiGeorge said.

"You want him put back together, Deej?" Bolan asked casually.

DiGeorge glanced at Marasco and said, "That is exactly what I want, Franky Lucky."

"I work better by myself," Bolan said.

"I like the way you work, Lucky."

Bolan got to his feet and carefully set the empty glass on a table. "Thanks," he said. "Also I see better in the early morning."

"A man should pick his own time and place for his work," DiGeorge said.

"I better get some sleep. I'm dead on my feet."

"Yeah, you do that." DiGeorge stared somberly at Philip Marasco. "You keep on working like this, Lucky, you're gonna wind up with a sponsor. What do you think of that?"

"I think that's great," replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He excused himself and went out.

DiGeorge and Marasco sat in silence for several minutes. Finally Marasco said, "Well?"

"It figures, that's clear enough," DiGeorge said. "He's the kind of guy would hire himself a stand-in."

"He's the kind of guy who's going to be a Capo some day," Marasco observed. He smiled. "You better watch out, Deej."

"That's part of the job, isn't it?" DiGeorge puffed. "I gotta leave an heir, don't I? Let's be realistic, Phil, this isn't saying anything against you, but who've I got to turn things over to now, huh? Who've I got?"

"You sure don't have me, Deej," Marasco admitted.

"Tell the boys to light a candle for Looey, eh?"

"Sure, Deej."

"I wonder," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, in a barely audible voice, "I just wonder . . . you think Frank Lucky's still big with Andrea?"

Marasco grinned. "You thinking of more than one kind of sponsorship, Deej?"

"Maybe. Yeah, maybe. Now wouldn't that be the all of it!"

Chapter Seventeen

Man on ice

Tim Braddock leaned forward in his chair and said, "I just don't see how you could let yourself into a mess like this one, Genghis."

Conn coolly replied, "I wasn't in a mess, Braddock, until you horned in. I had the man on ice, he wasn't bothering anybody, and he was beginning to come around. Now you've got him scared to death again, and he's insisting that I charge him or let him go." The lanky lawman spat wet tobacco leaves on the floor at his feet and added, "I don't see any warrant in your hand, Tim."

"We're getting one," Braddock assured his host.

"On what?" Conn asked disgustedly.

"You name it, we've got it. Criminal conspiracy, for one. And then everything from intimidation to Murder One."

"In what town were all these crimes perpetrated, Braddock?"

The Captain from Los Angeles smiled serenely. "The conspiracy was originally hatched in Los Angeles and we can prove that. The execution of the crime, or crimes, covered a three-county area and possibly four. Sacramento is working with us on this one. We're going to bust the syndicate in this state, Genghis, with or without the help of hick . . . of small-town cops."

"I was told that Hardcase was cancelled," Conn said quietly.

"That's right. And now I'm on special to the Attorney General's office. We're starting here, Genghis, right here in your nice, balanced town. And you'd better get ready to explain why you've been harboring a known criminal in this balanced little town of yours."

"Who says he's a known criminal?" Conn wanted to know.

"Don't quibble with me over semantics."

The Palm Village Chief pushed his hat back and scratched his forehead. "There's not one shred of anything to link Pena with the hell that hit this town, and you know it. Don't think for a minute that I wouldn't have him booked and walking toward the grand jury if there was. The fact is Braddock, I have a guest in my home who may or may not be a member of this syndicate you mentioned." Conn stood up suddenly and threw his hat to the floor. "Aw shit, enough of this pussyfooting, Braddock! Let's talk like men!"

Braddock grinned and sailed his own hat across the room. "Let's do that," he replied.

"This Pena character is scared clear out of his skin. He fumbled an assignment, and worse than that, he knows damn well he isn't ever going to have the stuff to get the measure of a man like Mack Bolan. He's scared, he's proud, he's getting old and knows it, and he don't want to go home in disgrace. Now that's the way it's laid out. I could like the guy. I could really like him, if I didn't know what he's been, and I say that even knowing what he is. Do you want to know the kind of a deal he came to me with? I'd help him get Bolan, he'd get the credit and see that I cashed in on the hundred grand bounty. Now that's what brought him to me in the first place."