He accepted that route and gave the thing its head, turning his own mind onto more substantive matters.
He could not dwell upon the present predicament and possible fate of his lady fed. So the mind turned naturally to an assessment of the overall situation now confronting him across this tangled landscape.
Fact: a new “thing” was a building in the Golden State.
Fact: the principals so far encountered were a diverse lot of personalities, such as:
(a) A rich but kinky businessman, whose troubles with a rebellious daughter now seemed remote and unimportant;
(b)a kinky ex-cop who now commanded a private police force of unknown but probably impressive size, which was probably financed by (a) above;
(c) A holdover Mafia master architect from the old order who had direct involvement with:
(d) A nameless team of hitmen who had unsuccessfully tried to snuff (a) above, and also had some connection with (b) above;
(e) A Mafia “auditor” set as a watchdog over (b) on behalf of:
(f) An unidentified “them” who appeared to be the budding bosses of the reconstituted Los Angeles Mob.
Sub-fact, with a question mark:
This new “thing” was being structured along an unusual pattern called the California Concept, which probably meant, in this early analysis:
(a) A combination of Mafia and non-Mafia elements joined together for mutual comfort and assistance,
(b) Welded into a supertight, superquiet organization with:
(c) more lateral than vertical lines of responsibility and activity; and
(d) invisible lines of authority.
In other words, a “Mob” that was not really a Mob, structured along some new “concept,” which did not reveal visible connections between the layers. In simple, it did not appear to be a “crime family” operation.
The traditional Mafia pattern in America was a pyramidal structure with the boss at the apex. He would franchise “territories,” which could be set up geographically or categorically or both, and which would be ruled by sub-bosses who, in turn, would franchise smaller subdivisions to their lieutenants who then would sublet various enterprises to their individual soldiers.
The soldiers were in business for themselves, running their little scams and operations with almost total autonomy so long as they remained within their licenses and in good standing with the “family.”
Just as any individual business that operates under a large corporate umbrella, the bottom level mobsters benefitted from the total power of the full organization without themselves being required to worry about legal services, investment capital, political influence, and so forth. On the other hand, they were merely operating business franchises. The lieutenants took a cut from the soldier’s profits. The sub-bosses took a cut from the lieutenants. And, of course, the boss always got his.
From such a pyramid, the cash flow upward from all the soldiers of a vast empire was astronomical. And, of course, the guy at the top of the pyramid was the guy who grew fat and rich from other people’s labors.
It was an inverted pyramid, of course, tapering back like a mirror-image from its base in the straight world to layer after smaller layer, deeper and deeper into the underworld. Still, it was an almost perfect model of the structure for corporate capitalism—and, being free of upperworld restraints, infinitely more profitable per dollar investment.
Bolan had to wonder, now, what had replaced it. Or had it been replaced, at all, in this California Concept?
Were they or them a group with fully delegated powers to direct the criminal activities in a newly consecrated territory? Were they directors, then, of a new criminal corporation that was trying to build upon the ruins of the DiGeorge empire?
If so, did the fictitious Crusher draw his authority, so presumed and accepted by the boss of the war committee, from the Chairman of the Board himself? Or did such an entity even exist in the real world?
Lamamamma had said to Rickert, in that taped conversation, “I told you my people don’t take much on faith. I bet they’ve got us under a microscope.”
Were “my people” a generalization or did it refer to actual persons behind the scenes of the Los Angeles push?
That same guy had told Bolan-Crusher: “I audit this account for them. I keep an eye on Rickert and his boys.”
Back to them, again. My people?
As opposed to whose people?
McCullough, Rickert, the hit team—not my people, no. McCullough, Rickert—outsiders. Not brothers of the blood. Not in any sense … but a curious relationship. McCullough owned California Investors, which owned, in turn, SecuriCom, which employed Rickert. Yet Rickert’s boys—also not “brothers”—had been sent to snuff Bill McCullough who had appealed to eastern “brothers” for help in his own front yard.
Curious, yeah.
Was McCullough really all that torn up over his daughter’s liaisons—or had that merely been a cover story to involve east with west?
And who was “Jay Leonard”—the recipient of the heavy telephone call that soured the day for April Rose? A call that Bolan had hoped would lead him to the mysterious them. Maybe it had. Or it could, still. Bolan had not lost interest in Mr. Leonard; the interest had simply given way to an overriding priority. But … was Leonard one of them?
It was all very tangled … but not hopelessly so. The confusion was not at all surprising or demoralizing. Bolan had not expected a cakewalk in Los Angeles. If the city’s streets could be nightmarish to the visiting motorist, then certainly the coagulations of underworld power in such an awesome setting could be just as confusing and unwieldy for a visiting crimebuster.
A federal task force of legal experts and methodical investigators would need months and perhaps years to untangle all the diverse interconnections of cause and effect in such an organization. Even then, the legal evidence to effectively prosecute the perpetrators of a criminal conspiracy could be doubly elusive. Meanwhile the shit machine would run on virtually unchecked until it gained such financial strength and political clout that all the good cops in the country could not hope to contain it, let alone dismantle it.
Mack Bolan was not confined to the rules of that sacred game.
All he needed was a chink in the walls, a toehold from which to launch an attack with no holds barred—and, yes, with a bit of luck and a mind that dared, he could dismantle that shit machine in a single day. Let the constitutional lawyers and professional liberals agonize and handwring the loss of the sacred game that made the dungheaps possible in the first place. Bolan was wagine: a war … without convention … and without respect for dumb rules that insured victory to the enemy. He claimed no holiness for his own game, either. There was no mantle of righteousness cloaking Mack Bolan’s war. If his government could catch him at his illegal game—then okay—he’d suffer the consequences without bitterness or complaint—and he would tolerate no battery of lawyers trying to establish his holiness, either.
But that was all theoretical garbage.
If Bolan lost this game, it would be to the enemy—not to the soldiers of the same side. It was not that the cops could not or would not catch him; it was simply that all the odds were with the other side. If he was going to fall, then he knew where that fall would come. His head would end up in a paper sack carried by some gloating geek who …
Ah well. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.
For the moment, Bolan had job enough simply trying to save the day for April Rose.
And if that were not possible?
Well … if that were not possible … then for sure it was going to be one hell of a terrible and nightmarish day for the visiting crimebuster.
And perhaps for this awesome city, as well.
CHAPTER 11
WOW TIME
It looked like a SecuriCom convention. Uniformed men were milling about in the light rain outside and more could be seen inside the office through the open doorway. The building was set on airport
property at the south perimeter. It was a warehouse or maintenance garage—or both—with loading docks and overhead doors running the whole length of maybe a hundred yards. There was no fence nor a hell of a lot of tarmac between road and docks. The office occupied the east end. A half dozen cars with company decals were grouped in the small parking area near the office door. Two large vans and a smaller one were backed into loading position at the docks. One of the overhead doors was open and more uniformed people could be seen moving around just inside.
The fog had lifted some time earlier but the cloud base was hovering just overhead—perhaps at a thousand feet or so—and a steady light rain had been falling through most of the journey up from Hollywood. Rickert had arrived just ahead of Bolan and was met outside by two men in street dress. They were standing outside the office jawing in the rain as Bolan cruised by.
A car rental terminal abutted the facility to the west. He pulled into there and parked amidst the U-drives while the combat mind coolly clicked through the various possibilities of approach.
He was not here to thump the chest and announce his rage. He was here to get that girl back, whole and healthy. Suicidal urges would serve no useful purpose toward that goal. He could blast his way in, sure—and maybe he could even blast his way out. But the chance would be about one in a hundred that he would emerge with April Rose all in one piece.
He could go in softly—and maybe even come out the same way. But could he bring the girl with him? Rickert was no clown—and Bolan’s masquerades would perhaps not stand the test of time. Even saying that he could pull it off again, there was no assurance and perhaps only a fifty-fifty probability that Rickert would continue to accept the “authority” of D’Anglia the Crusher. And, of course, it was entirely possible that Sly Charlie had already put the pieces together and come up with Bolan-D’Anglia.
It was no simple decision.
These kinds never were.
In the end, though, it always came down to the simple imperative. Bolan would simply have to seize the moment and run with it. Play the ear. The moment was about as favorable as could be expected. Rickert had just arrived on the scene and was being briefed by his lieutenants. Judging by the pace of other activities there, the thing with April Rose was hardly more than a footnote to the larger endeavor. Obviously the “force” was assembling and preparing for some sort of aggressive action.
So it was a moment out of balance—and Bolan knew that he had to put that moment to work. He had to run with it.
He brought the fire control system to the con and centered the rangemarks on a vehicle in that congregation parked outside the office, poked in target acquisition, set up a one-two automatic program and selected another target for the follow-on, then enabled the rocketry and cycled the system into standby for EVA-Remote.
Bolan was setting up a contingency only; he hoped that he would not have to use it. Other business structures were nearby and a residential neighborhood was just a stone’s throw. He had no wish to spill his war into innocent laps. But he did need that backup. He was going in rigged for light combat. He selected the Auto-Mag as head weapon—a .44 Magnum autoloader, the big stainless steel pistol that Bolan had dubbed “Big Thunder”—and rigged it about the waist. The silent Beretta in shoulder harness remained in place. A variety of small ordnance items—flares, smokers, boomers—went onto the waist rig. Finally he clipped the tiny remote fire control device—the “black box”—onto the readybelt and donned a black slicker to cover it all.
The Executioner was ready to go a’hunting.
The rain was coming much heavier. A personnel door at the west end of the building was covered by one of those damnable television eyes. He warily skirted that hazard at safe range and came in along the loading docks. The guys at the far end, near the office, at least had sense enough to come in out of the rain. They were moving to cover beneath the eaves. The visibility was definitely worsening. With all the movement down there, it was impossible to spot Rickert or even to distinguish clothing in that group.
Bolan went on to the parked vans for a quick inspection of their contents. The larger two were personnel carriers—confirming a gut feeling he’d had about those vehicles. Upholstered benches lined each side, equipment racks filling the center aisle. The small van was outfitted like a plush camper, with much of the rear area devoted to wall-to-wall bedspace. The bedding was mussed. Near the door, Bolan discovered a lady’s slipper. A familiar one, sure. When last seen, that slipper was on the dainty foot of a lady fed.
He moved on inside the party van and across the bed to the rear doors. Tinted portholes looked out onto the dock and beyond into the busy interior of the building. It was a warehouse, yeah—or had been. Now it looked like the staging area for a military operation. Shotguns and riot gear were stacking up just inside. Deeper inside could be seen row upon row of what appeared to be ammunition boxes. Several men wearing SecuriCom uniforms were moving vigorously about—lugging boxes, sorting, stacking.
Outfitting a war party? Probably, yes.
It was beginning to look like a hell of a hard mission. Too hard, perhaps, considering its nature. A hundred armed men or more—alerted, maybe, and simply awaiting the appearance of an undesirable alien in their midst.
Or maybe not.
There was one simple, direct way to find out. Bolan opened the van, gathered the slicker about him, and stepped onto the dock.
A uniformed guy in the doorway gave him a startled look, then cast a curious gaze toward the van from which he had just emerged.
Before the guy could have too much time to wonder about it, Bolan growled at him: “Great day for the ducks.”
The guy looked at the sky as he growled back: “Yeah. We can sure pick ’em.”
“We almost ready? The boss is here.”
“I saw ’im. We’re about ready, yeah. You in charge of the?…”
The guy let it hang but Bolan assured him that he was indeed in charge of whatever.
“Yeah.” He tossed April’s slipper into the air and caught it with the other hand. “Where’s Cinderella?”
The private cop chuckled as he jerked his head toward the interior of the building. “She’s in the safe.” He leered. “Didn’t you get enough?”
“Not nearly,” Bolan replied soberly. He stepped past the guy and went inside. Another uniform was standing with hands on hips, staring quietly in his direction. The eyes dropped as Bolan approached and the guy turned busily toward the ammo boxes. “Quick it up,” Bolan growled as he walked past that one.
“Yessir,” the guy muttered.
There was strength in numbers, yeah—the other guy’s numbers, when they grew too great for ready recognition.
No one, now, was paying him the slightest attention though he was virtually surrounded by spiffy blue uniforms. And he was about twenty paces inside when he spotted April Rose.
The “safe” was a glass cubicle at the far wall of the building. It was crammed with electronic panels and other gear. A turret similar to the one noted in the Hollywood office, but much larger, dominated the enclosure. It took two men back to back to man it—and both looked busy as hell. It was quite an operation.
April sat on a high stool in a corner of the cubicle. She looked okay except that her clothing was torn and disheveled. Two guys in civilian clothes seemed to be interrogating her—but no hands were upon her.
Rickert was present, also. He was speaking with great animation and a lot of handwaving into a telephone.
It was a “safe,” yeah. Soundproof—bulletproof, too, no doubt. Not glass, after all, but some heavy plastic material. The combat mind instinctively scanned for support systems even while the greater consciousness was zeroing on the mission goal. It was an old building, but obviously a spanking new control center. That meant a lot of extra power requirements far beyond the original scope of the aged building—plus some heavy air conditioning to keep all those electronics at proper temperature.
And, yes, a fragment of the co
nsciousness had spotted the trunklines coming down the back wall from the attic, numerous air vents in the ceiling—telltale evidence of new wine in old bottles.
But perhaps all of that was in the realm of useless information.
Rickert had spotted Bolan, also—and the displeasure was obvious in that unhappy face. Not alarm, though—just displeasure. The guy was scowling at D’Anglia-Crusher, not at Bolan-D’Anglia. The way things had gone since their last meeting, though, one identity could be about as hazardous as the other.
So which way did the ear turn?
What the hell. He placed his lips close to the door intercom and growled, “Open it, Rickert.”
One of the guys at the turret-console looked up quickly, then back to Rickert. The latter appeared frozen for a moment, the phone still at the ear but drooping away as interest focused elsewhere. Then Bolan saw those tight lips move in a terse command. The door opened. Bolan stepped inside.
April Rose was staring at him with suddenly horrified eyes.
The two guys with her did not notice the reaction; they, too, were giving full attention to the new arrival.
But all of Bolan-D’Anglia’s angered attention was being directed to the unhappy man at the telephone. “You damned idiot!” he said savagely, raising the voice in a clear carry to bounce from all the plastic walls.
It was a good enough approach.
Rickert put the phone down and said woodenly, “I know. I was just talking to Jack Lambert. He says we made a little mistake.”
“Little mistake!” Bolan snorted.
Rickerfc’s voice was ruffled and tense but placating. “You didn’t have to tear up our goddam offices.” His eyes went to the slipper in Bolan’s hand. “How the hell were we to know she was yours? Her goddam stuff all checks out solid. Even the warrant. How the hell were we to know?”
“You didn’t think she was a fed when you grabbed her!” Bolan raged. “Where do you get off disrupting a—?”
“Of course not, we didn’t know what—how the hell?—hey, it was my goddam phones under the tap! You think I hold still for that kind of shit? I warned you before that I—”
Terrible Tuesday Page 7
