Terrible Tuesday

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan reached the guy in two long strides and caught him flat-footed with a vicious open-hand blow to the face. The guy took off like a whirling dervish, hitting the floor on hands and knees. “You warned me hell!” Bolan said, giving a convincing demonstration of outraged authority. The rage part was easy, requiring no acting whatever.

  None of the other four men present moved a muscle or even twitched. Rickert was shaking his head, trying to get the silly out.

  Bolan looked at the girl and asked, “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, the voice soft and controlled.

  “Lucky for them.” He tossed her the slipper and she caught it. “Let’s go, we’re trucking.”

  Rickert pulled himself onto a chair. The left side of his face was beet red and pulsing. “You’re crazy, D’Anglia,” he wheezed.

  “Not as crazy as you,” Bolan-D’Anglia replied coldly. “You don’t even know who your enemies are. You’re supposed to be going after Bolan, damnit, not—and you screwed up a heavy—we weren’t earing you, dummy. We were going for the fink.”

  “What fink?” Rickert muttered.

  “What fink,” Bolan said disgustedly. “You think the guy is psychic or something? How do you think he got onto?—how’d you ever get this goddam job in the first place?”

  “We’re going after him,” Rickert replied, smarting under the abuse. “We’ll get him, too, hot ass. And then—well, you and me are going to have it out, D’Anglia.”

  Bolan-D’Anglia snorted derisively, took his lady by the hand, and went out of there.

  Too heavy? Maybe. Maybe a shade too heavy.

  “Wow,” April said quietly as they moved into the warehouse.

  “Don’t wow it yet,” Bolan muttered. “We’re a long way from clear.”

  A long way, yeah. Rickert and the two other men in civvies came out of the safe room behind them and were tagging along about ten paces to the rear.

  No—it was not wow time, yet.

  Bolan’s hand moved inside the slicker and found the command button on the black box. He sighed and summoned the fire, calling forth the rocketry program.

  Three seconds to raise, another three to lock, one more to fire.

  He was counting silently from one-thousand-one and had reached one-thousand-four when Rickert called out to him.

  “D’Anglia!”

  Bolan muttered to the girl, “Get clear.” Then he halted and turned back. “Yeah?”

  April kept on moving toward the large open doorway of the loading dock.

  “You, too, little lady. Hold it a minute.”

  … thousand-seven …

  “Go to hell, Rickert!” Bolan snarled. “You’ve had your—”

  The bird came slamming home, rattling the ears and twitching the eyeballs as it plowed into the tight assemblage of vehicles at the east end.

  Rickert and his two boys went rigid for a moment, then came unstuck and raced toward the dock as gasoline secondaries began cutting loose. Bolan stepped casually aside and let them pass, taking his lady once again by the hand and moving her on.

  The second bird came home just as Rickert reached the loading dock. It blew away the whole northeast corner of the building. The whole structure quivered, puffing flames and smoke back into the warehouse area.

  One of the guys with Rickert gasped, “What the hell!”

  “Looks like you’ve found your boy,” Bolan said as he moved past them. “Let’s see you take ’im.”

  The private force was running around like ants at a fire when Bolan stepped down from the dock. He swept his lady into his arms and moved west, into the rain and away from all that hell. As Bolan and the lady moved out of earshot, Rickert was yelling for fire extinguishers and warning his troops about the explosives stored in the warehouse.

  “Wow!” said April Rose, looking back at the leaping flames and utter confusion behind them. “Or is it still too soon for wow?”

  No. It was time for wow. Bolan sent a silent one, himself, toward the heavens and clasped the lady closer.

  But he knew that he had not seen the last of Charlie Rickert and his private army. What he had seen of those guys, so far, was barely the beginning.

  CHAPTER 12

  LINKAGE

  April went directly to the bath for hot water and cosmetic repairs while Bolan moved the cruiser back along the service road past the combat zone. Airport emergency vehicles were responding and people were running in on foot from every direction. He wished to get clear—but not entirely—while traffic still could move through the area.

  All six of the SecuriCom cars at the east end were tumbled together in a common pyre and the flames were roaring high into the rain-soaked heavens. That end of the building was also engulfed in the action and blue-suited men were scampering about in apparent rescue operations.

  Others for whom no rescue was possible were being laid out on the tarmac.

  Bolan idly wondered how many men he’d killed with his robot rockets, but knew without attempting a guess that it had not been nearly enough.

  SecuriCom was beginning to look like some kind of fantastic setup—so fantastic that Bolan was starting to rethink his logic model for the so-called California Concept.

  He cleared the combat zone and went on to the airport terminal where he wheeled about and parked with a clear if distant view of the disaster scene. April emerged from the toilet wearing nothing but panties and bra. She tossed her hips immodestly and called forward, “How do I look?”

  “Edible,” he replied, watching her in the mirror.

  “Promises, promises,” she grumbled, and went to find fresh clothing.

  Two Burbank city police cars screamed past, followed closely by ambulances and a fire department medical unit. A jumble of sirens could be heard approaching in the distance.

  When April came forward to the con, she was clad in faded denims and a knit top. She told Bolan, “Your pants are soaked from the knees down. Take ’em off.”

  He just grinned at her and continued the surveillance.

  She apparently became aware just then that the vehicle was parked. “Where’ve I been?” she asked, with wonder in the voice. “I thought we—what’re we doing here?”

  Bolan knew where she’d “been.” Stress and its sudden release can do strange things to the mind—giddy things. He told her, “Sit down and pull it together, soldier. Our day has just begun.”

  “Your day,” she corrected him. “I just had my soldierly adventure.”

  “You retiring?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” she replied quietly.

  He said, just as quietly, “Well … at least a picture is emerging. Your soldierly adventure was a godsend, kiddo. I think I know, now, what these guys are doing.”

  He was thinking about that “safe” with its electronic marvels. The plastic fishbowl.

  Apparently April Rose was thinking about something else. “You are really some kind of terrific, you know,” she softly told him. “It’s such a damn waste, Mack … such a waste. You could make it big in almost anything you’d like to try. You’re intelligent, articulate … so wise and so … so …”

  “So pretty?” he asked, smiling faintly.

  “I’m trying to be serious.”

  “So am I.” He fired up the optics and tried for a fine resolution through the rain, bringing a hundred feet of service road into the con with them. “Those people want to eat your world, April. It’s been done before. It could happen again. So where’s the waste?”

  She did not respond to that.

  “You’re the expert,” he said, sighing. “And you were in there longer than me. What did you see?”

  She shrugged daintily and crossed her legs. “I saw about a zillion dollars worth of sophisticated equipment. It’s the new standard technology. All the large security outfits these days use that gear, or variations. They could be a legitimate outfit, you know.”

  Bolan grinned sourly. “All the large security outfits are not owned lock,
stock and body count by the organized underworld. This one is. It’s not just Rickert that’s kinky. It’s the whole damned outfit.”

  She said, very softly, “Take me to the Riviera, Mack. Or to Rio. I’ll settle for Acapulco. I don’t want to weep over your broken body. I want to laugh and love and make babies.”

  He replied, just as softly, “So do I, April.”

  She sighed and went aft, returning a moment later with pad and pencil. Then she sketched as she recalled the contents of that command center. “I saw about a dozen closed circuit systems under constant video monitor. Several banks of video recorders, also—so they’re getting hard copy. And computer terminals—three of them. If they have access, they can hook in anywhere—Washington, Sacramento, city hall. And, uh, telephone relays with audio recorders. What else?—let’s see—oh yeah, I think a microwave system—some sort of telemetry. Miscellaneous scanners, Weepers, radio dispatch systems.” She tossed her head. “It’s a bunch.”

  Yes. It was a bunch. But even that was not all.

  He asked the lady, “Would you say there are other fishbowls lurking about?”

  “Very probably,” she replied quietly. “They’re on some sort of sophisticated linkage.”

  Some sort of linkage, yeah.

  That was the way Bolan had read it in his once-over-quickly. Which meant maybe a whole damned network of “fishbowls.”

  And God only knew what kind of linkage.

  They came out as he’d expected them to—three vans, threading their cautious way through the confusion of emergency vehicles and disaster workers, making a run for daylight. Rickert would not wish to have his war party detained by the inevitable police investigation of the incident. He probably would have left only a few men behind to satisfy police curiosity. The rest would be packed into those two personnel carriers. Each of those would normally transport twenty-five to thirty men with full equipment; so, yes, there could be a lot of hell moving out of there—perhaps even headed toward a rendezvous with elements from other facilities in the area.

  A lot of hell, yes. And Bolan doubted very strongly that all this force was being deployed solely for his apprehension. Something else, something large, had been set into motion coincidental with Bolan’s arrival on the scene. Something that large required much planning and preparation. And if it were a highly elaborate something, then it probably would not or could not be called off simply because a complication had arisen.

  Actually, the rumbles had been moving along Bolan’s intelligence grapevine for quite awhile—since shortly after his command strike at New York. And he’d had this area on his re-visitation schedule even before the recent decision for a six day national blitz.

  So it was not entirely coincidence that placed him smack in the middle of this fevered situation in California. Bolan had long ago lost respect for coincidence. Too often had he felt the force of offstage hands manipulating the human actors on this stage called life. Not that he gave much credence to the various theories of predestination and fated lives. But he was a man strongly attuned to “fine” influences; every combatman is—and every successful commander in the field is as much psychic as soldier, winning by hunches and sudden inspirations, which unknowing men call genius.

  Military genius, Bolan knew, was no more than the fine art of reading subtle influences and reacting in the proper direction at the proper time.

  Influences or whatever had brought him here at this place and time. He would not presume to question the why or the how of that. He was here, that was enough. The enemy was moving massively—and that was too much.

  “Linkage,” he muttered as he locked the electronic track on the rear personnel carrier and joined the procession.

  “What’d you say?” April Rose inquired.

  “Some sort of linkage,” he said, repeating her earlier statement.

  “There are all kinds,” she said dreamily. “How ’bout boy-girl, for starters?”

  He showed her a sober smile and said, “Sounds great. Let’s keep it on the agenda.”

  “But not for starters, eh?” she said drily.

  Not for starters, no. Another sort of linkage had taken the field—the kind that binds man to event, and event to life, and life to the world.

  Survival.

  Of what? Of the fittest?

  No.

  Survival of all the things that make life a beautiful event in a meaningful world. Boy-girl linkage insured only a portion of that. Man-event linkage would have to supply the rest.

  And Mack Bolan felt unequivocally linked to the large event that was shaping up for this beautiful city.

  He took the lady’s hand and squeezed it with all the passions that were his at that moment. He wanted to live, sure. He wanted to love and laugh and sing and dance. He did not want to kill and destroy and hate and weep.

  She felt his unspoken anguish. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Me, too,” he replied quietly, and meant it.

  Sure he meant it. He was sorry for all the broken dreams and broken hearts and broken lives—everywhere. He was especially sorry for April Rose.

  Maybe one day he would take her to the Riviera … and to Rio … Acapulco … and all the other warm places of the world.

  Then again, maybe he would not.

  CHAPTER 13

  FAVORS

  The track was running north into the San Fernando Valley and the rain was beginning to slacken a bit. Bolan had just settled into a comfortable pace along the Golden State Freeway when the coder clanged into his mobile phone terminal. He punched the button and said, “Go.”

  “Striker, this is Alice.”

  “Alice” was Hal Brognola, so coded because of his adventures in Washington, Wonderland by the Potomac.

  Bolan’s clouded gaze dwelled momentarily on the lady beside him before he responded. “Are you local?”

  “Yes, I’m local.” That good federal voice had a bit of emotion in it. Which was not exactly strange but at least notable. “Can you get to a laundry line?”

  He desired a clean telephone contact.

  Bolan replied, “Not without missing a play. Can the laundryman wait?”

  “I guess not,” said that troubled voice. “Let’s risk the dirt. Where is the babysitter?”

  He was worried about April. Apparently Brognola had learned of her misadventure.

  “The babysitter is whole and healthy,” Bolan assured the chief fed. He grinned solemnly at the lady as he added, “Sends love and kisses.”

  The relief at that news came through clear and clean. “That’s wonderful. I was hoping you were on top of it. I suppose that explains Burbank.”

  He’d heard about that, too, already. Bolan told him, “That explains it, yes. You have quick ears.”

  “I’m not the only one,” Brognola said worriedly. “An area plan is going down. I think you know what I mean.”

  Bolan knew, yes. A police plan. The L.A. area contained dozens of police jurisdictions, but the many agencies could function as one under an “area plan” when the need was there. And these guys had about the best cooperative record going.

  “I didn’t expect a cakewalk,” Bolan told his friend, the fed.

  “I know you didn’t. I was talking to our hardcase friend awhile ago. The heart is there, Striker—but the fist extends from the mind, not the heart. You get my meaning.”

  Bolan got it, sure. And he did not fault those in the police establishment who took their duties seriously. “Everyone does his job, Alice,” he said quietly. “That’s what makes the world go round.”

  “Yeah. Well. Wanted you to know. Step carefully.”

  “Sure,” Bolan said.

  “Uh, say, we picked up the babysitter’s crumbs. Not much there. Meaningless conversation. And you can forget about that Silver-lake address. It’s a punchout.”

  Meaning that there was no “Jay Leonard.” Not unless you wanted to give a name to a robot telephone relay. The intelligence game was getting trickier all the time.
It was becoming a game for magicians.

  Bolan hid his disappointment as he replied to that. “Too bad. Guess I’ve struck out with all the cutesies. Punchout, eh? Is there any way you can follow it down?”

  “We followed it to Sacramento. Blind punchout there.”

  “Blind?”

  “Blind, yeah. It self-destructed minutes before we reached it. No way to bridge that gap, now. So write it off.”

  “Maybe not,” Bolan said. “I’m going to give you an open send, Alice.”

  Meaning he was going to speak plainly.

  “If you think it’s worth it, okay. Go.”

  “I think it’s worth it. The pace is getting too hot for cuteness, anyway. Here’s a Sacramento name. Try to plug it into that open gap. Arthur Bloom. Like what the flowers do. He’s connected. Via Jimmy Portillo.”

  Brognola whistled at that one. “I’ve been hearing that guy in various ports of call,” he said quietly.

  “He was local at dawn today,” Bolan said.

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “I thought so, too. When I left him, he was hurting mildly and heading for a hole at the Hollywood Hilton.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “No,” Bolan replied. “But I know he called there for a room.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it,” Brognola said. “As long as we’re getting reckless, what’s happened to McCullough?”

  “It broke too fast,” Bolan explained. “I was running with the play and had to leave the guy to his own devices. I suggested he find a hole and stay there.”

  “I guess he found one,” Brognola mused. “The whole family has vanished. Who called on ’im, Striker?”

  “The word I get, it came via that connection I was telling you about. But there’s a lot more we’d better save for the laundry line.”

  “Uh huh, okay. Will you file a report at your earliest convenience?”

  The guy wanted a braindrain on the day’s activities. It was a reasonable request and not at all premature. Both men knew that Bolan was living on the heartbeat. If he should not survive the day’s activities, then at least there should be a hard record of his findings.