"Did they hurt you?" Fran asked, dreading the answer.
Toni looked up at her through tear-filled eyes, reading the implicit meaning of the officer's words.
"No, not the way you mean," she said, watching the relief flood into Fran's face. "They roughed me up a little. I fought them."
Fran looked closer now, and yes, she could make out a purple bruise along the curve of Toni's left cheek.
"Good," she said through gritted teeth.
"What's this all about, Fran?"
Fran Traynor hardly knew where to begin.
"It's a long story," she said at last, "and I don't have all of it yet. It's hard to believe."
"We're in danger, Fran," Toni said somberly. "I can feel it."
The lady cop nodded grimly. "I think we can expect the worst. If we get a chance to run, I say we take it."
Toni Blancanales seemed less frightened and shaky now that she was no longer alone.
"I have an idea why I'm here, Fran," she said softly. "But how did they get you? Why?"
Fran took a deep breath, and began relating the story of the morning's events, up through the disastrous meeting with Assistant Commissioner Smalley outside Calvary Cemetery. She left nothing out. For an instant she thought Toni brightened at the mention of the big fed, La Mancha, but the moment passed instantly, and Fran wrote it off as imagination resulting from stress.
"It was Smalley running interference all along," she said, summing up. "Probably with Jack Fawcett. I owe you one hell of an apology for being so blind, Toni."
Toni took her hand, no longer cold, and squeezed it tightly.
"Don't be silly," she said. "It isn't your fault at all. We're in this together."
And so they were.
The two women sat quietly together for several moments, discussing tentative escape plans in hushed tones, rejecting each in turn as too risky or too impractical. The interior of the room, as Fran had first thought, was windowless, with only the single door for entrance and exit. Aside from the moth-eaten sofa, the bare bulb overhead, and a few dated magazines scattered in one corner, the room and its adjoining bathroom had been expertly stripped of anything that might be converted for use as a weapon.
They were alone and unarmed, yes, and apparently defenseless.
While they were talking, a telephone jangled somewhere, several rooms away by the sound, and was quickly answered. Moments later, the women fell silent as heavy footsteps approached along the corridor outside.
The door swung inward to admit a hulking man in dark suit and sunglasses, a black .45 automatic held casually in his massive right hand. Behind him, other bodies blocked out the light from the corridor.
When the gunman spoke, Fran instantly recognized the voice of the gorilla who had fondled her thigh in the car.
"Time to go for a ride, ladies," he said, leering, and pausing for a wink at Fran. "Looks like we won't have time for laughs after all."
Fran took a look at the barrel of the .45, then glanced at Toni and back again at the gunman's eyes, invisible behind his shades.
And suddenly she wondered if there was any time left at all.
* * *
Mack Bolan pulled his sedan up beside Pol Blancanales's car in the shopping center parking lot. Pol left his car quickly and climbed in on the passenger side of Bolan's.
The Executioner saw in his old friend's face the same tautness, the same reckless, uncaring anger that he had seen so often on other faces on the eve of battle.
"Let's roll, buddy," the Politician snapped, rubbing his hands nervously together.
Bolan's voice was low, cautious as he answered.
"Easy, Pol. We can't afford to blunder in and mess things up for Toni."
Pol thought about that for a moment, then nodded grimly.
"You're right. As usual."
"What can you tell me about Phalen Park?" the Executioner asked his friend, putting the car in motion as he spoke.
Pol was quiet, thinking. Then he began speaking in the tone of a lecturer.
"It's on the north side of town," he began. "Part of it runs over into Maplewood there. It's got a lake... Phalen Lake, naturally. I guess the park gets its name from the lake, or vice versa."
"What about the terrain?" Bolan prodded.
Pol shrugged.
"Most of the southern half is a golf course, I think. North of the line and all along the water you've got trees and things. You know... a park."
Bolan could sympathize with Pol's obvious impatience, sure, but grim experience had taught him that a knowledge of apparent trivia could decide the outcome of a battle. And a battle could very well decide the outcome of a war, damned right.
Bolan was trying to visualize the layout of the park when Pol's voice intruded.
"Listen, what's the action, Sarge? How do we get Toni back in one piece?"
"Well, Smalley chose the meeting place," Bolan said at last, "and given his track record, we've got to anticipate a suck play. We go in ready for anything and see what develops. Play the ear."
"I still can't believe it," Pol said, sounding slightly shell-shocked. "The goddamned commissioner."
His voice was heavy with a mixture of anger and disgust.
"It happens," Bolan told him softly. "We can let someone else sort out the details when Toni's safe and sound."
Pol's answer was a snarl coming at him through clenched teeth.
"If he's hurt her, Mack... I swear, if anyone's hurt her again..."
He bit the sentence off, leaving it unfinished.
"Easy, Pol. Don't borrow grief."
Blancanales shook his head grimly.
"I've had it, that's all. If she's not all right... just don't try to get in my way, buddy."
Bolan was disturbed by his friend's anger, even though he understood it perfectly. The Executioner had always lived by a set of simple, self-imposed rules. And one of those, carved in granite, was that he would never — repeat, never — fire upon a cop.
Good, bad, or indifferent, no matter how venal or vicious a particular officer might prove to be upon examination, all of them were — or at least once had been — soldiers on the same side of the endless war against rampaging Animal Men. The cops stood for something, yeah, and Bolan hated the thought of drawing a bead on that symbol of law and order.
Still, he told himself, there was Toni... and Pol. If they were entering a trap, and Toni was injured or worse, how would he himself react?
Would he have the strength to stay his wrath and let slower justice take its winding course?
Would he try to hold back the angry, grieving man at his side?
And how far do you go to protect a tarnished soldier of the same side when he's proven guilty of murder, and worse? Do you turn a weapon on your friend to save a traitor?
Mack Bolan cursed silently to himself, knowing there was no way in the world to answer any of these crucial questions in advance.
They crossed St. Paul in good time, heading northeast on East Seventh to Arcade Avenue, then north to the intersection of Maryland Avenue. That took them west to meet West Shore Drive at the foot of Phalen Park, and there Bolan slid his rental car to a halt beneath acopse of roadside trees.
He checked his watch and found that they were slightly more than five minutes ahead of Roger Smalley's timetable.
So much the better. They would have time to lay some tentative plans.
Bolan reached into the back seat and pulled forward his flight bag filled with clanking armament.
"Let's suit up," he said simply, his eyes locking briefly with Pol's.
Blancanales nodded agreement, reaching into the flight bag to check through the arms sequestered there, selecting a portable assortment of lethal hardware for himself.
"Even when you travel light, you come prepared," he said to Bolan, forcing a grin that he obviously didn't feel.
Bolan answered with a cold smile of his own.
"Name of the game, buddy."
And as they sorted out
their arms and ammunition, Mack Bolan began to speak rapidly, outlining a plan of action with alternate contingencies, knowing all the while that the lives of Toni, Pol, and himself were resting on his words.
They would, all of them, be tested in fire soon enough.
19
The sleek black crew wagon sat on the grassy shoulder of West Shore Drive, facing north. Away to the right, or east, Lake Phalen was hidden from view behind a sheltering screen of trees and shrubbery.
Riding shotgun in the front, crew chief Danny Toppacardi was getting nervous. He checked his watch at frequent intervals, mentally marking off the minutes until their scheduled rendezvous with the man. He wasn't late — not yet — but Danny Tops was already feeling the strain.
Not that the other members of the crew seemed put out by the waiting. In the driver's seat beside him, Lou Nova was working his way through his third cigar of the morning, puffing contentedly away. In the back, gunners Vince Cella and Solly Giuffre had the broads sandwiched in, and they weren't feeling the sweat, no way. Solly kept one arm looped around the lady cop's shoulders, and the fingers of his free hand were tracing little abstract patterns on her knee.
Danny heard a slap from back there, and the lady cop was saying, "Stop that!" in a no-nonsense tone. The crew chief turned around in time to see her straightening her skirt and Solly pulling back his hand like a kid caught reaching into the cookie jar.
The gunner flashed him a vacuous, shit-eating grin, and said, "No sweat, Danny. We're A-okay back here, right, momma?"
The policewoman just glared at him silently.
Perfect, just perfect. Danny felt disgust rising in him, on top of the nerves.
"Cool it, Solly," he drawled. "This ain't no social outing."
Chastised, the gunner lost his smile, replacing it with a petulant expression.
"Sure, Danny," he groused. "Whatever."
Toppacardi turned back toward the front, staring at nothing through the Lincoln's broad windshield. Sure, he could understand and sympathize with the restlessness of his troops. They had been on station for fifteen minutes, waiting for Old Man Smalley to grace them with his presence and take the two broads off their hands. That was a long time to spend sitting out in broad daylight with two kidnapped women in the back seat. Too damn long, yeah.
Hell, Danny could feel the restiveness himself, even if he couldn't afford to let it show.
Fifteen minutes sitting in the park with nothing to look at but trees and birds, and one car that had cruised by a few minutes earlier, putting everybody on edge. No wonder Solly and Vince were feeling their oats back there with the broads.
Danny wouldn't have minded cutting a slice of that for himself, but a job was a job, dammit. The boys should keep that in mind.
Another two minutes had passed, and Danny Toppacardi had checked his watch twice more before Roger Smalley's car pulled up and slid to a stop on the grassy shoulder ahead of them. The old man got out and walked back to meet them, his face locked into one of those politician's smiles that Danny Tops had learned to distrust on sight.
And Smalley took his own damn time about reaching the side of the car, finally getting there and leaning in through the window with his arms crossed on the sill, grinning at the broads in back.
"Ladies, I trust your accommodations were adequate," he said politely,
And the lady cop snapped back, "Go to hell, Smalley!"
Danny watched the old guy's face, stifling a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He liked nothing better than to see a pompous ass deflated, but the dude was a paying customer, and he couldn't forget that either.
The crew chief's face was blank, impassive, as the assistant commissioner turned to address him for the first time.
"Any problems?" Smalley asked.
Danny Tops gave his head a casual shake.
"Nothin' we couldn't handle," he said. "What do you want us to do with the load?"
Smalley tossed another quick glance back toward the women.
"I should be taking them off your hands momentarily," he said.
As if on cue, another car rolled past them, easing to a stop some yards ahead of Smalley's vehicle. It bore no markings, but the four hardmen made it instantly as a police cruiser. They tensed reflexively, hands starting the casual slide toward hidden guns. Roger Smalley noted the reaction and tried to calm them with reassuring words.
"Relax," the commissioner said, "he's with me. There's no problem."
Danny Tops kept his hand inside his jacket, just in case. He watched a husky cop in plainclothes exit the cruiser and walk around to pull a skinny, pasty-faced kid from the passenger's side. The kid looked twenty-one, twenty-two tops. His hands were cuffed behind him, and his darting eyes had the desperate look of a cornered animal.
Roger Smalley was grinning like a shark with prey in sight.
"I believe we're all ready now. If one of you gentlemen could help me escort the ladies to the lake..."
"That's me," Vinnie called from the back seat, already crawling out and reaching for the broad nearest him.
Danny glanced back in time to catch Solly scowling at the other gunner, and Vince Cella was waggling an upraised middle finger at him, snickering derisively.
"Maybe next time, Solly," he said, playing it to the hilt. Solly Giuffre's answer was a husky growl.
Commissioner Smalley stepped back to make room as the two broads were half carried, half pulled out of the back seat. In another moment they were on the shoulder of the road, with Vince holding each one by an arm, grinning broadly.
"Excellent," the commissioner said, turning to Danny. "There is one other thing. I'm expecting some, er, unwelcome company. A man, probably alone. When he arrives, make him comfortable until I get back. Understood?"
"Yeah, yeah. Sure."
And that was all Danny Toppacardi needed on that sunny summer morning. First he brings his crew out to the park, where they park in broad daylight for a quarter-hour with two hot broads in the back, and now he's waiting for some wildcard to appear from who knows where. And all the time they're sitting there, Vince and the two cops are off at the lake doing God knows what to the two broads.
He shook his head wearily, letting his breath out slowly in a long, disgusted sigh.
At age forty, he could remember the good old days when cops were bought off or frightened off or rubbed out. None of this kowtowing bullshit in those days, no sir. It wasn't right, somehow. He could feel it in his bones.
Danny watched as the little group disappeared into the trees and underbrush, Smalley leading the way like some kind of movie star with his entourage. Vinnie Cella went next, with the broads held close on either side of him, and the husky detective brought up the rear, keeping a tight watch on the scrawny kid. In a moment they were all lost to sight, leaving Danny Tops alone with his crewmen and his thoughts.
They settled down to wait, Danny firing up a smoke and passing the pack to Solly in the back seat. Still sulking, the gunner waved him off.
Maybe a minute after Smalley and his group had faded into the trees, a tall man in windbreaker and slacks appeared up ahead of the Lincoln, walking along on the opposite side of the drive at a casual pace, his nose buried in the morning newspaper.
Danny and Lou Nova saw him at the same time, and the wheelman came erect in his seat, growling, "We got company."
From the back seat, Solly Giuffre chimed in, "Back here, too, Danny."
The crew chief craned his neck and caught sight of a second, smaller man, togged out in sweat clothes and jogging in the opposite direction along the far side of the drive. As he sat there watching, the two men closed on a collision course, the jogger puffing and watching his feet, while the big guy was lost in his paper.
And damned if they didn't collide, right out there with nothing but wide open space all around, jostling each other off stride with the impact.
The wheelman chuckled gleefully. "Stupid bastards."
Danny let himself relax, his hand sliding
free of his jacket again.
The big man was looking around himself as if in a daze, the rumpled newspaper dangling from limp hands. And the little jogger was bent over double, clutching his side, all red in the face from his wheezing and puffing. The little guy's mouth started working, and Danny could tell he was chewing the big lummox up one side and down the other, damning him for a clumsy ass.
The big guy stood there taking it for several seconds, his reticence making the little man bolder. The jogger stepped closer, pushing his reddened face up at the big man's like a baseball player giving hell to the umpire on TV. The big guy was trying to answer, but he couldn't seem to get a word in edgewise.
Suddenly, the jogger snatched the papers from the big guy's hand and threw them down on the ground, going into a little dance step on top of them, grinding them into the turf with his sneakers.
Lou and Solly were laughing openly now, and Danny couldn't suppress the grin that worked at his mouth any longer, watching the comic spectacle.
"Christ, it's better than television," he said to no one in particular.
Growing bolder by the moment, the little guy reached up and slapped his large opponent hard across the face, back and forth, making his head rock from the sudden impact of the blows. Danny saw the color flood into his cheeks as something snapped inside, and instantly the two men were grappling madly in a clench, arms flailing, legs twisting and twining as they fought without any thought of timing or strategy.
"I got ten on the little fart," Solly called from the rear.
"You're covered, slick," Lou snapped, keeping his eyes on the action across the street.
Danny Tops watched, amused, as the two combatants staggered and grappled their way into the middle of West Shore Drive. Their diagonal course was bringing them toward the crew wagon, and after a moment Danny noted with surprise that they were almost on top of the Lincoln, moving with surprising speed as they fought.
The crew chief's smile slipped a notch, but he was caught up in the action now, ignoring the little alarm bell that sounded in the back of his mind.
Suddenly, the two men were at the car, butting against the fender, still flailing at each other and cursing ablue streak. The little guy wriggled free long enough to land a looping right on the big man's cheek, wringing a whoop of vicarious support from Solly in the back seat.
The Violent Streets te-41 Page 11
