"I've heard that one, too," Tatum growled.
"Believe it."
The Captain relented, grinning, and declared, "Some cops I've seen, maybe he should go after them."
Lyons sat bolt upright in the seat and smacked a hand against his forehead. "That cop!" he yelled.
"What cop?"
"The dude with the mustache. Hell oh hell, John, it was him!"
"Him what? What's the matter with you?"
"It was Bolan! Walking around your station in a uniform!"
"Aw bullshit," Tatum snarled. "What would Bolan be doing ... ?"
He pulled the car to the curb with a screech of tires and lunged toward his radio microphone.
"I thought you knew the fucking guy so personally," he yelled at Lyons.
"Aw hell, you never get that much of a look at the clever bastard, John. He's a genius at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you he's in your station house!"
"For what?"
"What the hell do you think for what? Where are all the boys tonight, John?"
Tatum's hand was frozen around the microphone. He squawked, "Well Jesus Christ! Well be the laughing stock of ... !"
He flung the microphone down and doubled back in a screeching U-turn, burning rubber toward the possibly most disgraceful discovery in twenty-six years of hard-nosed police work.
The Executioner, for God's sake! Making a hit on the San Diego jail!
Bolan had been required to hang around the locker room for only about ten minutes before spotting the size and type of guy he was waiting for — a young patrolman going off duty and changing into civvies.
And it had been a simple task, after the cop departed, to pick the lock and borrow the uniform. It was a good fit. He even took the time to use the guy's brush to get rid of a bit of lint here and there. He wanted to look sharp.
He left a marksman's medal and three fifty-dollar bills on a shelf in the locker, quickly applied a false mustache to his upper lip, and went out of there.
He was only a few steps out of the locker room when he rounded a corner, practically colliding with Carl Lyons and another detective.
And that was a bad moment for the Executioner.
Of all the cops in the world he didn't need to bump into at a time like this, Lyons was first. He was one of the few men living who'd had intimate opportunities to get to know Bolan's new face.
The bogus cop smiled faintly at his old friend of past campaigns, tucked his chin down in what he hoped would pass as a friendly nod and brazened on past.
He kept expecting a cry of alarm — was mentally preparing himself for it and looking for a way out — but when he reached the duty desk and risked a glance over his shoulder, Lyons and the other cop were nowhere in view.
The building was crowded and confused, lots of in-and-out traffic, standing-around traffic, and just plain officious bustling — noise level about equal to a concert by the Rolling Stones.
Bolan stepped up to the desk and told the sergeant, "Jail pass."
The guy glanced at the badge on Bolan's chest and reached for a paper form. "Courts?" he asked disinterestedly.
Bolan replied, "Prosecutor's office."
The cop grunted and shoved the pass at him.
Cold, yeah.
Siberian shivery cold.
But ... so far, so good.
He wandered around from there until he found the detention section. The jail warden's desk was flanked by a group of irritable-looking and noisy men carrying briefcases.
Bolan had an idea who they were.
He pushed through them and leaned across the desk to speak in low tones to the cop on duty there. He showed him the pass and told him, "D.A. wants one of your VIPs over in interrogation." He flicked his eyes significantly toward the group of civilians. "Let's not mention any names."
He was going through the booking records as he spoke. He found the card he wanted and pushed it at the duty warden. "This one. We won't want to bring him through here."
The cop nodded his head, understanding. He jotted something on Bolan's pass and told him, "Take him out the back. I'll call down and clear it for you."
The man from blood nodded and went on, into the cell block, showing his pass and picking up an escort there, past the tank and along a musty row of cells.
The escort pulled up at a door about halfway along, turned a key in the lock, and told the Executioner, "Here's your man."
It sure was.
Tony Danger sauntered out, a nasty smile straining at his face. 'Told you peasants I wouldn't be here for supper," he gloated.
Bolan wordlessly signed a receipt for the prisoner, then spun him around and shoved him toward the rear of the building.
"Watch that!" Tony Danger snarled. "I'll have your fuckin' badge!"
Bolan winked at the escort and left him standing there at the cell door as he hustled the prisoner toward the rear exit. He signed another receipt there and took his man along a short corridor and outside to the vehicle area.
"What is this?" the Mafioso asked suspiciously, his head jerking about in an awareness of the unusual procedure as Bolan dragged him to a car and opened the door.
Bolan spoke for the first time since the initial encounter. "Don't argue, Mr. Danger. Just get in the damn car, please sir."
"What? Are you nuts? A jailbreak? Hey — my lawyers will — "
"You can't stop Bolan with a writ, Mr. Danger." The tall man in the police uniform shoved the protesting caporegime into the seat and slammed the door, then went quickly around to the driver's side and climbed in.
"What are you saying?" Tony Danger demanded, all but frothing at the mouth in a mixture of bewilderment and indignant anger. "The guy wouldn't have the nerve to bust in there after anybody!"
Bolan had the car moving. He nearly collided with another vehicle that came screeching into the parking lot, horn blaring. The other car whipped away just in time to avoid the collision.
Bolan caught a glimpse of a tortured face behind the wheel of that vehicle and — beside it — a flashing impression of the amused yet somber features of the all-cop from L.A., Carl Lyons.
Then he was into the street, accelerating with everything the Ferrari had. It became obvious quickly that there was no pursuit so he eased off and angled a glance toward his unhappy passenger.
"What did you say, Tony?" he asked frigidly.
"I said the guy wouldn't have the nerve to...."
The sounds just gurgled away and the little Mafioso was turning to stone, his mouth agape, staring with a horrifying awakening at the freeze-dried face of the big guy behind the wheel.
"Don't lose your voice now, Tony," Bolan advised him. "It's the only thing you've got between life and death."
At that, it was a hell of a lot more than the Executioner could have had going for him, back at San Diego jail.
Cold, yeah.
It was what his game was made of.
Cold blood.
16
Off the numbers
They had cleared the area of all but official personnel and the morgue-like silence in that big hall was being well-resonated by the quivering-with-rage voice of Captain John Tatum.
He was leaning forward with both big hands splayed out across the jail warden's desk, his face thrust to within an inch of the other poor guy's as he shouted, "Yes, I said kidnap! You let Mack Bolan stroll in here and kidnap one of your prisoners!"
The officer was desperately trying to get the homicide chief to consider two slips of paper which he was holding between trembling fingers. He spluttered, "Hell, Cap'n, he signed the receipts."