"Maybe I'm crazy — or maybe I was crazy. Anyway, we're releasing that pack of filth. They'll get no protection from the law in this town. They made their lousy bed, now they can die in it."
"You don't mean that," Lyons feebly protested.
"The hell," Captain Tatum said, "I don't."
Yeah. That guy also wrote his own numbers.
17
Trap play
Tony Danger was bound, gagged and curled into the cramped luggage compartment of the foreign sportster — no doubt suffering the intimations of unavoidable death which were far more agonizing than the final act itself could ever be.
Bolan had shed the police uniform and was now rigged for open warfare. A military web-belt encircled the waist of the black combat outfit, supporting the AutoMag's leather plus a variety of personal munitions — among these, several small fragmentation grenades and a couple of firesticks.
The silent black Beretta was slung into a snap-out shoulder rig at his left side. Another belt crossed the chest from the other shoulder, bearing spare clips for the two autos.
It could be a hell of a hot one.
He hoped that Tatum had bought the idea ...and that he would find some way to sell it higher-up.
The Ferrari was parked in the shadows of the marina clubhouse at Mission Bay. Bolan had already established the fact that Danger's Folly was in her berth and crewed. He glanced at his watch and tried not to fidget ... the numbers were getting too damned close ... where the hell was the girl?
The pre-arranged check-in by Blancanales and Schwarz had brought encouraging news.
Schwarz had reported: "Well it's a pretty cold trail, but I think I may have something. Been talking to some of the technicians out at Thornton Electronics. I believe that's where they reassembled the data-link gear. I got a rumble from one of the guys about some rough-terrain vehicles they brought in last month. He said a special crew was working nights only, some secret project, packaging something very mysterious into those vehicles. I didn't want to push it too hard, but I managed to get some approximate dimensions on the vehicles. Enough to say yeah, it could be. Then I picked up some cross-intelligence. Those mobile rigs, if that was them, weren't driven out of there under their own power. They were hauled away in two big vans from Thornton's trucking line. Again, at night and under tight security wraps. I'm following up on that."
"Okay," Bolan had told him. "Play it cool, Gadgets, not too close. If you get in a jam, beep the Politician. My numbers are too tight."
The report from Blancanales was almost as promising. "She's not in very good shape, Sarge. Tore up over Howlie, but it's more than that. She's scared out of her skull. I finally got her opened up enough to admit that it wasn't her that burnt the papers, but she won't say who did. Doesn't trust anybody, she's really frozen. She didn't know that was you, last night, by the way. I guess she's not thinking too clearly, sort of numb from the shoulders up. Know what I mean? I believe I could blast her loose if I could convince her that you're really on the job. I don't suppose you could make it up here?"
Bolan had to tell him, "No, I'm right on the numbers. But turn on a radio or a TV. The press is into it with both feet now. Maybe she'll believe them."
"Good idea."
"Keep your sentinel tuned in. I may want to beep you for a later report. Also stand ready to give Gadgets some close support. He's on a tight one."
"Yeah, I heard."
Twenty minutes had passed since the receipt of those reports. Bolan was getting edgy. Marsha Thornton was five minutes late for their rendezvous.
He got out of the car and went around to check on Tony Danger's air supply. The guy gave him one of those pleading looks when he opened the trunk door, but he seemed to be breathing all right.
Bolan told him, "Pretty soon now, Tony. Then well see."
She arrived a minute later, leaving her car in the regular parking area and stumbling breathlessly into the shadows to redeem a raincheck issued to one of the few men who had, lately, treated her with dignity and understanding.
At the moment, Bolan was finding it difficult to go on understanding. She was still wearing the damn bikini, except that she had added a skimpy top to complete the almost non-existent ensemble.
But then she explained, "I'm late, sorry. Max came home, first time this month he's been in by midnight. I had to lie to him. He thinks I'm on the beach."
Bolan told her, "Maybe it was the last lie. Guess that will be up to you. Tony Danger tells me the film is on board the Folly. Ill want you to make sure it's the real thing."
"But he told Max he'd sent it to New York."
"Sure, that took the heat off him and put more of a screw into your husband. But a guy like Tony likes to keep his goodies close by. Anyway, he's seen the light, and he wants to let you off the hook." He pulled her to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. "There's your passport from hell," he told her.
She said, "Oh wow," in a voice just a decibel above a whisper.
Bolan instructed her, "Get in the car and sit tight. If you hear a ruckus, take off."
She showed him saucer eyes and a pained smile, then stepped inside the Ferrari.
Bolan hauled his prisoner from the trunk, set him on his feet, then shoved him toward the docks. "Breathe very carefully and live awhile," he suggested.
The caporegime, such a strutting peacock a short while earlier, was now at the verge of collapse. These guys sometimes went this way,
Bolan reflected. Beneath those cocky, bullyboy exteriors often beat the fluttering heart of a perpetually frightened little kid — born into despair, reared in panic, matured with violence and an outward show of disrespect for everything feared, which meant every thing. These were the guys who died blubbering and pleading — because they had found nothing to justify their lives and even less to crown their deaths. It had something to do with visions of immortality, Bolan suspected; these guys had no visions whatever beyond their own grubby little noses.
He had to half-carry, half-shove the terrified prisoner to the docks. As their feet touched the gangway, a soft voice from the Folly's deck exclaimed, "It's that guyl"
The Executioner's death voice quickly warned those aboard, "Stand loose, sailors. I've got a cannon down your master's throat."
They boarded, Bolan slamming Tony Danger against the cabin bulkhead with a knee in his belly, the muzzle of the Beretta resting directly between the twitching eyes.
He ripped the tape-gag away and commanded, "Tell 'em, Tony."
It took the guy several tries to find his voice. When it came, it was a death rattle. "Do as he says! Don't dick around!"
Turtle Tarantini stepped out of the shadows near the main cabin. He was giving Bolan that same fawning look of respect accorded him earlier, under far different circumstances, and it offered Bolan a variation on his numbers.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Bolan sir," the Turtle greeted him, the voice shaking just a little.
Bolan snapped, "Where's your crew?"
"Right here, sir. Behind me. You better tell 'em it's okay to come out. We're not armed, sir."
"Step forward and stand to the rail for a frisk. I've got nothing hard for you guys, unless you give me something."
The other two showed themselves, moving carefully, then one by one they came to the rail opposite Bolan's position and presented themselves for the weapons shakedown.
Each one he frisked and sent over the gangway with the instructions, "Don't even look back."
Then it was just Mack Bolan and the guy who, with perhaps some weird presentiment, had named this sleek pleasure craft Danger's Folly.