"How would he make it work?"
"Some kind of ultra-sophisticated radio gear he's hijacked from the military. Bolan says that one of our leading citizens has dirty fingers over the deal. Guy heads an electronics firm that does government contract work. Bolan says he was strong-armed into the deal, desperately wants out. It's a defense security-violation rap if he gets nailed. That's what I'm pegging my whole interest on. I believe Thornton — he's the guy — I believe he's the key to a lot of infectious corruption we've been noting around town the past few years. If we could get Thornton to bust loose and...."
Lyons observed, "That's not homicide work."
"I'm a cop," Tatum replied quietly.
"Yeah, you are that," the L.A. Sergeant agreed.
"Anyway, there are plenty of unsolved homicides tied into this mess, I'm sure of that."
"I suppose so."
"I know so. Tony Danger there. He's Lucasi's most trusted triggerman. I know that. So do a lot of other people. He's responsible for a dozen or more homicides in my jurisdiction over the past two years. I know it. Proving it in a court of law is something else again. So ... yeah … I'm raiding the long end of the odds. Maybe something will shake loose from this Bolan blast."
Lyons grinned,"keeping a thought to himself. Cap'n Tatum, it seemed, was a total convert. He wasn't the first. Certainly he wouldn't be the last. Mack Bolan's lonely war was becoming less lonely all the time. Give it to the guy, though, he'd built that base of unofficial support all on his own. It was hard to come into contact with the guy and not end up cheering him on ... if only from the sidelines.
"Anyway," Tatum was explaining further, "Bolan was going to let it drop on Tony Danger that he's planning a hit on this radio equipment. He figures it's the one thing that will bring Lucasi out fighting. Hopefully it will panic the guy. He'll rush off to a wild-ass defense of his precious dream. By that time, Bolan will be right on his tail. He'll let Lucasi pinpoint the equipment for him."
"So why aren't we staking out Lucasi ourselves, instead of sitting here waiting for — "
"You said it yourself a minute ago," Tatum growled. "My job is homicide. I'm not running off on any wild-ass federal — "
"What homicide?"
"Maxwell Thornton's. Bolan is betting, and I agree, that Lucasi will order Tony Danger to hit Thornton, and quick. Hell be moving everything he's got to keep his game alive. Thornton is his pivot man. And mine. I aim to keep him alive, and I aim to nail Tony Danger once and for all."
"God I wouldn't want to be on your limb," Lyons commented in a hushed voice.
"Neither would I, but I'm there, so shut up."
"One more thing, Cap'n. These guys have tried radio before. They even set up a legit broadcast station in Mexico a few years back to — "
"Didn't work," Tatum snapped. "First of all, anybody could tune into the broadcasts. Nothing exclusive about that. Secondly, the Mexican government shut them down when our feds requested cooperation. This is a whole new wrinkle. It's more exclusive than any telephone wire. Virtually untappable, and — there he is!"
Tony Danger had reappeared at the entrance to the police building. He appeared to be in much better shape, now — cocky, strutting down the street to the corner.
Moments later a heavy black car swung in to the curb. Tony Danger slid in, and the car slid away.
Tatum moved his vehicle smoothly into the flow of traffic and spoke into his microphone. "Hotel One, subject acquired, moving north toward Pacific Highway. Black limousine, tag California niner-zero-four, hotel-delta-tango. All units close per instructions and maintain surveillance. Subject turning west at…."
Lyons unsheathed his service revolver and checked it, then returned it to leather.
He wished, dammit, that they had been on Bolan instead of. ... All the fireworks, he knew, were headed that other way. Cap'n Tatum, the rawhiding total convert, had turned Big Ben Lucasi's fate over to the uncertain mercies of the Executioner.
Yeah. All the fireworks would be running that other way.
19
End of track
He watched from his eagle's perch as they rolled out of Lucasi's joint — three big limousines — and he gave them plenty of stretch, tracking the three-car procession of headlights through binoculars until they reached Interstate 5 and headed south. Then he made the jump and sent the Ferrari roaring along the interstate route in hot pursuit.
He had them in sight again well ahead of the interchange and casually tracked them through and onto the downtown leg. It was an excellent freeway system, easily carrying the swift-moving traffic in a no-bunch, no-slow flow. It was still early evening, not quite nine o'clock; another of those San Diego Specials, full moon and blankets of stars, a night with plenty of light, kinder to lovers than to warriors … but war it had to be — and a one-shot war, at that.
He'd promised the homicide captain that he would pass this town — so it had to be this time, this place, and this circumstance for the Executioner … there could be none other.
The enemy procession veered east onto the city-transit leg at Broadway and kept on easterly beyond the Wabash Freeway exit. It was at this point that Bolan established radio contact with his partners.
"Heading east on the Helix," he announced. "Just passed Wabash. Where away?"
Gadgets Schwarz came in immediately. "Bingo. Running true. Look for them to drop out at State 94, thence southeasterly through Spring Valley."
Bolan responded, "Roj."
Blancanales reported, "I'm just a few minutes from that exit. Want me to bird-dog?"
"You clear, Gadgets?" Bolan wanted to know.
"Yeah, no sweat."
"Okay, Pol. Swing up there. Confirm three crew wagons, Lincolns, I think, running in convoy."
"Roj."
It was a tight game of numbers. Bolan was not allowing himself any luxuries where Ben Lucasi was concerned. The guy was wily. Already, it appeared, the convoy had swung far out of its way in transiting the city along the south. They could have much easier cut across on Interstate 8 ... if indeed they were humping for Route 94. That would be the desert road running past the Sycuan Indian Reservation on the route to Tecate, a Mexican border town. Something rumbled deep in Bolan's memory, then, causing him to again send a query to Gadgets Schwarz.
"Gadgets, you said to look for high ground for these radio links. Doesn't Route 94 head east at the border?"
"Right. My present position is just west of Potrero, which is almost due north of Tecate, just a few miles over the border. You have that on your area map?"
Bolan replied, "Finger right on it. Trace eastward, beyond the Compo Reservation. Looks like a high peak over there."
Schwarz came back: "Right. That would be Tecate Divide, elevation more than four thousand feet. The trailers I've been tracking were parked here near Potrero as recently as today. The track fizzled out right here, though."
"Okay, stay alert. It looks like the play is running your way."
Blancanales checked in a moment later to confirm that assumption. "Right, check three Detroit blacks off the interstate at Spring Valley, running south on 94."
Bolan replied, "Bingo. Fall in behind them and maintain track. I'm coming around."
"You'll have to heat bearings to do it. They're clocking eighty."
"I've got bearings a'plenty," Bolan chuckled. He moved the Ferrari into the upper ranges of the tach and closed quickly to the exit ramp, then rolled carefully through Spring Valley and onto the open road of the desert country. He could see the procession ahead of him, now the only lights on the road.