"Signed and seated, Captain."
"Fingerprints?"
"Sent them in. They're checking now."
"Evidence?"
"Silent alarm from the liquor store. Boggs and Simpson caught him running away. Had a .38 and a bag from the liquor store with the exact amount of cash stolen. No ID on him."
"Witnesses?"
"We're bringing the liquor-store clerk down for a lineup. The clerk had been knocked on the head, but the wound's minor. There shouldn't be any problem. This guy fits the description perfectly."
The captain looked at Bolan. "You took like you been around the block before, sport. You gotta know that playing dummy won't get you nothing but hard time and pain."
"I'm saying nothing till I see my lawyer," Bolan said.
The captain shook his head. "Lock his ass up."
"Right." The skinny cop stood. "Notice those tiny scars around the eyes and nose, Captain?" The captain squinted at Bolan's face. "You mean those wrinkles?"
"They're scars. My sister was in an accident when she was a kid. Her boyfriend had a snoot full and crashed his Studebaker into a tractor. Mashed her face something awful. Doctors did the best they could back then, but she never could breathe proper. Always chewing with her mouth open so's she could breathe. Ever watched yams chewed like that? Yeech."
"Get on with it, Jimmy." The cop patted his toupee, shifting it.
"Anyway, couple years ago she had it fixed and figured while they was at it they might as well do a little adjusting and tightening here and there. Had tiny threadlike scars just like this fella."
"What are you saying, Jimmy? This boy's had plastic surgery?"
"Looks that way."
The captain rubbed his chin. "Well, that don't change anything for now. Lock him up and wait for the fingerprint results. I think he's going to be spending some time in a Georgia jail."
There was a knock on the door.
The captain pulled it open.
"What?"
The uniformed cop outside pointed to Bolan.
"His lawyer's here. Wants to see him."
"In a second."
The uniformed cop nodded and left. The captain faced the skinny plainclothes cop. "Let him jaw with his lawyer. Meantime, tell the D.A. what we got. This looks like one case we won't have to bargain down. This tough guy's going all the way."
3
"What kept you?" Bolan asked.
Hat Brognola closed the door behind him, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with his handkerchief.
"I see you've been busy making friends again. The precinct captain looked at me as if I were defending Charles Manson."
"I grow on people."
"The list of people you've grown on who want to yank your roots gets longer."
"That's why I'm here. Right?"
Brognola sighed as he sat down. "I'm not so sure this is such a good idea, Mack. You're leaving yourself wide open. It's still not too late to change your mind."
Bolan shook his head. "Appreciate the thought, Hal, but I'm already here. Things are moving according to plan. I should be out of here before the paperwork's even done. I don't think they'll make any connection between me and the Executioner. What about the liquor store clerk?"
"He'll pick you out of the lineup."
"His wounds?"
"The best makeup artist around applied them herself. Looks like you laid an eight-inch gash across his forehead. That should add another couple of years to your sentence."
"Perfect."
"Yeah, perfect," Brognola said wryly.
He plucked a fat cigar from his pocket and roasted the end with a match. "It's a bit hot for this," he explained, "but it's the only way to kill the damn smell of this place."
Bolan let his friend talk. He knew the man pretty well after all these years together.
Recognized his discomfort at the situation. He'd seen Bolan hatch a lot of farfetched plans before, but this was the most bizarre of all. Or maybe just the most dangerous.
"What about the fingerprints?" Bolan asked.
"Taken care of. It'll take them a day or two, but by then they'll match you through the FBI as Damon Blue. Your rap sheet would do any convict proud. Twelve arrests for armed robbery, assault, carrying a concealed weapon. Two convictions. Just like you wanted."
"Good."
Brognola blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. "I'm glad you approve."
"What about our target?"
"Dodge Reed is still locked up nice and snug at the countyjail. No fights, no fuss. Model prisoner."
"Any word on Zavlin?"
Brognola hesitated, his face suddenly grim. "He's in the country."
"Damn! Already?"
"Flew in last night from Soviet Union via Canada. Lost our boys less than ten miles from Washington, D.C."
Bolan grimaced.
"He's their best. Maybe the best ever."
And that's what started this whole charade, Bolan thought.
Undercover sources in east Europe had passed word along the intelligence network that the KGB's best, most ruthless assassin had been assigned a new target for immediate elimination. Nothing unusual there.
Zavlin had been responsible for the assassinations of those bothersome to the KGB for years. When Zavlin was given a target's name, nothing could stop him. Many had tried.
The CIA routinely got advance notice on some of his marks and set up elaborate plans to foil the assassin. They never succeeded. Neither did the British, the Israelis nor any other government agency. All they ever got for their troubles was a long list of murdered field agents. Many anti-Soviet leaders in Africa, South America and Europe had fallen under Zavlin's hand.
What was unusual about this case was Zavlin's current target: Dodge Reed. Brognola had run every kind of check on Reed that was possible and the profile always came out the same.
Dodge Reed was just what he appeared to be, a twenty-three-year-old record store employee who attended Atlanta Community College at night, lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment and drove a seven-year-old Pinto. Three weeks before he'd been arrested for embezzling from the record store he worked at. He was awaiting trial.
What would the KGB's best international hit man want with a guy like that? "Nothing more on Reed?" Bolan asked. "No access to top-secret information?"
Brognola shook his head. "Nothing."
"Anything from your overseas agents?"
"Nope. Just that Reed is a top-priority kill. They want him dead within ninety-six hours."
"They know he's in jail?"
"They know."
Bolan frowned. "Damn! What does this kid know that scares them?"
"That's what you're here to find out." Brognola looked his old friend in the eye. "You know I wouldn't have come to you with this if there was any other way. Hell, you've got enough troubles of your own right now. It's just that we've finally got a chance to catch this monster and the usual agencies have failed too often. I don't want that to happen this time."
Bolan smiled. The words hadn't been necnot between them. "We'll get him," he said.
But even as he said the words, he wondered who'd get whom first.
4
The Executioner sat in the back of the squad car and stared through the wire-mesh screen at the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains. The sun was barely tinting Atlanta's skyline with pink. A slight breeze whipped through Atlanta today, but it was still hot. His prison garb was stiff and scratchy. The handcuffs, clamped on too tight by an overzealous guard, chafed at his wrists.
"Be on our way soon," the driver said, scratching at his uniform as if it was as starchy and hot as Bolan's.
They were idling inside the jail entrance while the driver's partner chatted with one of the gate guards.
On the other side of the thick metal barrier, cars drifted slowly to work, to friends, to family, the occupants listening to their favorite deejay, planning their Sunday fun. Traffic was sparse, the city still sleepy.
They'd kept Bolan overnight at the precinct while the paperwork was shuffled from file folder to file cabinet. The fingerprints had finally been attached to a name and case history Damon Blue. Their curiosity satisfied, the cops were anxious to kick him on to Fulton County Jail, where prisoners awaiting trial were held. Bolan knew that.