Staying beneath the trucks, he moved on, skipping the next two trucks but rigging a charge on the one after that, setting the timer to go off at the same time as the first one.
By the time he was finished, he had the gas tanks of four of the trucks rigged to blow in two and a half minutes.
Now to save the children.
So far he had seen no sign of the Parellis or Lana Garner.
He felt sure that they were all here somewhere, but finding them might have to wait until after his diversion commenced.
He knelt next to a wheel of the last truck and got ready to sprint toward cover of the warehouse wall.
What he saw in the next few seconds changed his plan.
A smaller door next to the big loading dock entrance opened.
Four people emerged, going down the short flight of concrete steps to the ground, starting across toward the low office building.
David Parelli was in the lead.
His mother, looking as elegantly dressed as she had been half naked the last time Bolan saw her, kept pace at her son's side.
Bringing up the rear were Lana Garner and a Mafia street soldier who held her arm. He was dragging her along roughly, just as Bolan had seen the little child dragged to the truck minutes ago.
Bolan waited, the numbers ticking away in his head, until the four of them disappeared into the office building, then he headed for the office at a dead run, not caring anymore if his presence was detected now.
A light burned behind a shade-covered window in the office building, but whoever had pulled down the shade had left a small gap at the bottom.
Bolan paused long enough to steal a glance through the tiny opening.
He saw Mrs. Parelli sitting behind a metal desk.
Her son stood in front of the desk and they both looked on as the gunman slammed Lana Garner down in a straight-backed kitchen chair placed in front of the desk.
Bolan left the window, covered the distance to the door in two long, pumping strides, slinging the Ingram MAC-10 around into his right fist while he cross-drew Big Thunder into his left hand.
He hit the door with his shoulder, slamming on through into the room, the AutoMag and the MAC-10 coming up in automatic target acquisition as the door flew off its hinges.
The gunman spun around in Bolan's direction, trying to lift the shotgun he carried, the woman forgotten.
Bolan squeezed the trigger of the SMG, the lethal burst stitching the guy's chest.
Blood and flesh mushroomed from the man's back as the slugs drove him against the office wall, the shotgun flying from nerveless fingers. He bounced off the wall to pitch, quivering in death throes, facedown onto the linoleum floor.
Denise Parelli shot out of her chair, a look of total surprise twisting her expression into something ugly.
Lana Garner lifted her eyes to Bolan, stray strands of dark hair falling across her face but not masking her relief.
David Parelli started to move away, his hand darting beneath his jacket, his eyes wide as they took in the two-gun warrior.
"Hold it!" Bolan rapped, swinging the AutoMag to cover David while he centered the snout of the Ingram on a spot between Denise Parelli's breasts.
"Mack!" Lana gasped from her chair, her voice a sob. "I'm so glad to see you!"
Bolan did not take his attention from the Parellis.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine... now." Lana stood, moving to his side, her voice urgent. "The kids, Mack. You've got to help them! They're going to truck them off somewhere!" Her eyes took in mother and son. "They're... animals!"
Denise Parelli smiled.
"Really, Mr. Bolan, there's no need to be so melodramatic. You can't accomplish anything by this. We've got more than thirty men here."
David at first appeared startled by his mother's cool-headed offer, then he considered it and relaxed his own stance, a sneer pasting itself across his swarthy face.
"Yeah, you're a dead man, you bastard, only you just don't know it yet."
They were a gutsy team, all right.
Especially Mrs. Parelli.
"I don't think so," Bolan told them.
"Why not?" Denise demanded, losing some of her sureness.
Bolan did not answer.
He didn't have to.
Outside, the world erupted into flame and fury with a ground-shaking series of explosions as the planted plastique did its stuff and the night turned blood-red.
20
The four explosions came so close together that they sounded like one gigantic blast, vibrating the office around the tense tableau of the Parellis, Lana Garner and Bolan. The head-pounding booms distracted everyone in that office except Bolan.
David Parelli's hand flashed toward the pistol holstered under his jacket.
"David, no!" his mother shrieked.
The mobster barely had the weapon clear of shoulder leather when Bolan triggered the AutoMag. The hand cannon bucked in his fist, the head buster picking Parelli up off his feet and depositing the young don of Chicago as a burbling, headless mess in the nearest corner.
More explosions were ripping through the night outside as the gas tanks of the line of trucks started fireballing to secondary explosions.
Denise Parelli stared down at the body of her son, then looked at Bolan.
Lana was huddled against him now, her face buried in his shoulder, his right arm around her as he held the Ingram in his right fist, not shifting it from the real boss of this inhuman operation.
"You've... killed him," Denise Parelli said in a barely audible whisper. "You've killed my little boy."
"How many children have you sent away, Mrs. Parelli?"
Bolan's voice was as cold as the night wind howling outside.
The real boss of Chicago seemed in a state of shock.
"David was innocent once. He was a sweet boy. He did everything his mama told him to."
"That was his mistake."
Then her face hardened, and Denise Parelli drew herself to her full height, gathered the fur jacket around her.
"I'm leaving," she announced imperiously, "and you are not going to stop me. I know something about you, Bolan. You're not about to shoot an unarmed woman."
Bolan felt Lana lift her head to gaze up at him, to see what he was going to do.
A flood of thoughts flashed through his mind.
The little girl in the warehouse being manhandled into the truck.
Compared to what would happen to her later if she wasn't rescued, that was probably nothing.
The children who had been forced to make the films Dutton and Parelli and all the other perverts like them watched, slavering in the dark with their sick fantasies.
Who knew how all those innocent kids had ended up? Badly, that was for sure.
Thousands of parents with parts of themselves ripped away callously, left to grieve and ask endless questions, never to know the fate of the ones most precious to them.
And the inhuman bitch responsible for all that suffering had arrogantly declared that he would not shoot an unarmed woman.
"In your case, I'll made an exception," the Executioner told her. But before he could trigger the Ingram, Lana Garner grabbed the weapon, still on the sling around Bolan's neck, and emptied the clip into Denise Parelli's body. The impact of the fusillade drove the female Mafia boss backward through a window, her tattered corpse half in and half out of the window, gushing rivulets of spreading blood.
Lana did not hide her eyes against Bolan's shoulder this time as she looked upon the shapeless garbage in silks and furs. Bolan gently pulled away the weapon and fed in a fresh clip.
"This is justice," she told Bolan.
"Come on," he said. He holstered the AutoMag and unleathered the Beretta, which he put in her hand. "You wanted in on the fight. You've earned a taste if you still want it."
"Just give me a chance at these scum."
He quickly showed her how to operate the weapon.
A hardguy came bursting into the office from outside.