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"You can't leave here in that shape, man!"

"Hell I can't. I've learned to smell them, Jim. They're around, take book on it."

"They who?" the surgeon asked, though he knew the answer.

"The hounds, the Mafia hounds. They're around, I can feel it."

Brantzen sighed and said, "Yeah, you're right, I guess. They've already been here. I wasn't going to tell you, but . . . well . . . if you're determined to go out there, Mack, don't stop to talk to any book salesmen."

"That's their trick, eh?" Bolan was getting his gear together.

"That's the trick. The two who were here were very clumsy about it. Offered to donate a set of their books for my waiting room if I'd let them come in and pitch to my in-patients. I told them I was empty at the moment. I am, in fact. Then they . . ."

"They tumble to what kind of place this is?" Bolan asked quickly.

Brantzen shook his head. "I doubt that very much. They seemed to think I was running a nursing home or something. Started asking if I'd heard the shooting last night . . . if any of my 'old folks' were disturbed . . . that sort of stuff. Trying to trip me up, I think, because I'd already told them I was empty. I guess I satisfied them. I saw them going into the house across the way."

"Did you see them come out?" Bolan asked, his tone ominous.

Brantzen shook his head in a silent reply.

"Show me the house. Then show me how to get out of here without being seen from that house, and then . . ."

Bolan was interrupted by a light rapping at the door. He swung against the wall as Brantzen answered the summons. Bolan caught a quick glimpse of a pretty woman in a white uniform as she announced: "The Chief of Police would like to talk to you, Doctor. Shall I put him in your office, or . . ."

Brantzen nodded and said, "I'll be right along," and pushed the door shut. "Goddammit," he whispered. "Genghis Conn has come a'calling."

A flurry of sounds denoting a light scuffle came from beyond the door; then it opened again and a tall man in a khaki uniform stepped into the room, holding a gray desert felt hat in both hands. "I told the little lady it was an unofficial visit, Doc," he said in a soft voice. He smiled genially at Brantzen, then his eyes shifted to Bolan, who was frozen at the wall. The policeman's gaze bounced off the bulge of the weapon, concealed beneath a folded jacket draping Bolan's arm, and returned to the surgeon's flustered countenance.

"Everybody relax," Conn said, still smiling. "I didn't come here to be a hero." The gaze flicked again to Bolan. "Nor to bury one," he added.

"I . . . I'm with a patient, Genghis," Brantzen declared testily.

"I can see that." Conn tossed his hat onto a table and dropped his lank frame into a char. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, took a bite out of it, and continued eyeing Bolan.

Bolan returned to the recliner and eased onto it, half relaxing into the cushions, the jacket still in place across one arm. "It's okay, Jim," Bolan murmured.

The policeman said, "Sure, it's okay, I just stopped by to gab. The doc and I have spent many pleasant moments swapping ideas about war and peace. That right, Doc?"

Brantzen woodenly nodded his head, moved jerkily to a chair, and perched tensely on its edge, his hands clasped across one knee.

"We both abhor violence." Conn laughed softly and took another plug out of the cigar, rolled it into his cheek, and leaned toward Bolan. "Might sound funny, a lawman who wants only peace and tranquility, but . . . see . . . law enforcement's the only business I know. So . . . I came to the desert, looking for the same thing most people seek here. Peace." He laughed again. "I'm not a law officer . . . I'm a peace officer." The eyes twinkled toward Brantzen. "We were talking about that just the other night, Doc . . . remember?"

Brantzen again nodded his head. "You run a quiet town, Genghis," he said stiffly.

"Damn right. Mean for it to stay that way, too." The gaze swung to Bolan. "Have you committed any crimes in my town, Mister?"

Bolan said, "None that I can think of."

Conn solemnly moved his head in an agreeable jerk. "That's what I was thinking." He sighed, fiddled with the cigar, and added, "Of course, violence has a way of expanding, squirting into the peaceful zones, running rampant. I wouldn't want that to happen here. You planning on staying in my town long, Mister?"

Bolan said, "I was just leaving."

Conn heaved to his feet. "Give you a lift?"

Bolan exchanged glances with Brantzen. The surgeon gave a tight nod. "Just follow my instructions to the letter and you'll be all right. A dry icepack will control swelling and reduce pain. Keep it dry, though. And leave the covers until they fall off. If you notice any inflammation around the edges, get to a doctor immediately?" He jumped to his feet and pulled Bolan's suitcase from a corner. "I'll help you outside."

"I'm parked out back," Conn advised. He went out the door first, leading the way. Bolan followed close behind, gingerly feeling of his face.

Brantzen overtook his patient, moving alongside as they strolled across the lobby. He thrust a pair of oversize sunglasses at Bolan and said, "You might want to use them. They'll conceal most of the patchwork."

Bolan grunted his thanks and added, in a low voice, "Is this guy for real?"

"I don't know, "Brantzen replied in a hoarse whisper. "He's an odd one. Never could figure him. I believe he knows who you are, though."

"Sure he does," Bolan quietly muttered. "Well . . . guess I'll just play it by ear. Thanks again, Jim. And take care of that envelope for me, eh?"

The surgeon jerked his head and said, "I was talking to the hospital less than an hour ago. The old man's going to make it."

"Great. He'll need the money." They paused in the doorway. Conn had gone ahead and was opening the car door on the passenger's side. Bolan gripped his friend's hand and said, "Jim . . . I don't know how to thank you."

"You thanked me years ago. Just keep an eye on Genghis Conn. There's no telling what he has in mind."

"I'm getting a good feeling about Conn," Bolan said, then he seized the suitcase and walked quickly to the car. Conn took the suitcase off his hands and placed it on the rear seat. Bolan tossed a farewell wave to his benefactor, then slid into the front seat of the police car.

Conn went around and climbed in behind the wheel. "Where to, Mister?" he asked quietly.

"That's your decision," Bolan replied tautly. "Your town, Chief, is crawling with undesirables."

"Don't I know it." Conn sighed and started the engine.

The jackhammers were beginning to work over Bolan's face. He stared through the window with a sinking feeling as the big car went into motion and New Horizons slid to the rear. Horizons, Bolan was thinking, never stood still for a moving man. He wondered what lay beyond his next one.

"I'll drop you outside of town, Mister," Conn was saying. "I don't give a damn where you go from there. You can go to hell if you want to, just so it's out of my town, and just so you take your hell along with you."

"No worry there," Bolan quipped. "Hell has a way of following me around."

"I guess you invited it, Mister."

"I guess I did."

The Executioner's hell also had a way of lying in wait for him. The police car had swung around the rear corner of the New Horizons and was straightening into the tree-shaded lane running along the south of the property when a white Chrysler lurched from a secluded driveway and bounced to a halt directly in their path. Another big car pulled across the lane some fifty feet behind them as Conn burned rubber in an arcing halt. Two men leapt from the porch of a house directly opposite Brantzen's clinic and ran a zig-zag pattern across the lawn, pistols poised.