A homesick warrior was in trouble from the start, he told himself. Besides, the San Diego basin wasn't home. For Bolan, "home" meant memories of blood and pain, all mingled with the good times and the laughter from his childhood. Home was Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where the syndicate had squeezed his father dry and turned his sister out to work the streets, where Bolan's father had eventually cracked beneath the strain and turned the family home into a slaughterhouse. It was a miracle that Johnny had survived, and Bolan had refused to let his brother have a piece of warfare everlasting, until the war had come to Johnny independently. Once blooded, there had been no turning back for Johnny Bolan, and the brothers were together now, in spirit and in fact.
The elder Bolan liked the sound of San Diego at this moment, had almost decided on a visit to his brother when he spied a phone booth. He had a call to make before he left New York, and this would be as good a time as any.
Bolan punched the private number up from memory and waited until Leo Turrin answered in D.C.
"I'm calling for La Mancha," Bolan told him.
"Go ahead."
The breach of regular security, the sudden tension in his contact's voice, alerted Bolan to a crisis in the making. Normally, the man from Wonderland would take his number, find a different phone and call him back within five minutes, thus evading any possibility of taps or bugs. For Leo to accept the call unscrambled on his private line could only mean that he, or someone close, was in a world of trouble.
For a fleeting instant Bolan nearly hung up, breaking the connection before a trace could be established. But he fought the urge and stood his ground. Leo Turrin would never knowingly betray him, and it would be virtually impossible for agents in D.C. to mobilize a New York team in any case. Secure in the thicket of red tape, he forged ahead.
"What is it, Sticker?"
Turrin hesitated then cleared his throat, as if asking for help was an ordeal for him. And in retrospect the Executioner would realize that it had been precisely that. Reluctantly, the former mafioso laid it out.
"Hal's in deep. He needs a specialist."
"Explain."
"His family's been taken, and the brass at Justice have him figured for a mole."
"That's bullshit."
"Hey, Iknow that, but they're talking evidence. Like phone logs, videos, the whole nine yards."
It was preposterous. Brognola was completely, scrupulously honest, and he should have been above suspicion. But the soldier knew that no one was above suspicion in the last analysis. Because the enemy was everywhere, he might have allies even in the halls of Justice. And the Executioner had dealt with crooked cops before.
But not Brognola.
No.
It was unthinkable.
What happened next would logically depend upon the quality of evidence against the man, but courtroom machinations could not be the Executioner's immediate priority.
Hal's family took the honors there, and while their lives were hanging in the balance, Bolan could not rest. He had a job to do.
"I'm coming in."
"Be careful, Striker. Someone thumped the hornet's nest, but good."
"What else is new?" He grinned into the mouthpiece of the telephone. "You still around the same old place?"
"Things never change."
"I've noticed."
"See you?"
"Bet on it."
Bolan cradled the receiver and returned to the rental car. As he sat behind the wheel, he spent a moment pondering the strange events in Wonderland. More details would be needed before he even tried to put the pieces together to complete the puzzle. At the moment he was sure of two things only: that Hal Brognola's family was in danger, and that Hal himself was being framed, set up to take a mighty fall for something he had never contemplated, let alone achieved.
The notion of Brognola working with the enemy was laughable, ridiculous. In other circumstances, Bolan would have seen the humor in it instantly. But with "evidence" behind the accusations, there was nothing funny about his friend's predicament. Hal needed help — a "specialist," damn right — and Bolan fit the bill precisely.
Wonderland was calling him to come and join the dance of death. For once he would not be the guest of honor, but the Executioner would not have missed it for the world.
6
Brognola pounced on the telephone before it had the chance to ring a second time. His palm was moist and sticky as he lifted the receiver to his ear.
"Hello?"
"You made it. Good."
"My family can't help you."
"They already have. We're talking, aren't we?"
"If you harm my wife or children..."
"What?" There was a challenge in the tone. "You gonna track us down?" The caller chuckled to himself. "That's bullshit, man. We're on your back like white on rice, and you will do exactly what you're told."
Brognola took a breath and held it briefly, finally allowed it to escape between clenched teeth. He had been on the verge of threatening this faceless enemy, a foolish move that could have jeopardized his wife, his children. Already chilling out, he recognized the need to take things easy, without provoking any violence on the other end.
The caller was correct, of course. Hal's bluster had been that and nothing more, an empty challenge, totally devoid of substance. He could never hope to find them on his own, retrieve his family and dole out retribution single-handedly. Even if he knew the bastards' names and their whereabouts, there would be little he could do. As long as Helen and the kids were held as hostages, his hands were tied.
"I'm listening," he said at last.
"That's better." Triumph, gloating in the other's tone. "We're going to need a meet."
"Just tell me where and when."
"Relax, old man. Don't be too eager. You've got chores to do before it gets that far."
"What kind of chores?"
"We need some information from you. You've got sources and it's time to share."
"Be more specific."
"Names and places ought to do for openers, okay? Protected witnesses, your people under cover, shit like that."
The pit was opening beneath his feet. He had to stall. "I don't have access to that kind of information."
Sudden anger. "Bullshit, man! You set the system up yourself. I've done my homework, see?"
"You didn't study long enough. I've been suspended, as of ten o'clock this morning. They only let me in the office to retrieve some personal belongings."
"What the hell..."
A hand was clapped across the mouthpiece, muffling a heated conversation, and the man from Justice knew that he had scored. Whatever the apparent link between his dual calamities, the gunners who had snatched his family appeared to have been kept in ignorance. That could be good or bad, Brognola realized, depending on their boiling point and how he handled things from here on out.
Another moment, and the sullen voice was back, the tension evident in every spoken word. "You'd better not be shitting me, old man."
"I'm not about to play that kind of game with all I have to lose."
"I find out that you're jerking me, you're gonna have a triple funeral to arrange, and then we're coming after you."
"It's straight," Brognola told him. "If you don't believe me, check it out yourself."
"I just might do that."