No more. Not ever again. Bolan would never involve another human being in his private war, not as an ally.
This was a specialty war. A Wang Dang Doo in the real sense, and a job for a loner, without support, a guy who knew every way and every wile, a guy who could stride through rivers of blood to kill again and again... and be willing to take his lumps in that final judgement of the universe.
Yeah. And there it was, of course. Mack Bolan was not a religious man. Not in the ordinary sense of praying and going to church and that sort of thing. But he knew that the universe did not run itself. It wasn't a damn machine which just suddenly sprang into being and then began running down. There was a purpose to the whole thing... somewhere beyond the fragmented understanding of ordinary mortals there was a good reason for the existence of the universe.
If feeling one's self a contributing particle of that universe could be regarded as a religion, then Bolan was a religious man.
In this world of order and purpose, a self-aware particle called Mack Bolan had received some manner of special endowments. He had developed skills, and he had grown into a uniqueness of personal destiny which somehow seemed to have some importance.
Yes, this was a hell of an important mission.
Bolan's war with the Mafia was of some definite importance to the universal order of things.
He was obligated to an exercise of a special responsibility.
He was a Wang Dang Doo type of guy, face it, and he could turn away from his responsibilities no more than he could turn away from life itself.
And, in this hot old town of San Francisco, the star performer of Able Team had again drawn the tough one, the gory one.
This time it would be Wang Dang Doo, and Mr. King too.
And there would be no sanctuaries — neither of geography, nor of social rank, nor of family background-there would be no sanctuaries from this Wang Dang Doo.
The Executioner was tracking the hit.
11
Detente
The decals were off and the warwagon was slowly cruising the periphery of the DeMarco neighborhood.
Bolan knew something about containment networks; he himself had set up one or two in years gone by — and there were certain telltale signs a savvy prey could look for... to give him that extra few seconds of pre-reaction before he found himself bouncing off the net.
The idea was to avoid touching the net. It was like a spring trap... one touch and you're caught.
Bolan had re-assumed his role camouflage, this time with a blue denim jacket instead of the white wind-breaker and lightly tinted purple lenses over the eyes in lieu of the bushy mustache. The effect was about the same — a subtle shift of image that wasn't overly noticeable, not clown-like, simply innocuous. A busy wad of chewing gum kept his jaws in wobbling motion, adding a further distortion to the basic image.
He was about three blocks from the DeMarco mansion when he spotted the first trap car. It was parked at the curb on the corner of Hyde and Pacific, an ordinary street cruiser with engine idling, two uniformed men in front and two plainclothesmen in the rear. The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun was visible above the back seat and a teargas gun lay on the rear deck.
One block beyond that was a neatly concealed roadblock. They were making it look like a minor traffic mishap, with two cars pulled together in a T-formation just outside the intersection, a wrecker visible in the background, one narrow lane of traffic open and being slowly moved along by a uniformed officer.
Most vehicles would be passed on through without too much delay. Certain ones would be maneuvered through the block and into a special "inspection pool" immediately beyond the set-up... probably over behind the wrecker. It was cute, very cute, and once a guy committed himself to that scene there would be no way out.
Bolan was not about to commit himself.
He pulled alongside the plug cruiser and stopped, then slid across the seat and rolled down the window. He said, "Hey man," and popped his gum at the guy.
The uniformed cop at the wheel of the cruiser gave him a scowl and nothing else.
Bolan scowled back and asked him, "What happened to Lombard? It was right here yesterday."
The cop growled, "Beat it."
"Don't freak out, man. I just want to know where Lombard Street is."
"Get that crate out of here, you're blocking our view."
"Well you could at least..."
"Go ask a service station! Move on, right now!"
Bolan said, "Amen man." He blew a bubble with the gum, casually raised the window, slid back behind the wheel, and sent the van creaking around the comer and away from the blockade.
His recently abandoned "drop" — the old apartment building — was two short blocks dead ahead. Under the circumstances, the apartment now seemed to represent the lesser of two possible evils. Obviously he had not "beat the grid" — and, just as obviously, he would not do so in any sort of running play. That hill was crawling with cops equipped with cute games and full riot gear.
One of the more important strategies of warfare was in knowing when to use your weapons, when to use your feet, and when to use your tail. Bight now seemed an appropriate occasion to use the tail.
Bolan parked the warwagon a half-block from his building, locked it securely, and went the rest of the way on foot. He used the front entrance and the regular stairway, and he arrived at his own door on the third floor without incident.
The smell of fresh coffee struck him as he pushed into the apartment. The Beretta met his hand halfway and led him around the corner into the kitchen.
The China doll, wearing the same clothing and an entirely unsurprised smile, glanced at the Beretta Belle and cheerily announced, "Coffee's ready."
'It was ready hours ago," he reminded her.
"I threw that out. This is new."
Bolan went on past her and shook the place down. It was clean. He returned to the entrance hall and closed the door, then he went into the living room to gaze glumly out the window. The police had finally closed on the DeMarco place, and blue uniforms were moving vigorously all around those distant grounds.
The girl came up behind him and carefully halted several paces to the rear. She asked him, "Were those your fireworks I heard awhile ago?"
He returned the Beretta to the sideleather, dropped tiredly into an overstuffed chair, and told the China doll, "Yeah. Special celebration, no charge to spectators."
In a small voice she informed him, "I came in through the window."
Bolan said, "Great. You can go out the same way."
Instead she went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with two steaming mugs of coffee. "How do you take it?" she asked.
"Strong, black, and not drugged."
She laughed and pushed a mug at him. "You've seen too many movies."
He accepted the coffee. "I haven't seen a movie in four years."
She wrinkled her nose and sat down opposite him, daintily holding the oversized mug with both hands. "You haven't missed much. Skin is in, drama is out, comedy is sick, and sick is relevant."
Bolan chuckled. He put down the coffee to light a cigarette, savored the invigorating smoke briefly, and expelled it in a tired whoosh. Then he asked the girl, "Why'd you come back?"
"Wrong question," she replied solemnly.
"What's the right one?"
"Why did I leave."
"Okay, why did you?"
She tossed her head and said, "Give me one of those damn cigarettes."
He tossed her the pack, then leaned forward to light her. When they had both settled down again, the China doll said, "I'll bet you never would have asked, would you."