Bolan's equilibrium had not departed.
He came to momentary crouching rest at the opposite side of the room with silent Beretta in hand and already reflexing into the kill.
Both defenders were outlined clearly in the twilight effect from the descending flare. Each was on his knees and fighting to swing a shotgun into the firing lineup.
The Beretta chugged first and then again, two streaking pencils of flame blowing into that charged atmosphere in swift succession, a pair of 9mm shockers splattering into the twin targets with instant effect.
The guys died on their knees and toppled over into the wreckage beneath the window.
The light outside was growing by the second. The yard guy with the electronic bullhorn was beefing up the lakeshore defense line, calling hardmen by name and dispatching them to that sector.
Bolan permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction with that, then he ventured on.
God only knew how he would get out of the joint. He would face that problem when it came up. There were more pressing problems of the moment.
He had to orient himself as to present position and mission goals. He had to make a straight-line movement across the shortest expenditure of time, energy, and space. He had to find the trembling heart of this joint and rip it out.
And, of course, he had to remain alive.
5
Exposed
The strong room was a super security vault. Once the locks were set from the inside, there was no way in except to convince the occupants, via an intercom, that they should let you in. It had a self-contained power and air-conditioning system, canned foods, water, other minimal comforts. A guy could sweat it out in there for a long, long time.
The last holdouts to remain in the strong room, however, were Vincenti, Tony Quaso, and the Northside boss, Pete DiLani.
"What's going on out there?" Vincenti rasped as soon as Charley Fever stepped inside.
The chief torpedo was a bit winded, and his eyes were betraying an inner excitement as he secured the door. "I think it's that Bolan guy, Sal," he reported.
"Aw, bullshit!" the capo yelled. "Him and what company of U.S. Marines?"
DiLani muttered, "The whole place is falling apart. I think we ought to get out of here."
"I think so, too, Pete," Charley Fever somberly agreed.
"Waitaminnit, waitaminnit there!" Crazy Sal was off again. He kicked the wall and threw a cigar the length of the room. "It's a raid, that's all — a damn police raid! It's spite, that's all! I'm going to get the guy that okayed this shit! I'll tack his balls to city hall and run his jock up the flagpole! These goddamn Grosse Pointe — !"
Charley Fever had moved in immediately to take his boss by the arm. "Sal, it's Mack Bolan," he said calmly, bravely interrupting the tirade. "The guy is out there with missiles or something. He's shooting flares into the yard. He's trying to level this place. He's done it to others — he might get lucky again. We need to get out of here."
"That's right," Quaso put in. "It's the way the guy operates. He don't care what he throws at you. You ought to see what I saw when I went down to Texas last week. I'm telling you — "
"Shut up, Tony!" Vincenti snapped.
"Sure, Sal. I just ..."
"We need to move," Charley Fever urged. "Where'd the others go?"
Vincenti was glaring at a new cigar, his cheeks puffed with captured air, lips pursed angrily.
DiLani said, "They took the subway."
Charley Fever nodded his head. "That might be the best." Hawk eyes measured the emotional temperature of his boss. "Sal, that's the best."
Vincenti growled, "Awright, awright." He smiled suddenly and said, in a softer tone, "Don't you get me killed, Charley."
The big torpedo grinned and playfully slapped his boss's shoulder. "Everybody stay close," he instructed. "We're on lights-out." He cautiously opened the door and led them out, a small pencil-flash in one hand, a Colt .45 autoloader in readiness in the other.
The noise of the night was much louder out here. Sirens were screaming all over the place. A few car horns were still blaring stupidly. Gunfire crackled here and there about the grounds — and Charley Fever had to wonder who was shooting at what. The big spotlight on the roof was on now and sweeping the area in erratic jumps from one sector to the other.
Tony Quaso mumbled, "I smell smoke."
Charley Fever explained, "Something hit the roof a minute ago."
"I thought so," Vincenti whispered in a confidential admission to his good third arm. "You really think it's Bolan?"
"I think so, Sal," Charley Fever whispered back. "Okay... let's go. Stay close behind me."
He led the little party across the conference room, quietly opened the door to Vincenti's private office, and quickly stepped inside. The immediate goal was a concealed door in the wall behind Sal's desk. An enclosed circular stairway went straight down to the basement, bypassing the ground floor. It was a carefully planned emergency exit, linking up in the basement with a tunnel to the lake.
The route had seldom been used for escape but had proven very handy for "quiet visits" by "friends" who, for their own reasons, did not wish to be seen by anybody save the head boss himself.
But Charley Fever's heart leapt into his mouth as he stepped into that darkened private office on this tense occasion. He was certain that he'd glimpsed the flare-out of a muffled flashlight, behind the desk.
He kicked the door shut in Sal Vincenti's face as he extinguished his own light, throwing himself sideways in the same movement, blasting away with the .45 and sending three quick rounds crashing into the wall just above desk level.
A woman's voice cried out from over there: "No! Stop that! What're you doing?"
The door banged open and Crazy Sal charged in, a revolver in each paw.
Charley Fever yelled, "Hold it, Sal! It's just a broad!"
"What broad?" Vincenti growled.
The good third arm had his flashlight on and was striding angrily toward Sal's desk. He lunged across and down and came up with a fistful of blonde hair, dragging a protesting young woman across the desk and spinning her to the floor at his feet. She hit with a bounce and lay there with eyes blinking groggily into the beam of light.
Tony Quaso ran in from the doorway and groaned, "Oh, good Christ! Linda!"
"You know this broad?" Vincenti raged.
"Yeah, that's my — that's Linda.You know."
"Who the hell wants to know?" Crazy Sal screamed. "What the hell is she doing here?"
"Christ, I left her in the car. She was supposed to go back with — Linda, what the hell're you doing here? You know you ain't allowed — "
"I had to pee," the girl wailed from the floor. "And those apes ran off and left me. Yell at them, not a me!"
Vincenti yelled, "Hey, fuck this, fuck this!" He took an angry stride toward the girl then underwent one of those characteristic transformations, smiling and gallantly helping the girl to her feet. He brushed her fanny with a solicitous hand, then slapped it and told her, "There's Johns all over the joint, honey. You didn't need to come way up here. I hope you didn't intend to pee in one of Papa Sal's drawers."
Charley Fever fidgeted uneasily and said, "Sal, we need to move." He shot a troubled glance toward Tony Quaso. "Bring your broad, Tony. We'll talk about this later." He moved behind the desk and sprung the door to the concealed stairway, then made a little gesture to the boss. "Sal?"
Vincenti was staring at a small flashlight that lay on the floor, partially under his desk. A handkerchief had been wrapped about the lens and secured there with a rubber band.