Executioner? Hannon sighed. The world was filled with executioners. Some were sanctioned, some not. Who decided, in the ultimate court of all the courts, which were and which were not?
Hannon placed the pipe carefully upon his desk and went to the window. Retire to what? There was no one in John Hannon's life now but stoolies, junkies, hookers, muggers . . . And an executioner. A 30-year-old kid fresh from the blood puddles of Southeast Asia . . . an executioner.
He went back to the desk, put on his coat, grabbed his hat, and went out. Captain John Hannon was not retired yet. He was still very much a cop. And it was time to begin the construction of a death trap . . . for an executioner.
The "confused kid" from Vietnam did not feel at all confused at the moment. He knew precisely what he was doing. Before the hell broke, he needed a name . . . the name of a boat which sometimes hosted parties for visiting Mafia dignitaries. There would not be time, once the assault was underway, to run about seeking directions to the next front. He left his car discreetly parked one street over from Jean Kirkpatrick's place on Palmetto Lane and, stripped to the night suit, made his way quietly between the neat stucco houses, across the alleyway, and over the fence into the Kirkpatrick rear yard.
Keeping to the shadows, he followed the fence to the side of the house in a soft reconnoiter, then circled cautiously to the other side. The house was darkened and showed no signs whatever of a living presence. He found an open window near the front and crouched beneath it, breathing as softly as possible in a timed "audio" recon.
Just as he had decided that the house was secure, he heard a faint scratching sound followed immediately by the flare of a match just beyond the window. A gruff male voice quietly announced, "Kiss my ass, Tommy, you're gonna smoke yourself to death. Christ, you-"
"Aw shut up," came the response. "You're worse than the fuckin tv commercials. If I wanna smoke, goddammit, I'll smoke, so fuckya."
Bolan quietly released his Luger and got it ready. After a brief silence, the first man said, "Christ, I'm gonna go to sleep if this broad don't get home."
"Might as well. She's probably out sellin' her ass somewheres, no tellin' where she's spending the night."
"Go ask Willie if he can't get along without us. How many guys does it take to bring in one little broad, huh?"
"Fuck you, ask him yourself. I ain't askin' Willie nothing. You know how th' brothers get when they got their ass up."
"Askin' Willie ain't askin' the brothers, Tommy."
"Then ask him yourself. Whatsamatter, your ass hot or something?"
Bolan's eyes flared at the casual mention of "the brothers." He had already written off the mission as unworthy of the risks involved, but a new value had been added to the equation. He retreated quickly but cautious to the rear, again following the shadows of the fence. Something moved ahead of him. He halted and listened, his grip tensing about the Luger, then carefully moved on. Another motion as he reached the alley attracted his quivering senses. Again he halted. Something was moving along the pitch dark alleyway, but it was moving away from him. Perhaps a dog or a cat, he decided. He moved in the other direction, passed several houses above Kirkpatrick's, then circled back to Palmetto Lane, moving between the houses and into the shadow of a palm tree in the front yard for surveillance of the street.
A car was parked at the curb, some distance away. At first it appeared to be deserted, then the glow of a cigarette belied that. Again he returned to the alley and repeated the recon to the other side of the Kirkpatrick bungalow. There was another vehicle, opposite side of the street, also occupied.
It was a full set. Bolan pondered the significance of this. The Taliferos were known to be very thorough, but wasn't this pushing things a bit far? Either they were running scared, or . . . Or someone had set a . . .
Toro? Bolan shook his head. That would not make sense. He had been at Toro's mercy and had walked out of it with love and kisses. So. How about cops? A double set. Mafiosi inside, cops outside?
Bolan merged with and then melted into the night and found himself a point-blank surveillance drop, directly across from the stake-out vehicle. Huh-uh, he decided, not cops. So Mack Bolan was getting a persecution complex. The brothers had simply decided that Jean Kirkpatrick possessed important information, and they had sent for her. The full set would be typical of those under Talifero orders. No one in the Talifero clan made two goofs. He wouldn't be around for that second one. So, went the legend, Taliferos took great pains to avoid that first one.
Every instinct at Bolan's command screamed at him to get away from there, to break off, retreat, and to let the brothers have their way. He could not do so. The image of a frightened girl and the quiet declaration, "I guess I've been dead a long time already," presented an insistent rebuttal to his instincts. She had asked how much deader could she get, and Bolan had not replied. The Taliferos would reply, and it could be a long drawn out and hideously uncomfortable statement of final truth. Possibly, argued his weaker side, the brothers merely wanted to question her about the Sandbank shooting . . . an eyewitness account. Possibly, added that argument, they would find her harmless and blameless and would not harm her in any way.
Bolan firmly squelched the argument and stealthily returned to the Kirkpatrick house. The two talkers had been in the front bedroom. Where was "Willie?" In one of the cars? In another room of the house? Bolan could not risk exposing his presence until he knew exactly where lay the enemy.
This time he climbed the fence near the rear of the house and sprang lightly to the roof of a low back porch, then slid quietly over the stucco parapet and onto the flat roof of the house proper. He went to the front and crouched in the shadows of the parapet, alert to every sound and movement in the neighborhood, straining even into an extrasensory "feel" of the atmospheric vibrations. He thought he heard a rustling movement in the rear yard and, moments later, something again moving quietly through the alley. As he debated whether or not to check it out, a car swept around the corner to Bolan's left and proceeded swiftly along the street.
The car slowed and slightly overshot the Kirkpatrick house, then went into reverse and backed to the curb slightly downrange from Bolan. A rustle of sound came from the house below, heavy feet moving rapidly. Bolan exposed himself momentarily to examine the car at the curb, and then his heart fell into his stomach. A police car!
The door on the passenger side had opened and Jean Kirkpatrick was stepping onto the sidewalk. Bolan swore beneath his breath as the young cop he had spotted earlier that day at the Sandbank climbed out of the other side and walked around to join the woman.
Bolan could feel the agonized reaction within the house. If that cop tried to walk through that door with Jean Kirkpatrick, there was going to be a shootout — and it would be a dead drop.
They were slowly walking across the lawn and the woman was saying something in a bantering tone to the cop. His voice drifted up, in reply, "I'd take a cup of coffee, though."
Bolan made his decision. He vaulted over the parapet, Luger in hand, yelling, "Ambush! Scatter!"— and impacted directly between the two, sending both sprawling to the ground. Bolan was rolling across the lawn and trying to orient himself; from the corner of an eye, he saw the cop coming to one knee and digging for hardware. Streaks of flame lanced out of the front windows with roaring accompaniment, angry hornets zipped past Bolan from several directions, and his Luger was spontaneously answering back before his thinking mind was aware of it.