"Thanks, Bear. I'll check back with you after I visit this Harbor Yacht Club. Right now that's the only lead I've got."
"Be careful, big dude," growled Bolan's friend with fervor.
"Always," Bolan assured him.
He broke the connection, returned to the Corvette and guided the sports car in the direction of the Lake Michigan shore, allowing himself to experience again the white-hot anger that threatened to explode from the fire burning in his gut.
This strike by the Executioner into Chicago had been shadowy from the beginning. Not so much in what Bolan intended to do...
that was as clear-cut as could be...
but in what exactly David Parelli had up his sleeve.
The ripples, the angles being lined up with blood money in a bid for something big stretching all the way from this young Mafia turk to the corridors of power in the nation's capital...
all of that now took a back seat, as far as Bolan was concerned, in light of what Parelli did for kicks in his spare time.
Child molester.
The two words burned like naked flame into his heart.
He would have to keep a check on his rage when he moved through the Windy City tonight on this kill hunt, because blind rage could make a soldier careless. He had to find Parelli. Bolan wanted that more than he remembered wanting anything ever before in his life.
Something in the back of his mind...
and he couldn't pin it down...
told him that the awful things he had seen on Parelli's VCR were only the tip of another iceberg in these murky waters.
Missing children had become a national epidemic in America.
A living nightmare that devastated families, feasting on the innocence of the helpless.
The children.
Was Parelli tied in with something like that?
Yeah, Bolan would find out.
As long as an animal like Parelli walked this earth, children everywhere were in danger of ending up like those kids on that horrible clip.
Bolan realized he was gripping the Vette's steering wheel harder than was necessary.
He lightened his grip, pulling the rage back under control.
Undercurrents in Chicago were making themselves perceptible to him, but just barely, on this night of blood.
Politics.
A cop who hung out around a Mafia homestead.
Child abuse.
Mafia.
And a tough, spirited fighter woman who called herself Lana Garner.
Who was Lana Garner?
Where was she?
He steered the Vette on at the legal speed through the sparse evening traffic.
2030 hours.
He wanted to floor the gas pedal and push on deeper into this tangle with all the speed it deserved, but he could hardly afford being pulled over for a traffic violation at a time like this.
Bolan carried all sorts of phony id, but at this moment the trunk of the Vette carried the tools of his trade, the weapons that he had shed after his night hit on the Parelli estate.
He had donned his civvies over the blacksuit and removed the night camouflage from his face before driving to phone Kurtzman. He now wore the Beretta and the AutoMag in their respective shoulder holsters beneath his jacket.
At this hour the downtown Chicago area would be crawling with itchy cops after that free-for-all along Lakeshore Drive, so Bolan could not afford to take chances. But as he drove closer to the Harbor Yacht Club where Parelli just might be hiding out, the Executioner contented himself with the knowledge that much would change before this night was over.
Tonight the Man from Blood would survive or perish in the hellfire he would rain on Parelli and any other child-molesting scum who got in his way.
Bolan was ready to risk that and more to stop these walking lice, to even the odds for the victims who had suffered at their hands.
The hellfire already unleashed would be nothing compared to what was to come.
It would be a night of hellfire for Chicago.
5
Nobody at the Harbor Yacht Club spared more than a glance at the big man in repairman's coveralls and cap.
Bolan had discovered the value of role camouflage many years before, in Vietnam. With this outfit, picked up at a department store on the way in, and some grease from the rental car smeared carefully on his hands, he blended in, looking for all the world like a mechanic on his way to work on a boat.
The club was situated on the lakeshore just north of the mouth of the Chicago River.
While not as elegant or exclusive as the marinas along the Gold Coast, it was home to quite a few expensive craft.
Including the Lady Denise.
Bolan's gaze flicked over the yacht as he approached. There was no one on deck, no sign of a crew. Someone had to be on board, though.
No way would Parelli leave his boat unguarded, not after dark in a city like Chicago.
And there had been the scrawled phone number of this yacht club on Parelli's bedside pad...
Bolan was ready for action; for anything.
He had purchased coveralls that snapped down the front rather than zipped, so that they could be opened with one quick yank.
The Beretta rode in shoulder leather and the coveralls were baggy enough to conceal Big Thunder in its fast-draw rig on Bolan's right hip.
There were a few other surprises stashed about his body as well.
He strolled up to the railed gangplank that led from the slip to the yacht.
"Hello, Lady Denise," he called. "Anybody on board?"
There was movement in the shadows of the companionway leading down to the cabin.
Bolan tensed, ready to throw himself to the side and unleash the AutoMag if need be.
A burly guy shambled out of the cabin to glare at him.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Bolan identified the guy right away, not by name but by type.
Another goon. Hired muscle, but the man did not appear to be overly concerned by the arrival of this mechanic. A pistol formed a lump beneath the hood's ill-fitting jacket, but he made no move toward it.
Bolan grinned at him.
"You the skipper of this boat?"
The guy scowled.
"Do I look like the skipper? What the hell do you want?"
"I'm supposed to take a look at the heating unit."
"There's nothing wrong with the heating."
"All I know is what my boss told me." Bolan shrugged. He pulled a blank scrap of paper from his pocket and pretended to refer to it. "A Mr. Parelli, I think it was. Wants the heating checked over. Guess he's fixing to live on board a while, huh?" Bolan glanced toward the choppy night waters of Lake Michigan. "Sure hope he ain't planning on going yachting tonight."
The frown on the goon's face got deeper as he was forced to think. He turned to the cabin.
"Hey, Jake," he called inside. "Come up here a minute, willya?"
Another muscleman plodded up the steps and emerged onto the deck. Though cut from the same mold, Jake looked a little more intelligent. His gaze moved from his buddy to the mechanic and back again.
"Who's this guy?" he asked Jake.
"Says he's here to look at the heating."
"The boss didn't say nothing to me about it. And why at nine at night?"
At the foot of the gangplank the man in the coveralls spread his hands.
"Hey, you don't want me on board, it's no big deal to me. I'll just go back and tell 'em to tell Mr. Parelli you said to forget it."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Jake said hurriedly. "I didn't say you couldn't check out the heating, f'chrissake. Come on aboard."
Bolan hid a slight grin.
Nothing scared guys like this more than the idea of inadvertently offending their boss.
He strode up the gangplank to the deck.
Jake put out a big hand to stop him.
"If you're a mechanic, where the hell are your tools? You ain't got no toolbox."
"I'm not a mechanic, pal. I'm a technical diagnostician. I listen to the gizmos and look 'em over and then I tell the mechanics what to fix. My tools are all up here." Bolan tapped his temple with a forefinger.