The Executioner knew that he was running out of time. The pursuing police would fan out around him in the parking lot the moment they arrived there.
If they found him where he crouched now, there was no way he would be able to avoid a shoot-out with the cops. And it was something that he didn't even want to contemplate. Still Bolan had no intention of losing it all in Chicago.
He dropped flat onto his stomach and bellied under the car, knocking the back of his head on the undercarriage a couple of times in the process.
He wasn't there for longer than a couple of heartbeats when he heard an engine gun to life to his right. He turned his head and spotted white-lettered wheels rolling slowly backward out of a parking space.
Bolan wormed out of his cover to see a young woman behind the steering wheel of a Datsun 300 ZX.
He raced toward the side of the crawling vehicle and yanked open the driver's door.
The woman turned a panic-stricken face toward this looming figure in black. The sheer terror told Bolan that she feared for her life.
It saddened the warrior instantly, because it was a reflection of what "civilized" society had become. He meant the woman no harm, but as far as the lady was concerned, she was a goner. After all, this was Big City, U.S.A.
Bolan spoke urgently, and it was only then that he saw a measure of relief cross the young woman's face.
"I need to borrow your car, miss. I won't hurt you."
She swallowed and slipped out from behind the wheel. Bolan jumped into the Datsun and slapped the gear lever into reverse. The entire encounter had taken less than a minute.
The Japanese sportster roared backward when he floored the gas pedal. Bolan caught a glimpse of a uniform in the rearview mirror.
One of the cops was right behind him.
He slammed a booted foot down on the brake pedal, rocking the Japanese sportster to a stop.
The cop, who had been running full blast when he saw the car suddenly backing toward him, wind-milled his arms to keep his balance. His palms slapped against the trunk of the stopped Datsun to keep from falling.
Bolan stomped on the gas, shifting.
The Datsun jumped forward, right out from under the cop leaning on the trunk.
The guy fell, and as Bolan pulled away, he saw the officer getting to his feet, dusting off his hands.
A squad car, top lights flashing, careered into the exit Bolan had been heading for.
He sped down one aisle of the lot with the cruiser on his tail, siren wailing.
When he reached the end of the row of parked cars, Bolan spun his steering wheel and felt the tires shuddering on the pavement, the Datsun threatening to roll over as he turned 180 degrees into the next aisle.
Behind him, the police vehicle did not handle the turn as well, the driver's side crunching into a low brick wall that bordered the parking lot.
The wall ran around three sides of the lot, Bolan saw as he headed back toward the exit. On the fourth side, the one bordering Wacker Drive, a hedge about the same height took the place of the wall.
Another cop car closed in on that exit, squealing tires smoking beneath the streetlights as it slid into position to block that exit.
Bolan floored the Datsun's accelerator, angling the car left to drive full speed straight for the hedge.
The shrubbery gave way, parting under the nose of the Datsun as Bolan had hoped it would, with no hidden posts or fencing to stop his run.
He felt a surge of relief as the Datsun rocketed through to the other side.
A sidewalk ran along the other side of the hedge, with cars parked at the curb.
Bolan pumped the Datsun's brakes, yanking the steering wheel hard at the same time with a finger on the horn.
The car raced along the sidewalk, away from the office building and the parking lot, the few pedestrians diving out of the way when they heard the insistent warning of the horn.
At the end of the block was a gap in the line of parked cars.
Bolan sent the Datsun rocketing through that break, lurching down over the curb, skidding out into the slow-moving traffic along Wacker, easing in and out between lanes of crawling vehicles full of rubberneckers gawking to see what all the excitement was about. They almost missed Bolan entirely until the Datsun whizzed by.
He heard tires squealing and motorists cursing, but somehow there was no crunch of metal against metal.
State Street was ahead of him to the left.
He sent the little car spurting toward it.
He took the turn on two wheels.
Traffic was thick but he was able to weave in and out and make good time.
A glance in the rearview mirror told him he had shaken off his pursuers for the moment. He took a lightly traveled road that he knew would lead him to the city's suburbs. Ten minutes later he spotted a phone booth. He parked the car in some shadows and made another scrambled call to Stony Man Farm.
"What've you got, Bear? Come up with anything?"
"I take it Parelli wasn't aboard his yacht."
Kurtzman's troubled grumble carried clearly across the highly classified connection from Virginia.
"It was a trap," Bolan told him. "We're up against one sharp savage. Smarter than most. I want this one, Bear. I want Parelli so damn bad I can taste it. But I need a lead, something to go on. The guy could already be slipping out of the city."
"Could be, but I doubt it," Bear opined. "Parelli likes the personal touch and every vibe we're picking up says it's going down tonight, whatever 'it' is. You're moving fast, big guy. You'll nail his ass."
Bolan blinked away the awful images he had seen on Parelli's VCR screen.
He thought of the children...
"That's not enough. I want him, I want his whole operation down the tubes, but I've got to get him in time and time could already have run out."
"Explain, Striker," said Bear, using Bolan's Stony Man code name.
"No time," Bolan growled. "Anything on Lana Garner?"
"Still working on that one, but the other two, now you're talking accessible."
"The Porsche?"
"The connection we may have been looking for all along between Parelli and Washington," said Bear. "That Porsche is the private property of Senator Mark Dutton of Chicago."
"Bingo," growled Bolan, and then he thought of the sedan with the bumper sticker he had spotted outside the Parelli estate. "And that other license plate number?"
A short pause.
"Belongs to Detective Sergeant Lester Griff," Bear said uneasily. "Griff is assigned to the Cook County Org Crime Task Force."
"Uh-huh. And there was one more thing, Bear."
"No connection I could find between Parelli and kid porn," Kurtzman reported glumly. "Parelli owns a string of escort services, whorehouses and porno dives, but kids... nothing yet." Bear's voice was deeply troubled across the wire. "Kid porn. That's got to be the bottom of the barrel even for these scumbags. What is it all about, Striker?"
"I'll let you know when I find out. Keep trying on that Garner woman, if that's her name. I'll be in touch. Right now I think I'll pay a call on Detective Griff."
"You can visit Senator Dutton, too, if you've a mind to," said Kurtzman. "There's a fund-raising dinner tonight at the Sheraton. Hey, wait a mo. That fund-raiser... it's for a new bunch of day-care centers. Kids, again. You think..."
"I'll damn well find out," Bolan assured him, "but the senator can wait. He's a politico hobnobbing with his constituents. He won't leave that dinner for a while. Dutton is more notable than Griff, but if Griff is on the Org Crime unit, he'll be closer to the dirt and that puts him closer to Parelli in one way. I'll dig there first."
"I hope he's a clean cop," said Kurtzman uneasily.
"I'll damn well find that out, too," Bolan promised grimly.
6
Sergeant Lester Griff was bone weary and irritable.