12
For what seemed like a long time, Mark Dutton stood there, his ears ringing, his throat dry, his heart pounding, but it could not have been more than a couple of seconds before he forced himself to raise his eyes and look up and down the passageway.
The Executioner was gone.
Dutton did not care where, but that was all right. Just as long as Bolan wasn't here with that hard voice and those cold eyes.
The politician wondered what to do next. He pulled out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his sweaty brow.
Dread made him almost nauseated.
The door from the ballroom suddenly opened.
Dutton practically jumped out of his skin, jerking around to see who was there.
"Oh, there you are, Senator. I wondered where you had gone off to."
The mild voice belonged to Floyd Wallace, who ambled into the passageway to peer more closely at the visibly shaken Dutton.
"My God, Mark, what's wrong?" he asked. "You look like something's just scared you out of your wits."
Dutton held out his closed hand, then opened it, revealing to Wallace the marksman's medal clutched in his fingers.
"Bolan was here," he croaked hoarsely.
Wallace's eyes widened behind his thick glasses.
"He... knows?" he asked in a quiet voice that dripped menace. "About you?"
Dutton nodded.
"About us," he said.
Wallace pursed his lips.
"Hm, that's not good. What did you tell him?"
"N-nothing," Dutton lied, inwardly damning the stutter that fear had produced. "He didn't say a thing about you, actually, Floyd. He's incredible. He just... gave the impression of knowing."
Dutton saw no reason to mention the ideas he had voiced to Bolan about Denise Parelli.
The senator could see Wallace's brain clicking into high gear.
"Bolan is very clever. We know this. He could be bluffing, to learn more."
Wallace's tone was brisk and businesslike now. "We shall have to attend to Mr. Bolan. It's that simple."
"What do we do?" Dutton asked anxiously, eager to turn over the responsibility.
"How long has it been since he was here?"
"Just a few moments. You may have passed him on your way back here. He was pretending to be a reporter."
Wallace didn't give that a second thought.
"You notify the hotel security force that there is an intruder in the building, that he tried to rob you. I'll get word to my own people that Bolan is here."
"We... have people in the hotel?"
"Of course. You don't think I'd have come here otherwise, do you? A man of my position can't afford to take chances, Senator."
"What about Parelli?"
"I'll take care of that, as we've agreed upon. Satisfactory?"
Dutton nodded uneasily. He half expected to see Bolan come bursting back in there to pump him and Wallace full of holes.
"I... guess so."
Wallace smiled then, again transforming himself into the kindly figure the crowd in the ballroom had listened to a short while ago.
"Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll get things started. And I really have to get back to the orphanage. We're having a basketball tournament tomorrow. All the dormitories have teams and I can't disappoint the children by not being up bright and early for the finals."
He didn't wait for Dutton to respond, but turned and hurried back into the emptying ballroom.
Dutton watched Wallace go through the door.
It was hard to believe the mousy little man was as deeply involved in the whole operation as he was, thought Dutton, who wondered with more anxiety than ever what his own fate would be.
He cursed his weakness, and his needs.
If Bolan found out, there would really be hell to pay.
And Senator Mark Dutton would be burning right along with all the other lost souls.
Bolan went out through the big main doors of the ballroom and started down a wide corridor toward the lobby.
Smaller meeting rooms opened off the corridor.
The hotel lobby was huge, ornate, its ceiling three balconied stories high. Glass-enclosed elevators ran up and down one whole wall. In the center of the large open space was a fountain. On the opposite wall from the bank of elevators was the long counter where the hotel's guests checked in and out.
The security office was at the end of the counter.
Bolan was halfway across the lobby, almost to the gurgling fountain, when three men came hurrying out of the security office.
One wore a suit while the other two had on rent-a-cop uniforms, their heads swiveling from side to side as they anxiously cased the lobby.
Bolan knew they were looking for him.
The lobby was busy with guests checking in or leaving for the evening, plus the mass exodus of those who had attended the fund-raising dinner.
Bolan's pace never faltered as he moved to his right, circling the fountain, heading for a door marked Stairs.
In a high-rise hotel like this the stairs would not be heavily traveled. He could make it down to the basement garage and out onto the street that way.
Maybe giving the senator the white flag hadn't been such a bright idea, he told himself. Ditto, Randy Owens.
He wondered if he was going soft; or maybe, when it came to granting absolutes like life and death, some men deserved the benefit of a doubt.
Bolan reached the door to the stairwell and shouldered through it, casting a glance over his shoulder as he did so.
The security men back there hadn't seen him.
He let the door swing shut behind him and headed toward the steps to the garage... and came face-to-face with two security men, their uniforms identical to those in the lobby. The pair reached the top of the stairs, hurrying on their way from the garage to the lobby.
They looked jumpy, their hands hovering near holstered side arms as they gave him a careful going-over with suspicious eyes.
"What is it, officers?" he asked innocently.
"You just stand still," the one on his left ordered as Bolan came closer. "We got a report that a man answering your description tried to hold up somebody here in the hotel."
Bolan shook his head.
"Sorry, guys, but I don't know what you're talking about and I'm in a hurry."
He started forward.
The hotel cop on the right gestured at him.
"You're not going anywhere until you're cleared. You just come along with me back to the security office and we'll see what's what."
As he spoke, he reached down and started to un-holster the pistol at his hip.
"Really, officers, there must be some mistake," Bolan said, spreading his hands.
Then he brought those hands down sharply, chopping at both sides of the closest man's neck.
The man grunted in pain and went to one knee, but he was still able to yank the pistol from its holster.
Bolan lashed out with a foot and caught the guard's wrist with the kick.
The gun flew out of the man's numbed hand and clattered down the steps without discharging.
Bolan followed the kick with a sharp right cross that bounced the first man into the second, and they both went windmilling noisily down the steps toward the garage.
So much for that route of escape.
Bolan raced down the corridor that angled off from the landing.
He spotted a metal door at the end of the corridor. He tried it and found it closed but not locked.
He eased the door open, finding a storage area for the hotel's kitchen.
Large containers of foodstuffs lined shelves along the walls. On the other side of the room was a larger door that probably led into the kitchen. The storage room was empty at the moment.
He pushed the door open, striding through the storage room to the other door, heading through with a confident stride and an unconcerned expression, passing into the kitchen itself.
There were four men in the kitchen, not a chef's hat to be found among them. They did wear white outfits, though, and one of them had a menacing-looking meat cleaver in his hand.