He unleathered the Beretta when they were out of view of the street, his eyes probing the surrounding compound for any sign of movement, any sign of attack from security Wallace could have posted around here.
Lana used her key to open the door. She stuck her head inside for a quick scrutiny, then motioned to Bolan.
"All clear," she whispered.
He eased into the building, sliding the door shut behind him without a sound, eyeing the hallway that ran the length of the building. The corridor was lined with doors, all closed now except for one at the far end.
Illumination from that doorway matched the placement of the night duty office.
He discerned the low hum of radio music. He and Lana had the hallway to themselves.
She led the way hurriedly to the second door from the main entrance. She turned to silently indicate with a pointing finger that this was Wallace's office.
Bolan crossed to the door, the Beretta held down at his side, and tried the knob.
Unlocked.
He twisted the knob and opened the door, stepping in fast, Lana right behind him.
The office was Spartan, he saw at a glance, as befitted a nonprofit charitable institution: metal desk and matching file cabinets and the like.
Floyd Wallace whirled to face the two intruders. It looked to them as if he was removing some files for transfer to an open briefcase on the desk.
He regarded the woman and the man with the Beretta with startled eyes and a fishbelly-white complexion.
"What's the meaning of this outrage?" he demanded indignantly. "Miss Garner, you're in enough trouble already, I should think, even if the police couldn't find anything to pin on you." Then he got a better look at the man beside her and his countenance went sheet white. "Bolan," he whispered, shocked.
The Executioner cracked an icy grin with no humor in it.
"You know who I am. That tells us something right there."
Lana spoke from Bolan's side.
"The man you claim to be would hardly recognize the Executioner at one glance, would he, Mr. Wallace? Tell us how you know about Mack Bolan."
Wallace's prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He swallowed nervously.
"I don't know what either of you are talking about. I don't know this man, Lana, but since you seem to, I think you'd better tell him that I'm going to have the two of you arrested if you don't leave here immediately."
"Nice try, but it won't wash," Bolan told the guy, the Beretta still held down at his side. "We've already got the outline of this business, Wallace. We know you're stealing kids from the orphanage and sometimes from your day-care centers. You're selling them to the Parellis for prostitution, child pornography, black market adoption scams, God knows what else. You know it, we know it. Let's take it from there."
Wallace's eyes flicked back and forth from Bolan to Lana. Again he swallowed. He opened his mouth.
Bolan knew the man was ready to crack, to spill everything he knew. He could read it in Wallace's face.
There were footsteps in the hall outside.
All three people in the office heard them at the same time.
Bolan jerked his head at Lana, wordlessly communicating what he wanted her to do.
She stepped away from him, away from the office door.
He grabbed Wallace's arm and all but threw him into the chair behind the desk.
"You can die right now," Bolan rasped. He stood beside the desk and slipped the Beretta into his overcoat pocket. "We don't need you. Remember that."
There was, of course, the possibility that the approaching footsteps would go right on past the office, but Bolan's gut told him that wouldn't happen.
He stood to one side of the desk, Lana to the other.
Wallace remained motionless in his seat.
No one in the room expected what happened next.
The office door opened quickly, and a small object came flying into the room. Then the door slammed and the footfalls echoed in the hallway, running away from there.
The object hit the desk, bounced off and rolled into a corner with a clatter.
All three of the room's occupants recognized it right away.
Grenade!
Wallace leaped from behind the desk with surprising speed and lunged toward the door of the office.
Bolan reached across the desk with a long arm and snagged the collar of Lana's jacket. He dived to the floor behind the desk, taking her with him, shielding her body with his own.
The grenade exploded with a thunderous roar.
Bolan felt the shock of the blast as shrapnel thudded into the desk. Then he lifted his head, ears ringing and hurting, realizing that none of the deadly fragments had penetrated the bulky metal furniture. Lana moved around beneath him, coughing because of the plaster dust that now filled the air.
Bolan pulled himself to his feet, resting one hand on the desk, the front of which was now bent irreparably out of shape.
The fact that the desk was bolted to the floor had kept the explosion from throwing it over on top of Bolan and Lana.
Floyd Wallace had not been nearly as lucky. He had been sprawled against a wall and the exploding shrapnel had turned his body into a shapeless mass of bloody, quivering flesh, barely recognizable as having once been human. There was nothing left of his face, just blood, gristle and bone.
Voices began calling inquisitively in the first seconds of silence after the explosion, as the night-shrouded orphanage began waking up and responding.
Bolan heard retching.
Lana had pulled herself up enough to see the carnage in the room, and now she was back on hands and knees and had emptied her stomach into the debris that littered the floor.
He reached down, took her arm and hauled her to her feet, shaking her roughly, trying to break through her shock.
"Lana, come on! The Parelli family is cleaning house, and Wallace was on their list. We've got to get out of here."
Lana shook her head numbly, carefully averting her eyes from the corpse, then she seemed to come alert and realize something with a gasp. She broke away from him and ran toward the door.
"The children! We have to save the children!"
Hysteria and shock still gripped her, and Bolan hardly blamed her.
This sort of thing was his life.
Most men and women are not accustomed to rooms blowing up around them and to seeing bloodied remains of what a blink earlier had been a living, breathing person.
He started after her, reaching the hallway, when a bullet sang past his ear.
He spun, the Beretta in his hand. He spotted a man with a pistol at the other end of the hall. Bolan triggered off two quick shots.
Both hot 9 mm sizzlers zapped into the gunman's chest. The guy flopped backward against a wall.
Bolan was on his way again before the dead man hit the floor.
Lana was out of sight now.
The lobby, toward which she had been heading, was buzzing with people, including a few kids in their nightclothes, diving for cover at the sounds of gunfire.
He heard automatic weapons fire from outside. He wheeled and charged out through the door by which he and the woman had entered a few short minutes ago. He burst out into the night.
A few yards from him, someone writhed on the ground in agony.
Bolan ran to the figure, saw it was a man and knelt beside him, occasionally glancing around.
"Where are you hit?" Bolan asked sharply, trying to break through the other man's pain.
The guy wore a stethoscope and white smock: one of the institution's medical staff.
The wounded man looked up at Bolan, clearly surprised to see him. His eyes took in the blacksuit underneath the overcoat and the weapon held ready in Bolan's fist.
"Leave... leave the kids alone, damn you!" he gasped.
"I'm not going to hurt the kids," Bolan assured him firmly. "How bad are you hit?"
The medic was grasping his right leg. There was a spreading red stain on his smock.