The corridor wasn't a long one, and as he burst out of the other end, he saw that he had entered Sheba's massage parlor.
He glanced over his shoulder and spotted the bartenders pounding down the hall after him.
One of them snapped a shotgun to his shoulder and unleashed an ear-numbing blast.
Bolan dived to one side, putting the corner of the wall between himself and that shotgun.
The pellets slammed into the opposite wall, tearing out a gaping hole.
He twisted, and stuck the Beretta around the corner, triggering off a 3-round burst.
One of the bullets missed, but two of the shotgun wielders went down, one of them flopping loosely in a deadfall, the other trying to stem the flow of blood spurting from his destroyed neck.
That was enough to drive the others back to the far end of the hall where there was some cover.
People were popping out of the rooms along this hall, most of them half-naked.
The shooting was throwing the whole place into a panic.
Whores, some nude, some barely in the togalike outfits, scrambled for places to hide.
The customers, fearing a police raid, just wanted out, most of them clutching their clothes and trying to dress on the run.
Bolan surged to his feet and joined the crowd, weaving through the perspiring flesh until he reached the lobby of the place.
A young woman there was trying to get out from behind her desk and make a break through the front door like everyone else, but the surge of people coming from the cubicle area with the same idea had her momentarily pinned in.
Bolan managed to move up to her in the melee. He grabbed her by a shoulder.
"Where's Owens?" he rapped.
Her eyes flicked upward, indicating the upper levels of the building. Then she started thinking and regarded Bolan in confusion.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Somebody's after Owens," he shot back. "We've got to move him."
"He's up in Sheba's office," she said.
Bolan turned and rushed his way back against the tide of oncoming human confusion that parted meekly before the tall, broad-shouldered man with the Beretta and the grim countenance.
Bolan reasoned that Sheba's office would be on the top floor.
He took the steps three at a time, watching constantly for any sign of danger. He met a few people coming down these stairs, but they were simply more of the disheveled normal occupants of the place.
Bolan had seen the elevator in the lobby. He preferred the stairs.
Those he passed shrank back against the wall when they saw him coming, more than willing to let him race on past and away from them.
He paused at the second floor landing long enough to ascertain that there were no offices there. He continued on up the stairs.
When he reached the third floor, it took him only a moment to locate a large set of double doors that had to lead into an office.
Beretta ready, he drew back a foot and kicked the doors open.
Inside, Randy Owens looked up in shock from behind the desk, frozen in the act of dialing a telephone.
"Don't move," Bolan warned, leveling the pistol at him.
"How... how did you..."
Owens looked stunned that his fate had caught up with him so quickly. So easily.
Bolan knew he had only fleeting minutes before the melee downstairs straightened itself out enough for someone to figure out where he had gone.
"Put down the phone, Randy."
Owens did as he was told.
"Sure," he said shakily. "What do you want to know?"
"You neglected to mention the last time we spoke that you're a porn king and that David Parelli finances you," Bolan growled, the Beretta's snout unwavering from the bead he had on Owens's forehead.
"I... I don't know what you mean." Owens smiled weakly. "I see Parelli's mother, uh, socially, so what? That don't mean I know the family's business."
"Cut the crap, Randy. He's your boss. I know he finances your movies."
"It's... just a business arrangement," Owens said quickly. He looked like a man on the run, a sort of rumpled desperation about him. "I don't have anything else to do with Parelli, I swear!"
"What about kid porn? What do you have to do with that?"
Owens gaped back at him, his mouth working, but a moment passed before he could say anything.
"K-kid p-p-porn?" he finally managed to gasp out. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about! I've never gone near that stuff! Hell, it's hard enough working with adults!"
Revulsion made a bad taste in Bolan's mouth, but he could sense Owens was too shaken to lie. If Owens knew something, thought Bolan, he'd spill it to save his own life, or to send Bolan off on a wild-goose chase.
"You're sure?"
Owens was nearly scared to death.
"I swear! Honest, I never worked with kids. I've never touched a child, I swear, man!"
Bolan tried a shot in the dark.
"Tell me about Senator Dutton."
"Who?"
"Mark Dutton."
Owens blinked.
"The senator?"
His voice sounded genuinely puzzled. "I see him on TV sometimes, but..."
"I want a link between Dutton and Parelli," said Bolan.
Owens swallowed hard, his attention riveted on the Beretta's muzzle.
Bolan could hear the sounds of the commotion diminishing downstairs.
It would not be long before someone showed up here.
"I don't know nothing," Owens insisted frantically. "The senator's at some fund-raising dinner tonight, why don't you ask him?"
"I plan to," growled Bolan, "but I want Parelli most of all. Where is he, Randy?"
Owens shook his head. "I'd tell you if I knew, you must know that. You've got to believe me! I'd tell you!"
Bolan believed him. Grudgingly. He had needed to confront this guy with what he knew about abused children and a senator who drove a Porsche and who was protected by Mafia gunmen.
But something in the Executioner's gut told him that Owens was speaking the truth... as far as he knew it.
Owens had seemed like the surest bet Bolan could play, but, Bolan believed the guy facing the 93-R, and that made this bet a bad one.
He lowered the Beretta.
"Take my advice, Owens. Stay away from Denise Parelli. There's going to be more blood spilled in this town before the night's over and it could be yours if you get in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Owens swallowed audibly.
"What about the drugs you hand out on the set?"
"Hell, they do that in Hollywood, guy. All those actors are on some kind of shit!"
"I don't like you, Owens, but I don't blow people away just because they make me want to puke. I'm giving you a chance. Do like I told you. Get out of Chicago."
Bolan backed toward the door, then a sixth sense warned that someone was coming at him from behind.
He eased off on the Beretta's trigger at the last instant when he saw that the person standing there was unarmed.
The tall, redhaired Amazon had her hands on shapely leotard-encased hips and stood there openly glaring at him.
"We've got a score to settle, you big son of a bitch," she snarled, low and threatening. "Just you and me."
Great, thought Bolan.
"Put up the gun," she snarled. "You won't need it. I told everybody to stay downstairs until after I got finished with you. I don't like getting pushed around."
Owens blubbered from behind the desk.
"Sheba, don't be stupid! This is Mack frigging Bolan! Get some help up here. Now!"
"Take it easy, Randy boy," Sheba soothed. "We won't need any help. Not unless this guy feels like shooting a woman, and I've got old ice eyes here figured as a tough guy gentleman of the old school." She looked at Bolan and the Beretta without flinching. "Right, big guy?"