"What's his name?"
"I don't remember."
Bolan flared with anger. He backhanded Dutton across the mouth hard enough to draw blood, pop out two of the senator's pearly capped front teeth and rock the chair, but because Bolan loomed over him, Dutton remained seated.
He had no choice.
"I should've known I wouldn't get a straight answer out of a politician the first time out," Bolan seethed. "Let's try it again, Senator. The big question. Where are the children?"
"Don't... know what you're talking... about," Dutton answered stubbornly, wiping away the blood of his split lip with his sleeve. "What kids?"
"I know all the rest of it now," Bolan told him. "I know about Wallace. He supplied the Parellis with the children. And I know the Parellis are shipping out a cargo of those children tonight. I'd be curious to know, Senator, how it feels to have your soul so dead that you can allow yourself to deal in human lives and the young like that, you goddamn monster, but right now I don't have the time. I want to know where that shipment is leaving from. You're going to tell me."
Dutton shook his head, his blood continuing to leak out onto his expensive shirtfront.
"Nothing... nothing I can tell you..."
Bolan shook his head.
"You're being loyal to the wrong people, Senator. Wallace knew about it and he's dead. So is Randy Owens."
"Wallace... dead?"
"They supplied you with some of those children from time to time, didn't they, Senator? That was part of their hold on you."
Dutton looked into Bolan's eyes and seemed to see mirrored there what Bolan saw. The senator sank deeper into the chair, exhaled a heavy sigh.
"I am a monster," he nodded wearily. "You... can't know what it's like." He seemed to begin deflating before Bolan's eyes. "The girls... I never hurt them... didn't want to hurt anybody... I'm like two men... I love my wife, my daughter, dearly... I'm sick, Bolan... that's what the Parellis are really blackmailing me with... They're less than human ... and God help me, so am I..."
"Where do they have the shipment?" Bolan asked in a soft voice.
Dutton looked up at Bolan with tears in his eyes.
"Trucking company... Skokie..." He rattled off a street address. "David Parelli owns the place."
"What time are they scheduled to leave?"
"Supposed to be... midnight."
Bolan glanced at his watch.
11:20.
Forty minutes to midnight.
"Bolan... wh-what are you going to do?" Dutton asked in a halting whisper.
"I'm here to collect your tab, Senator."
The soldier watched as the politician's hand began to move slowly toward a drawer in the small end table.
Good, thought Bolan, he's going for hardware. It'll make the fight even fairer. Because the rage that coursed through the warrior made him realize that he would have felt no remorse at choking the senator to death with bare hands right where he sat. The man was too dirty to let him live.
But no, let the scum try to save his life.
Dutton's hand was almost out of the drawer now, and Bolan saw the unmistakable shape of a small handgun.
Far enough.
The sleek Beretta filled Bolan's fist and a single discreet chug echoed in the basement's silence as a 9 mm stinger pinned the politician against the armchair.
Bolan turned to the VCR that sat on top of the TV set.
He ejected the child porn tape from the machine, then turned around to Dutton's lifeless body and dropped the foul video on the dead man's chest.
He left the room, noiselessly retracing his way out of the house, briefly recalling that he had wondered, after his first visit with Dutton at that fund-raising dinner earlier tonight, if he was not going soft when he had let the senator off the hook. But then, Bolan realized now, he had been in the process of putting the picture puzzle together.
No, the Executioner was not going soft.
He took as much satisfaction as ever in eliminating lice like Senator Mark Dutton.
He felt sorry for the senator's wife and daughter having to find the body in the morning. They were victims of the rottenness of Dutton's soul. But so were the children Bolan had to rescue before David Parelli and his mother sent them off to whatever unspeakable fate awaited this shipment of helpless human cargo. These were the victims whose welfare drove Bolan. The children.
And the puzzle of a cop named Griff, a man tormented by inner devils, who figured into this somehow.
And, of course, the woman.
Lana.
Where was she?
Griff's and Lana's whereabouts were the only puzzles left on this night of sudden death.
Bolan returned to the Camaro and gunned it away from the curb, U-turning to head west, toward the next suburb over, Skokie, and the address Dutton had given him.
It was time for the children to be saved and the Parellis to pay for their sins, past and present.
And time had almost run out for those kids being shipped from that Skokie trucking company at midnight.
Bolan wondered about a cop who could be friend or foe.
A kidnapped woman, in danger.
Missing children.
The time bomb that had been ticking beneath Chicago was about to explode with awesome fury.
Retribution time, yeah.
The Executioner only hoped he would be in time.
19
Aaron Kurtzman practically jumped out of his skin when the phone rang.
The phone.
The one unlisted even in top classified government circles; the line connecting the Stony Man Farm command center computer room with a scrambler and relay system outside the standard loops of even such ultrasecret government agencies as the CIA or the FBI.
There were such sensitive lines in and out of the Farm, to be sure, but this was the line over which Bolan and only a very select few others made contact.
Kurtzman had been doing his best, as he went about his duties in the computer room, trying not to think about a guy named Bolan in a city named Chicago.
Not that there weren't enough things for him to worry about. Able Team and Phoenix Force were both out on dangerous missions at the moment, and that was plenty to occupy a guy like Kurtzman who took it almost personally any time another mission came up for the fighting men of the Farm. The difference of course was that Able Team and Phoenix Force were a bona fide part of that team.
Mack Bolan had elected to sever ties with Stony Man, to walk alone through the fields of fire.
Kurtzman did not have any new information for the big guy, except some surface background on Lana Garner, but it was just that Kurtzman wanted more than anything at that moment to know that his friend Bolan was okay.
The odds against the Executioner increased with each new campaign he decided to undertake, and Kurtzman had an uneasy hunch that tonight in Chicago could be the chanciest blitz since the Executioner had gone back into the cold.
The odds had never been higher.
Kurtzman answered the phone.
A gruff voice he immediately recognized said, "Bear, this is Hal."
He tried to conceal his disappointment.
Harold Brognola was the Farm's White House liaison. He had been the man to bring Bolan his assignments when the Executioner had worked for the government. Brognola had long been a close friend and supporter of Bolan and his cause, and he continued to be one of the key supporters... off the record... of the one-man wars waged by Bolan against the forces of evil.
'"Lo, Hal."
"Any word from our man?" asked Brognola.
"Afraid not. I was hoping this might be him."
"I'll get off the line to keep it clear in that case," Brognola grunted. "I'm worried about him this time, Bear."