The pinch was on Benny Copa now, and he knew it.
Bolan crossed the office, his eyes and gun never wavering from Benny's pallid face. When he was less than a foot from the mobster, his Beretta almost grazing the little guy's nose and letting him savor the cordite smell of death, Bolan gave the guy a light push that dumped his slack form into a waiting swivel chair.
And at that, Benny Copa recovered enough of his voice to break the silence.
"Easy, man," he said, not quite pleading. "There must be some mistake."
"You made it, Benny."
Copa thought that one over quickly, licking dry lips.
"Well, hey, I mean... it can't be all that bad, can it?"
Bolan's face and voice were hard, unyielding.
"That depends on you."
And Bolan could see the guy's face and mind working, trying to read the possibility of a deal or survival into Bolan's words.
"Okay, yeah," he said at last. "I can dig it. Let's talk a deal here."
"Make it simple," Bolan said. "You have some information, and I want it. You give, you live. Simple."
The look in Benny Copa's eyes was telling the Executioner that, yeah, the guy understood simple very well indeed. Copa nodded rapidly as he spoke.
"Fire away... hey, I mean... ask, okay?"
"You sent some crews out this morning, Benny. They didn't come home."
Copa's face registered shock at Bolan's inside knowledge. He covered it a second later, but not before Bolan had duly noted the reaction.
"Uh, I've got lots of crews, man," he said, stalling. "I run a big operation here."
"I'm only interested in two."
"Uh-huh, well... maybe we can make a deal here," he said, smiling craftily.
Bolan pressed the hot muzzle of the Beretta Belle against Benny's forehead, hearing the flesh sizzle on contact. He let Copa wince and wiggle for a moment before withdrawing the gun, leaving an angry red circle above the guy's left eye.
"You heard the deal, Benny. The minute I think you're shucking, I terminate the conversation."
And Bolan's tone left no doubt that the conversation would not be the only thing terminated, sure.
"Okay, okay," he said hastily. "Jesus, you can't blame a guy for trying."
"Sure I can," Bolan said.
Copa glowered back at his uninvited guest.
"Christ, you don't give a man much slack, do you?"
"The crews, Benny. Last chance."
"All right, dammit! We're talking about five boys, right? Two at the airport, and three more at a certain lady's house?"
Bolan nodded silently, letting the cornered weasel continue.
"Okay, right," Copa said, nodding affirmation of his own words. "They were part of a package deal. Outside contract, you know? Nothing to do with organization business."
And he smiled, as if that piece of information should settle everything.
But it didn't.
"What was their mission?" Bolan asked.
The little mobster managed a sarcastic snort.
"What do you think?"
The cold expression of the Executioner's face stifled the feeble snicker.
"They were disposal teams, man, you know?" Benny hastened to explain. "They were sent to dispose."
"Hit teams," Bolan said.
Copa nodded jerkily.
"Who was their mark at the airport?"
Copa shrugged elaborately, making a show of ignorance.
"Some dude, who knows? I told you it was an outside contract, right? The customer fingers his mark, and I count the dollar signs."
"I'll want the customer's name."
Benny Copa stiffened in his swivel chair, knuckles white as he gripped the armrests. There was new fear behind his eyes that had nothing to do with Bolan and the deadly silenced Beretta inches away from his nose.
The guy was silent for a long moment, but in the end the fear of clear and present danger won out, loosening his tongue.
"Really, man, I could buy real trouble by answering questions like that."
And it seemed the guy would never quit trying.
"You have trouble, Benny," Bolan reminded him curtly. "You're trying to buy time."
There was another, shorter pause. Then Copa opened up.
"Well, hey, I only know the dude's voice, can you dig it? We made the arrangements by phone."
Bolan's answering voice was almost sad.
"You commit five soldiers without knowing the customer's name? Goodbye, Benny."
The Beretta slid out to full extension, and Bolan was tightening into the final squeeze when Copa gave a strangled little yelp and threw out both hands, palms open, as if to ward off hurtling death.
"Wait! Shit! All right, man, I'm sorry."
The Beretta never wavered from its target.
"The name," Bolan said, his voice icy.
Benny Copa was sweating profusely. He wiped his forehead with a shirtsleeve, but it didn't seem to help.
"The name's Smalley," he almost whispered, "as in Roger. Satisfied?"
"What is he to you?" Bolan asked.
Copa looked incredulous at first, and then a canny little smile crept its way across his pale, damp face.
"You really don't know, do you?" Benny said, shaking his head. "I'll be goddamned and go to hell."
Bolan waited silently, ticking off the numbers in his head and staring at one round eye along the slide of his Beretta autoloader. Copa felt the vibrations of imminent death, and started talking again.
"Roger Smalley, man... he's only the deputy P.C. for all of St. Paul, that's all."
"So what was this Smalley character after? Why did he send you to the airport? No one knew I was coming in."
Now it was Copa's turn to be genuinely in the dark. "We weren't after you, man. All I know about you is what's going down now... And that's enough, thanks."
Bolan jammed the Brigadier's muzzle against the man's sweating nose. "Keep talking facts, little man. Who were you after? And why?"
"The customer said something about a bad detective," replied Copa, fast. "He said this dick had kidnapped a girl from the hospital. I guessed we had some sort of vigilante on our hands, a guy getting away with all kinds of shit and embarrassing the Commissioner. But it was just a contract, don't you see? No big deal."
Looking into Benny Copa's frightened eyes, he had no doubt the little guy was leveling with him.
He lowered the Beretta a notch, maybe half a notch.
"Okay, Benny," he said at last. "Live."
Bolan backed away from the littered desk and toward the door opposite. He could see relief tempered with caution flood into Benny Copa's face and form. The little mobster was desperately wanting hell, needing to believe that he was off the hook, but he couldn't quite accept it so suddenly. As the final realization hit him, he started to regain a touch of his natural bravado.
"Jesus, fella," he said, "you really had me going there."
After a quick glance around at the bodies on the floor, he added, "You also left me a helluva mess to clean up."
"Your problem, Benny," Bolan told him curtly. "You could have gone with them."
Copa snorted, grinning from ear to ear.
"Right, hell, buttons are everywhere... dime a dozen."
The little hood seemed struck by a sudden inspiration.
"Hey, wait," he called. "Maybe we can make another deal."
Bolan paused in the doorway.