There were more ways than one to skin the proverbial cat, and more ways than one to get a dirty job done in St. Paul. Even on short notice.
Mack Bolan and Pol Blancanales sat together in the Executioner's rented sedan. The Politician had just finished wiring Bolan for sound, and a preliminary check of the tape deck on the seat between them proved that the miniature transceiver in Bolan's suit lapel was working perfectly. Pol seemed proud of his artistry.
"How's Toni holding up?" Bolan asked his old friend.
Pol forced a smile he didn't feel.
"I think she was glad to get rid of me for a while," he answered. "She's a trooper, Sarge, but she feels like she has to keep up some kind of a front... even around me."
Bolan nodded understanding. Toni could be like that, sure.
"She'll be fine, Pol," he said, recognizing the hollow ring of his words.
How the hell could he know the lady would be fine?
How the hell could anyone know that for sure?
Blancanales didn't seem disturbed. In fact, he seemed to appreciate the reassurance, and he tried to change the subject.
"How close are you?" he asked.
Bolan frowned, reading the hunger in his friend's eyes and hoping Pol could contain it there.
"Ask me again in an hour," he replied. "Right now it looks good, but it could go either way."
Blancanales shook his head grimly.
"It's hard to buy that about the assistant commissioner. The homicide guy, okay... but the damned commissioner?"
Bolan shrugged.
"Too many loose ends, Pol. I still need more before I can tie them together. My next stop may give me the pieces I need."
"I swear to God, Mack... if I thought the police were letting this happen... I..."
Pol broke off, his tone and expression anguished.
And there was anguish enough to go around, sure. For Toni, for himself, and for the ideal of justice he saw crumbling in front of his eyes.
"Not the police, Pol," Bolan reminded him gently. "One or two men, a handful at most. Men, buddy. You don't blame the orchard for a couple of bad apples."
"That's easy to say," Blancanales replied bitterly.
"It's the truth, and you know it. We've both met the Charlie Rickerts before. They don't take anything away from the best."
And yeah, the mention of Rickert's name brought grim memories flooding in upon both men as they sat there, bound together by a grievous common cause.
Charlie Rickert had been a bent cop, working on the Los Angeles force and taking payoffs from the mob in the early days of Mack Bolan's home-front war against the Mafia. And he had almost ended the Executioner's campaign single-handedly in the City of Angels almost, sure, until another, honest cop named Carl Lyons had soured Rickert's play and let Bolan go with his life.
And both cops the good and the bad had left LAPD in the wake of the Executioner's strike in Southern California. Rickert had gone out in disgrace, banished to the netherworld of mob fringe activities, while Lyons had moved into the federal Sensitive Operations Group, assisting Bolan on several later campaigns.
Today, Charlie Rickert was dead, and Carl Lyons was a valued member of Able Team, one hard arm of Bolan's Phoenix operation in the war against international terrorism.
The good and the bad, yeah.
That was what the whole damned game was all about.
Pol Blancanales was nodding reluctantly. "I hear what you're saying, Sarge. But it's bitter."
And Bolan could accept that, too.
His own life had been bitter at times, and often. But it could be sweet, too, and he didn't want his long-time comrade-in-arms to forget that paramount rule of nature.
You go through the bitter to reach the sweet. Every time.
For a fleeting moment, the face of April Rose was locked onto Bolan's mental viewing screen, gradually transformed into the hunted, haunted countenance of Toni Blancanales.
The Executioner owed a supreme debt to both those ladies.
"You'd best get back to Toni," he told the Politician. "She can only stand so much solitude right now."
Blancanales nodded.
"Right, okay. I'll be manning the air and the landlines, buddy. If you need anything... anything at all... give a shout."
Bolan smiled warmly.
"Count on it."
They shook hands and then drove away in their separate cars, Pol returning home to his wounded sister, Bolan moving on toward a rendezvous with fate.
His fate, yeah. And, just maybe, someone else's.
The Executioner was going to drop in on a certain state legislator, and pass the time of day. Perhaps they would discuss the pains of friends... and family.
14
State legislator Thomas Gilman lived comfortably in suburban West St. Paul, within an easy five-minute drive of the fashionable Somerset Country Club. Mack Bolan did a preliminary drive-by, scanning the neighborhood for police cruisers or suspicious vehicles, and found none.
On the second pass, he turned his rental car boldly into Gilman's driveway and followed it around to park directly in front of the big Dutch colonial house. It looked as though politics had been quite kind to Thomas Gilman.
Bolan rang the doorbell and listened to melodic chimes sounding deep within the house. After several long moments, footsteps approached, and the door was opened by a middle-aged man dressed in vest and slacks without the matching jacket. His hair was graying at the temples, and he regarded Bolan with vague curiosity from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Yes?"
"Thomas Gilman?"
The man nodded, his curiosity deepening.
"Yes?" he repeated.
Bolan briefly flashed his federal ID in front of the guy's face, pocketing it again before Gilman could focus on it clearly.
"Frank La Mancha, Justice Department," he said brusquely. "We need to talk."
Gilman raised an eyebrow.
"About what, may I ask?"
"Your son," the Executioner told him simply.
And it had the desired effect, yeah.
Tom Gilman paled underneath his professional sun-lamp tan, and for an instant Bolan watched him clutch at the ornate doorknob for support. Then the moment passed and Gilman regained control, stepping back to open the door and admit Bolan.
"Come in," he said, his tone formal, curt.
Bolan stepped into the entry hall, and Gilman closed the door behind him, leading the way to a combination library and study. He waved Bolan to a deep armchair and dropped into its mate nearby.
Bolan remained standing, hands in pockets, surveying the room and the man.
"When did you last see your son, Mr. Gilman?" he asked abruptly.
The politician's face showed mild confusion.
"Not in some time, why?"
Bolan countered with a question of his own.
"Was it before he escaped from the hospital?"
Gilman's face sagged, his whole body slumping as if Bolan had punched him hard over the heart. He plainly was stunned by the Executioner's words. His mouth worked silently for a moment; then he cleared his throat and tried again.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," he offered lamely.
Bolan glowered at him.
"We don't have time to dance, Gilman," he snapped. "I believe you know why I'm here."
A movement in the doorway caught Bolan's eye, and he turned to find himself facing a woman of indeterminate age, her curious eyes shifting back and forth from Gilman to himself, and back again.
When she spoke, there was caution, even fear, in her voice.
"Thomas, you haven't finished your breakfast."