And suddenly she wondered if there was any time left at all.
Mack Bolan pulled his sedan up beside Pol Blancanales's car in the shopping center parking lot. Pol left his car quickly and climbed in on the passenger side of Bolan's.
The Executioner saw in his old friend's face the same tautness, the same reckless, uncaring anger that he had seen so often on other faces on the eve of battle.
"Let's roll, buddy," the Politician snapped, rubbing his hands nervously together.
Bolan's voice was low, cautious as he answered.
"Easy, Pol. We can't afford to blunder in and mess things up for Toni."
Pol thought about that for a moment, then nodded grimly.
"You're right. As usual."
"What can you tell me about Phalen Park?" the Executioner asked his friend, putting the car in motion as he spoke.
Pol was quiet, thinking. Then he began speaking in the tone of a lecturer.
"It's on the north side of town," he began. "Part of it runs over into Maplewood there. It's got a lake... Phalen Lake, naturally. I guess the park gets its name from the lake, or vice versa."
"What about the terrain?" Bolan prodded.
Pol shrugged.
"Most of the southern half is a golf course, I think. North of the line and all along the water you've got trees and things. You know... a park."
Bolan could sympathize with Pol's obvious impatience, sure, but grim experience had taught him that a knowledge of apparent trivia could decide the outcome of a battle. And a battle could very well decide the outcome of a war, damned right.
Bolan was trying to visualize the layout of the park when Pol's voice intruded.
"Listen, what's the action, Sarge? How do we get Toni back in one piece?"
"Well, Smalley chose the meeting place," Bolan said at last, "and given his track record, we've got to anticipate a suck play. We go in ready for anything and see what develops. Play the ear."
"I still can't believe it," Pol said, sounding slightly shell-shocked. "The goddamned commissioner."
His voice was heavy with a mixture of anger and disgust.
"It happens," Bolan told him softly. "We can let someone else sort out the details when Toni's safe and sound."
Pol's answer was a snarl coming at him through clenched teeth.
"If he's hurt her, Mack... I swear, if anyone's hurt her again..."
He bit the sentence off, leaving it unfinished.
"Easy, Pol. Don't borrow grief."
Blancanales shook his head grimly.
"I've had it, that's all. If she's not all right... just don't try to get in my way, buddy."
Bolan was disturbed by his friend's anger, even though he understood it perfectly. The Executioner had always lived by a set of simple, self-imposed rules. And one of those, carved in granite, was that he would never repeat, never fire upon a cop.
Good, bad, or indifferent, no matter how venal or vicious a particular officer might prove to be upon examination, all of them were or at least once had been soldiers on the same side of the endless war against rampaging Animal Men. The cops stood for something, yeah, and Bolan hated the thought of drawing a bead on that symbol of law and order.
Still, he told himself, there was Toni... and Pol. If they were entering a trap, and Toni was injured or worse, how would he himself react?
Would he have the strength to stay his wrath and let slower justice take its winding course?
Would he try to hold back the angry, grieving man at his side?
And how far do you go to protect a tarnished soldier of the same side when he's proven guilty of murder, and worse? Do you turn a weapon on your friend to save a traitor?
Mack Bolan cursed silently to himself, knowing there was no way in the world to answer any of these crucial questions in advance.
They crossed St. Paul in good time, heading northeast on East Seventh to Arcade Avenue, then north to the intersection of Maryland Avenue. That took them west to meet West Shore Drive at the foot of Phalen Park, and there Bolan slid his rental car to a halt beneath acopse of roadside trees.
He checked his watch and found that they were slightly more than five minutes ahead of Roger Smalley's timetable.
So much the better. They would have time to lay some tentative plans.
Bolan reached into the back seat and pulled forward his flight bag filled with clanking armament.
"Let's suit up," he said simply, his eyes locking briefly with Pol's.
Blancanales nodded agreement, reaching into the flight bag to check through the arms sequestered there, selecting a portable assortment of lethal hardware for himself.
"Even when you travel light, you come prepared," he said to Bolan, forcing a grin that he obviously didn't feel.
Bolan answered with a cold smile of his own.
"Name of the game, buddy."
And as they sorted out their arms and ammunition, Mack Bolan began to speak rapidly, outlining a plan of action with alternate contingencies, knowing all the while that the lives of Toni, Pol, and himself were resting on his words.
They would, all of them, be tested in fire soon enough.
19
The sleek black crew wagon sat on the grassy shoulder of West Shore Drive, facing north. Away to the right, or east, Lake Phalen was hidden from view behind a sheltering screen of trees and shrubbery.
Riding shotgun in the front, crew chief Danny Toppacardi was getting nervous. He checked his watch at frequent intervals, mentally marking off the minutes until their scheduled rendezvous with the man. He wasn't late not yet but Danny Tops was already feeling the strain.
Not that the other members of the crew seemed put out by the waiting. In the driver's seat beside him, Lou Nova was working his way through his third cigar of the morning, puffing contentedly away. In the back, gunners Vince Cella and Solly Giuffre had the broads sandwiched in, and they weren't feeling the sweat, no way. Solly kept one arm looped around the lady cop's shoulders, and the fingers of his free hand were tracing little abstract patterns on her knee.
Danny heard a slap from back there, and the lady cop was saying, "Stop that!" in a no-nonsense tone. The crew chief turned around in time to see her straightening her skirt and Solly pulling back his hand like a kid caught reaching into the cookie jar.
The gunner flashed him a vacuous, shit-eating grin, and said, "No sweat, Danny. We're A-okay back here, right, momma?"
The policewoman just glared at him silently.
Perfect, just perfect. Danny felt disgust rising in him, on top of the nerves.
"Cool it, Solly," he drawled. "This ain't no social outing."
Chastised, the gunner lost his smile, replacing it with a petulant expression.
"Sure, Danny," he groused. "Whatever."
Toppacardi turned back toward the front, staring at nothing through the Lincoln's broad windshield. Sure, he could understand and sympathize with the restlessness of his troops. They had been on station for fifteen minutes, waiting for Old Man Smalley to grace them with his presence and take the two broads off their hands. That was a long time to spend sitting out in broad daylight with two kidnapped women in the back seat. Too damn long, yeah.
Hell, Danny could feel the restiveness himself, even if he couldn't afford to let it show.
Fifteen minutes sitting in the park with nothing to look at but trees and birds, and one car that had cruised by a few minutes earlier, putting everybody on edge. No wonder Solly and Vince were feeling their oats back there with the broads.
Danny wouldn't have minded cutting a slice of that for himself, but a job was a job, dammit. The boys should keep that in mind.