"Are we playing or not?"
"Red China," Lyons said.
"What?"
"Yeah. How's that for a mob combination? And the trade, we hear, is lively."
"In what?"
"In everything. It's developing into the largest invisible market in the world."
Bolan said, "Well it figures."
"What figures?"
"That other brass ring. It's within shouting distance of Havana."
The cop's eyes flashed. "Miami?"
Bolan shook his head. "Not the way I hear it, but Miami is probably somewhere in the loop. My information says that San Juan is the eye of the needle. They're calling it the Caribbean carousel."
Lyons chewed the news for a moment, then asked, "How good is your information?"
"Practically a dying confession," Bolan told him. "Straight from the scared-out-of-his-skull lips of Vito Apostinni."
"A guy will say anything at a time like that, Mack." . "Not that guy. He thought I was a dead man, too, and it was quite a poker game. No… I think he was leveling."
"It makes sense," the cop admitted. He sighed and said, "Bye bye, Bolan. The fuzz is getting fuzzy-headed."
"One more thing. It's a long route from Peking to Tommy Anders. What's the angle there?"
The cop's voice was weary in the reply. "That was our best route of entry, and I drew the short straw. Anders is in big trouble — and I've been worried about him. I mean, he's an okay guy — lots of guts — and I'd hate to see him a casualty of this mess. I mean…"
"You mean you've been using him," Bolan said. "And now it's hurting."
Lyons shrugged with his eyebrows. "Name of the game," he replied. "That isn't the whole thing, Mack. It's a rotten picture all the way, and the show business angle is as scary as any. The mob is clawing their way into Hollywood even. If the movie industry thinV they're in trouble now, just wait until the mob starts gangbanging 'em."
"How does, that fit into the carousel thing?"
Lyons frowned and said, "Hell, how doesn't it figure? Movies are big business. Distributing and exhibiting the finished product is even bigger. Once the mob has control in that arena they've got the most beautiful damn carousel you ever saw — for any damn kind of game they choose to play. Anything from popcorn concessions to theatre equipment, box office skim, and commercial dates with the starlets."
"What kind of claws are they using?" Bolan wondered aloud.
"The best kind there is. Money. When money is tight, black money is king. The guy that controls the purse also runs the show. In any business."
"But it all fits together somewhere, doesn't it? On the merry-go-round, I mean."
"Sure," Lyons said. "You know how the mob operates. They carve all the action into private concessions. One family has the entertainment concession. Another specializes in the narcotics angle. Still another gets the contraband. And on and on endlessly — a carousel, yeah. Now you're saying Havana, eh? Hell, that could mean anything. From atomic secrets to small revolutions to a whorehouse in Guantanamo Bay."
"Or…" Bolan suggested quietly, "a new Vegas."
"Yeah, that's possible. There's a lot of action in the Caribbean already."
"And the heat in this town is getting pretty fierce, isn't it? For the mob, I mean. How many dealers and shills and coin-girls do you figure are on the FBI payroll?"
Lyons snickered. "You noticed."
"Sure I noticed. And don't think the boys haven't noticed. When the heat gets too high, Lyons, the mob moves on. If they can't fight it or buy it, they leave it. Vito let it drop that he sent sixteen million to San Juan in one year. And that's just from one casino."
Musingly, the cop said, "Even our esteemed local billionaire has shaken the dust of Vegas from his feet… and moved on to…"
Bolan's eyebrows formed a peak. "I've never heard anything tying him to..."
"No I wasn't saying that," Lyons replied. "But you don't make a billion by playing trie losers. Maybe he knows something the rest of us don't."
"Like, maybe Vegas is dying."
"Like maybe something like that," Lyons said, sighing. "Bug off, will you? I can't keep my eyes open another minute. You heard the nurse, don't excite me."
Bolan grinned and said, "Okay. You lay here and snooze while I go play cop."
"Take a friend's advice and stay out of it, Mack. The feds are waltzing this thing along with a very delicate touch. I told you what Brognola said. That will go double, here in Vegas. They'll take no interference, buddy."
"I'm not competing with the feds," Bolan replied. "But I'm not playing tiddley-winks, either, and I need every handle I can get. I'm going to bust this town, Lyons."
"Don't. You've done enough already. Just pick up your chips and get out while you can."
"Too late for that now," Bolan told his friend. "From what I overheard on Vito's pipeline, my only chance is a sweep through the middle." He grinned. "Did you know, that guy's got his own casino bugged, ears everywhere."
Lyons smiled faintly. "In this town, nobody trusts anybody. And, I've learned, with damn good reason."
"Well, I'm going to flavor their pots a bit."
"Some Bolan spice, eh?"
"Something like that."
"Be careful, dammit," the cop said fiercely.
"My heart even beats careful," Bolan told him, and that was his parting line.
He went back along the corridor, thanked the nurse, and re-invaded the night. There was not much of it left — it was nearly dawn and almost time for the next maneuver.
The Executioner had a plane to meet.
Chapter Nine
A dash of Bolan
Bolan was not only an expert marksman, he was also a highly skilled armorer — or gunsmith, to use the civilian term. His expertise with destructive weapons extended into areas of military ordnance, munitions and various types of explosive devices. He was a weapons specialist and his warwagon reflected this facet of the Bolan threat. It was a rolling arsenal, featuring the most advanced and versatile selection of arms available in the secret marketplaces.
Of all the weapons in the collection, however, his most cherished possession was a non-military piece, a sportsman's big-game rifle which could be purchased almost anywhere — though this particular one had been highly refined and "worked-in" — a Weatherby Mark V. He had acquired it during the London adventure, and he'd gone to great trouble and expense to have the weapon forwarded to him upon his return to this country.
The bolt-action piece handled .460 calibre Magnums with a point-blank range of 400 yards, maximum range 1,000 yards, and the big sniperscope that came with it would resolve the head of a pimple a half-mile away. The muzzle energy was 4,000 pounds; the Magnums carried more than 300 grains of push behind the expanding, high-shock projectiles which could tear a man's head off at 500 yards.
The range on the present mission would be much less than that. The only problem Bolan was sweating was the question of light. The scope would be useless in the dark. If that plane should beat the sun into the target area, Bolan would have to scrub and withdraw. He could not "work close" on this type of hit. The odds would be too great, the route of retreat too shaky.
There were no doubts regarding the target area. The private jet would almost certainly not use the facilities of the airline terminal, but would taxi to a convenient spot for transferring her passengers directly to waiting automobiles. This was SOP for Mafia war parties. And there had been no problem locating the line-up of crew wagons, the big eight-passenger jobs the mob. preferred for their headhunters. The limousines were waiting on a service apron, a hundred yards or so from the flying service building and about two hundred yards from the blast fence which was presently shielding Bolan's van, at the end of the primary runway.