Stanno felt the world closing on him. He spat on the ground and flopped one foot out in front of the other and said, "Christ, who would've figured the asshole to come out here and attack the damn plane, eh?"
Someone said, "I was under the impression that we were paying somebody to think about things like that."
Stanno coughed and replied, "Shit, sir, you don't know what's been going on around here."
"I don't, eh?" said one of the brothers. "Who the hell do you think was belly-flopping along the runway in a shot-up airplane? Huh?"
"I was right in there with you, sir," Stanno replied humbly. "Honest to Christ, I never felt so terrible about a thing in my life."
"We flew in here with sixty guns, Joe. We have about forty left, and half of those are bunged up. How many do you figure we'll be able to get into Vegas with?"
"Listen, don't worry," Joe the Monster growled. "That bastard won't..."
"You say you have a dead boy on your hands?"
"Yessir. We drug him into one of the cars. Don't worry, we're quieting it about the shooting."
A guy limped up, ignored Stanno, and addressed the brother with the cut head. "Okay, I got the walking wounded made," he reported. "We got eighteen sheet cases and thirteen stretcher cases. The rest are okay."
"Get them into the cars over there, Charlie," the boss ordered. "Send someone to the hospital to grease for those thirteen boys, I want them to have the best. But first let's get those cars loaded. I want to take off before we get tied down with a lot of damned questions."
The other brother touched Stanno's arm as the limping man nodded and walked away. He said, "Don't feel so bad, Joe. You're not the first to be run over by this Bolan."
"I'm gonna be the last" Stanno promised.
Someone chuckled and someone else said, "I wonder where I've heard that before."
That was okay, Joe was thinking. Let the look-alikes snicker. He'd show them who would come up with Bolan's head in a sack.
They weren't so goddamn tough. They were making big noises, yeah. But those brothers were shook, man they were shook.
In fact, Joe knew, they were scared outta their goddam gourds.
Harold Brognola stepped into the operations office at Nellis AFB and smilingly accepted the telephone from the duty officer.
"Brognola here," he announced into the phone. "Who's this?"
The smile faded and he raised troubled eyes to the duty officer as a crisp voice rattled the telephone receiver.
"He didn't lose much time, did he?" the man from Washington muttered.
Rapidfire speech poured through the receiver. Brognola listened without interruption, his fingers drumming on the operations counter. Then he said, "Okay, let's not waste any time. We're on our way in — helicopters. Keep someone on their tail and meet me in town… say twenty minutes."
He returned the instrument to the duty officer and asked him, "Did you get a report on a civil crash at McCarran?"
The officer replied, "Yes sir. A private jet wiped-out during its landing roll, just a few minutes ago. Gear collapsed or something. The runways are cleared and open, though."
Brognola thanked the Air Force officer and went back outside. He gave not a damn whether or not the McCarran runways were open. He did give — though — quite a bit of damn about the guy who was undoubtedly behind it all.
He rejoined his party outside the operations office and told the chief marshal, "That was Bill Miller, FBI district officer. Our friends arrived, okay, but it appears that our eternal warfare expert was on hand at McCarran to welcome them to the city of hope. And from the sound of the report, he disillusioned them right off the bat."
A smile was wavering at the marshal's lips. He said; "What a guy. He took them on right there at the airport?"
"Took 'em on, hell. Practically shot them out of the sky. Demolished the plane, killed eighteen, hurt a bunch more. The brothers came out with scratches…"
"That's a bit much," the marshal commented, his lips flattening against his teeth. "The guy is going rocky, Hal."
The group of lawmen were moving along the flight line to the transport section. Brognola heaved a deep sigh and said, "I don't know. I've never known Bolan to be fast and loose with the civilians. He's usually pretty careful about that — always, in fact. It may be significant to note that there was absolutely no other traffic — not on the ground, not over the field, not even in the entire control zone."
"It still sounds rocky. When he starts going after airplanes…"
"What's so damned sacred about an airplane?" the justice official snapped testily. "A target is a target to the guy, so long as the civilians are clear and safely out of it."
The marshal grinned and said, "Hell, I didn't know you cared."
"Well I do, and I guess it's no secret. I've tried everything to… but orders are orders — and believe me, I'll put a bullet in his head as fast as not. I just like to keep the perspectives in mind, that's all."
"I like the guy myself, Hal. But that can't change anything."
"Not a thing," Brognola agreed.
"We'll gun the poor S.O.B. down just like we would any lunatic. Right?"
"Right," Brognola calmly replied, refusing to be baited.
The party had reached the helicopter area. The marshal stepped back to allow the other man to board first. "Even though we know he'll never return our fire," he said quietly. "Right?"
"You'd better hope not," Brognola muttered. He climbed into the aircraft and turned back to add, "I've seen the guy's work. He's a real classy sharpshooter, make no mistakes. And he goes for the head."
"I won't make any mistakes," the chief marsha] replied. "We have a few sharpshooters in our troop too, you know."
Brognola signed and dropped into a seat. "That's the only damn reason you're here."
Indeed. It was the "only damn reason" Brognola himself was there. He'd been the guy's champion. Now, as the official closest to the problem, it was logical — if ironic as hell — that he be given the task of eliminating the problem.
As for Bolan shooting back… Brognola knew damn well that he would not. A more distasteful chore had never arisen during a career often sadly lacking in taste. But… it was the way things were.
He had to get Bolan. He simply had to get him.
Chapter Eleven
The watch
The Vegas Strip has a "grapevine" second to none in the world. Despite efforts by both police and underworld to quiet the fact of the Executioner's presence in town, the word spread among the regular residents with the vigor of an uncontrolled forest fire.
The incident at the airport, together with the executions on the Strip itself and the invasion of Gold Duster earlier that morning, became the chief topic of hushed conversation in the twenty-four hour city. These inevitably led to a rehashing of the Bolan legend, much of it inaccurate or exaggerated.
"The guy has a CIA license to kill." This was the favorite story.
As close runner up, "He's got a thousand faces, and nobody really knows what he looks like."
"Just watch," went another attention getter, "when he's finished, the cops will step in and mop up his leavings."
The consensus of opinion in the law-abiding community was heavily sympathetic to Bolan. All of the professionals in Vegas knew, of course, which were the mob joints and which were not — this also was a perennial favorite topic of conversation. Most of the "straights" had adopted a live and let-live attitude toward the mob — this was the Vegas tradition. It was no secret, however, that the legitimate casino operators resented the unfair advantage which naturally fell to the kinky businessmen through their connections in high places and a virtually unlimited supply of financial support. So the straight people of Vegas were shedding no tears over the Bolan crusade, except for the fear that it might depress the tourist situation.