One thing seemed certain.
Not even Joe Stanno was willing to blunder about out there at the edge of oblivion with Mack the Bastard on the warpath. Besides, the Talifero brothers — Stanno's direct superiors on La Commissione — had a national alert out for this guy. They were demanding immediate notification of any contact with Bolan.
Stanno was only following orders.
Even for a monster man, it seemed the sensible thing to do.
Carl Lyons had first crossed paths with Bolan during the latter's strikes against the Los Angeles based family of Julian DiGeorge. when the young sergeant of detectives was assigned to the special "get Bolan" detail, code-named Hardcase. They had come together in one of those electrifying nose-to-nose encounters at the height of a Bolan hit, and found themselves staring at each other over a pair of hot and ready weapons.
Some hours prior to that confrontation, Bolan had made something of an ass of the young cop during a high speed chase along the Los Angeles freeways, and Lyons had been fairly itching to get another crack at the illusive man in black. And then when the opportunity had come, this tough up-and-coming L.A. cop had simply stood there in frozen amazement and watched the audacious blitz artist sheath his weapon, turn his back, and calmly walk away — after announcing, "You're not the enemy."
The worst part, from the detective's point of view, was that he had allowed the most wanted man in Los Angeles to do just that… walk away. Their lives became a bit more interwoven after that 'tight, though reluctantly so for Lyons, and this tense "friendship" had contributed heavily to Bolan's Southern California victory over the mob. It was also directly responsible for the fact that Bolan exited breathing from that battleground, and that was not the sort of debt a man shrugged away. Not a man like Mack Bolan, at any rate.
He deposited his burden on a makeshift bunk in the rear of the "warwagon" — a Ford Econoline van which Bolan had purchased and outfitted during the New York battles — and which now was backed into the shadows of a narrow blind canyon just off the state road. Lyons regained consciousness as Bolan eased him onto the bunk, and he exerted a feeble resistance until his rescuer commanded, "Knock it off, Sergeant!"
"What… what's the situation!" the L.A. cop asked, sinking weakly back. "That you, Bolan?"
"Yeah." It was pitch dark in the little van. Bolan's fingers were delicately probing the other man for wounds. "Where are you hurt?" he asked gruffly.
"Just from top to bottom," the cop replied faintly. "They've been working on me all day."
"Carefully, I'd say," Bolan told him. "You seem to be all here."
"Yeah. I think they've knocked something loose inside of me, though. I… if I don't make it, Bolan…"
"You feel that bad?" growled the man in black.
"Yeah. I feel that bad," Lyons groaned.
Bolan had determined that the cop's head wound was no more than a superficial scalp laceration. "You must be wearing Mafia blood," he concluded. "You couldn't have bled all that from this wound."
Lyons grunted "It was gushing at me from every direction Damn, what a hit." He groaned again and twisted about in a strong paroxysm of pain. "Listen to me," he hissed. "My cover name is Autry… James Autry. I'm on loan to the Nevada authorities. You've got to protect that cover, no matter what. Get me? Don't let..."
Bolan brushed aside the plea with a gruff, "Don't worry. We'll sweat it through. You strong enough to handle a weapon?"
"I guess so. Where are we?"
"Less than a mile from the hardsite," Bolan replied. "We're going to make a soft run for it. We just might make it clean if they don't have that chopper up there spotting for them."
"Listen… if it goes sour… contact Pete O'Brien in Carson City Tell him I stuck to the cover story and the thing is still secure from my end. Tell him. Bolan."
"Sure, I'll tell him," Bolan promised. "You think you're bleeding inside?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Listen, tell him it's the California carousel. Remembei that. California carousel."
"Okay. Pete O'Brien, Carson City, California carousel — I've got it." Bolan was twisting the top from a canteen. He lifted the weakened policeman's head and touched the canteen to his lips. "Just wet your mouth," he cautioned. "Swish it around and spit it out."
Lyons did so, and a moment later declared, "I — I'm okay."
Bolan fed a fresh clip into his .45 and pressed the gun into Lyons' hand. "She's ready to roar," he warned him. "I'm going up front now. We could get into a firefight yet. If you hear someone whistling Yankee Doodle, that's the one you don't shoot at."
Lyons chuckled weakly and said, "You're always thinking."
"Until I die," Bolan assured him, and hurried forward to send the vehicle on its way.
Yeah, Bolan was thinking. He was thinking that all the rotten carcasses on that mountain were not worth one of the gutsy cop's fingers. He'd had his sights on San Francisco, and had stopped off at funnytown only to get in on the skim action and appropriate a few bucks for his flattened warchest.
But now he was getting'the impression that a lot more was transpiring behind the glitter of Vegas than a bit of lighthanded juggling of casino profits.
As soon as he could get Carl Lyons into competent hands, the Executioner intended to take a look behind that tinsel curtain.
Yeah, the dice were rolling — and from on high, it seemed.
Bolan was not a warrior to disregard directions from offstage.
And, in his combat-conditioned mind, the tussle for tinsel-town was already underway. The Executioner was closing on Vegas.
Chapter Three
Bolan's blood
For ten minutes the warwagon ran without lights, nosing quietly along a network of dirt roads and precarious trails, often coasting without power in the descents, halting frequently for a quivering recon of the surrounding terrain.
Not until they had completely quit the heights and rejoined the itate road was Bolan satisfied that there was no pursuit. Puzzling over this conclusion, he set a direct course for Vegas and announced to his passenger: "Looks like we're clear."
A feeble acknowledgement of the situation came from the rear of the van.
"You okay?" Bolan asked.
"Guess I'll live. And… Bolan…"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Bolan smiled and said, "Sure."
There was no need for thanks. Bolan knew that. And Lyons knew it. Bolan would have hauled the weakened man out of that mess even if he'd been a total stranger — even if he'd been a Mafioso There was no easy intellectual explanation for this facet of the Executioner's character. As a man given to deep introspection, he often puzzled over this seeming inconsistency of his survival instincts. And he understood only that sometimes — even sometimes in the heat of a firefight — an inner command would cause him to spare a particular life rather than take it. Bolan had long ago learned to trust his instincts, and normally he followed those inner urgjngs. as he had done back there on that mountain road, even though, at that moment, he had been entertaining the possibility that the prisoner was simply another Mafioso being "disciplined" by his own family Even though, at that moment, Bolan's longshot for survival was pinned to a very precise game of numbers.
So once again he had followed inner direction, and again it had proved out right. But… would it always be so? Could this "inner command" be nothing more than an inherent and growing weakness, a flaw in the combat character which would eventually destroy him? Could it represent a deeply stirring rebellion against the hell and "thunderation" which had so characterized his life these past few years? A shrinking from his own fate?… A whimpering reach for sweetness, mercy and absolution?