"Many, many dead men have had that same first impression," Weatherbee said. He stirred his coffee and took an experimental sip, "They've pegged you, Bolan," he declared, exhaling noisily. "They know who you are -and obviously they know why you are interested in them. And there's a contract out, with your name on it."
"What can I do about it?" Bolan wondered aloud.
Their eyes met. Weatherbee smiled grimly and said:
"Run. As fast and as far as you can. Southeast Asia, if you can get there."
Bolan shook his head. "I'm not running anywhere. How long has this, uh, contract been in effect?"
Weatherbee glanced at his watch. "About four hours, if my informant's information is accurate."
"And how long does it take them to get something going?"
Weatherbee shrugged the massive shoulders. "Not long. They must figure it as a fairly easy hit. The price on the contract, I'm told, is only five thousand." He sighed. "To tell the truth, Bolan, I rather half expected to find you already dead when I came up here."
"Why all the intrigue?" Bolan wanted to know. "I've been under their noses for days. Why the cat and mouse routine? They could have taken me any time."
"Why yours?"
"Huh?"
The big cop smiled. "Why have you been holding off? Your object is to kill them-and don't bother denying or confirming that, I don't expect you to. It's a matter of modus operandi, isn't it. The same is true of the Mafia. Contract killings are their way." He pushed the coffee away from him with a grunt. "The coffee is lousy. You didn't let the water boil. Well..." He got down off the stool, placed his hands on his hips and rocked back, stretching himself. "...I've told you. That's my duty, as I see it. It's all I can do, unless you want to request protective custody."
Bolan's reaction to the suggestion was a disparaging grunt. "Where do I stand legally? If I kill them first?" he asked.
"You'd be arrested and charged with first degree murder," Weatherbee replied calmly. He was walking toward the front door.
Bolan stalked him through the apartment. "It would be self-defense," he pointed out.
"You'd have to prove that in court," the policeman informed him. He paused at the door and turned back with a taut smile. "Look, if it means anything-you have my sympathy. But that's entirely unofficial. If you exercise that trigger finger once more in this town I'll be right on top of you, and that's the way it has to be. Now I'd say that you're between the devil and the deep deep blue. I advise, first of all, that you admit to the killings of August twenty-second and surrender yourself. A good lawyer just might be able to build a good case on temporary insanity. If you don't like that advice, then I can only say run. Run like hell. You can't fight these people, Bolan. You just can't fight them." He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. "Well-you want to get dressed and go with me?"
Bolan shook his head, said, "Thanks, Lieutenant," and closed the door. He went immediately to the bathroom, calmly brushed his teeth, then shaved, showered, and dressed. He examined the flip-out shoulder holster which had been provided by Turrin, inspected the snub-nosed pistol for the dozenth time, then slipped into the harness and secured it. Next he went to the kitchen and took four boxes of ammunition from a drawer, emptied the boxes, and redistributed the ammo for the.32 loosely into his pockets. Then he returned to the bedroom and rearranged the furniture, sliding the head of the bed against the east window, opened the blinds at that window to admit the strong rays of the rising sun, loosely rolled the blankets into soft lumps and pulled a sheet over them. He went through the apartment, then, carefully closing all blinds and extinguishing lamps, returning finally to the bedroom.
He positioned a chair inside the walk-in closet, went over and closed the bedroom door firmly, then returned to the closet and sat down, rolling the sliding doors to a faintly cracked closure directly in front of the chair, checked the.32 one last time, then waited with a calm and patience he had learned in another part of the world.
The second visitation to the Bolan apartment on the morning of August 31st occurred at just a few minutes before seven o'clock. This time the visitors were two in number, and they did not ring the bell. They stood in the hallway for a moment, ears pressed to the door of the Bolan apartment, while one of them fussed with a mechanical gadget of sliding blades and protruding prongs. He tried several combinations on the door, moving with quiet care, then whispered, "Think I got it." The door swung softly open. The two men paused momentarily, then stepped quietly into the apartment, closing the door carefully behind them. The interior was not entirely darkened but they stood quietly by the door for a moment allowing their eyes to adjust to the gray gloom.
"Still in bed," one hissed.
The other nodded silently and they moved slowly toward the rear of the apartment. The larger man paused near the bedroom door, squinting in the near dark to inspect a long-barrel pistol he held in his hand, A silencing device was attached to the barrel of the pistol. The other man touched the pistol, his teeth revealing themselves in a smile. "No pissin' around," he whispered. This guy's good with a gun, they say."
The man with the pistol nodded and slowly turned the knob of the bedroom door, pushed the door wide, and stepped inside, the second man right behind. They were momentarily blinded, squinting into the bright rectangle of sunlight beyond the bed, but the gunman raised his arm and squeezed off three quick shots into the huddled lump on the bed, the big pistol "phutting" dully under the muzzle silencer. Then there was a sliding sound in the corner to their right and a voice announced, "Over here, Charlie."
The two men spun as one, arms almost interlocking. Orange flame was spitting toward them and the room was vibrating with the testimony of a fast-talking pistol. A scarlet geyser erupted from the throat of the man with the gun. The other crumpled to his knees, one hand inside his jacket and frozen in a Napoleonic imitation, the jacket itself quickly turning crimson directly over the heart. Another projectile punched into the first man's face, just beneath one eye, the impact snapping his head back grotesquely. He went down atop his companion, the thoroughly silenced pistol clutched spasmodically in an uncontrollably jerking hand.
The Executioner stepped out of the closet and stood over them momentarily to confirm the results with a professional eye, then holstered his gun and quickly left the apartment He took the elevator to the basement, then hurried up the stairway of the rear service entrance to the building, crossed the alleyway, fitted a key into the service door to the opposite building, and went in. A minute or so later he entered a small apartment of that building and went to a hotplate and started some water for coffee. Then he removed the cushions from a couch and produced a high-powered rifle. The.444 Marlin sported a very businesslike telescope sight; the metal parts of the rifle were wrapped in a protective gauze. A metal ammunition box and a cleaning kit appeared from beneath the couch, and The Executioner began methodically preparing his tools for service.
" Who is insulting whose intelligence?" he muttered. To anyone who might have been interested, sniper-expert Bolan could have explained that every planned offensive also contained an avenue of retreat. "This's no retreat, though," he told the Marlin, unfolding it affectionately from its gauze covering. "It's just a tactical withdrawal to a holding position." He walked to the window and gazed onto the street below. A siren was sounding from not far away. He wondered how The Matthews would feel when they learned that the contract was still wide open. He wondered, also, how Lieutenant Weatherbee would greet the news. The Executioner, he realized, would have to step with exceeding caution from this point onward. Everybody would be after him now-the cops, the Mafia, the contract killers, probably the whole damn world. Bolan shivered slightly.