"This's no private detective agency, Bolan," Weatherbee groused. "You've got a hell of a nerve calling here, anyway. You're wanted on eleven counts of murder, among other things."
"Yeah, I feel terrible about all that," Bolan replied, chuckling. "But don't worry about it, Lieutenant, I believe the count will be upped somewhat before the next dawn."
"Bolan, for God's sake, let it rest where it is. Listen, there's a lot of unofficial and public sympathy for you now. If you've been watching the TV you must realize that. Come on in now. Or tell me where you are and I'll pick you up personally. Two of the best lawyers in the country have already expressed an interest in your case, and I can almost-"
"Save it, Lieutenant," Bolan clipped in. "Nothing is resting, and especially the Mafia-right?"
"You damn better know right," the policeman clipped back. "You can bet they've been making full use of this breather you've given them. They're ready and waiting for you now."
"Yeah, I figured that That's why I called. Wondering if you had any useful information to pass along."
The policeman's heavy breathing filled the wire for several seconds, then he said: "Why should I tell you a damn thing!"
"Because you know I'm on your side, that's why."
"The hell you are!"
"Sure I am, and I don't have all your restrictions. I've shaken these people like they've never been shook before, and you know it Now just who's side are you on, Weatherbee?"
"It isn't a matter of sides!" the cop roared. "It's a-a..."
"Yeah, a technicality. Okay, play the technicalities if you want to. But I'd sure like to know what they've been up to."
"They think you're working for us," Weatherbee said, nearly choking.
"There, you see? They don't deal in technicalities, do they."
"They've got commando teams of their own now. The first time you open up on them again, you're going to get hit with everything short of the atom bomb."
"Is that right?"
"That's right. It's hopeless, Bolan. You had them reeling once, but they've consolidated now. The first offensive action that gives away your position will be your last one. You're just lousing things up, like all amateurs are bound to do. You've come very close to destroying a five-year undercover operation we've had going against this bunch."
There was a momentary silence, then: "You've got an undercover operation going?"
"Of course we have. Where do you think we've been getting all this information I'm passing to you?"
"Five years, eh? How many more years had you planned on staying undercover?"
"Forever if necessary. We're interested in nailing these people good, Bolan. We've just been waiting for the proper moment."
"For five years? You have any idea how much hell these people have brought to earth during those five years?"
The policeman's voice was growing heavy with exasperation. "We know what we're doing."
"I know what I'm doing, too," Bolan told him. "And I'm not taking any five damn years to do it, either. Keep your cops away from me, Weatherbee. I'm hitting them again tonight."
"We'll stop you if we can!"
"You can't. All you can do is provide aid and comfort to the mutual enemy. Keep your cops away. I'm hitting tonight."
Bolan broke the connection, returned to his car, and sat quietly pondering the conversation with Weatherbee.
The cop had been right, of course. The campaign had moved into a dimension which seemed impossibly weighted against him.
Mack Bolan was a military realist. In the traditional strategems of warfare, a superior force spelled victory over an inferior one; superiority, however, had never been an item of mere numbers. An elite platoon could easily take on a green company; one lone tank could devastate a field of foot soldiers. In Vietnam, firepower and mobility had become the catchwords of military superiority. Bolan had learned well the lessons of military survival. He was not an idle dreamer, and he had never had much respect for banzai warfare. He needed an equalizer. His strategy had thus far paid off; it had accomplished his aims. He had forced the enemy to reveal its position. He had smoked them out of their bunkers of social respectability and made it necessary that they regroup and reform and expose themselves even further. But-as Bolan well knew-he had accomplished this initial objective at the cost of a vital military necessity: he had lost the edge of superiority which had carried his campaign this far.
Weatherbee's assessment of the situation had been an accurate one. The Mafiosi would be alert and ready this time, and undoubtedly with some tricky defensive tactics of their own. Bolan's next offensive action would undoubtedly be little more than a hopeless banzai attack -unless... A lone rifleman could not hope to successfully take on an entire enemy company-unless... Bolan grinned suddenly, started the engine, and moved out into no-man's land. Superiority, he reminded himself, was not an item of mere numbers.
He drove directly to the industrial district on the south edge of the city, then turned into a warehouse complex, vague memories stirring and fighting to the surface of mind. Several years earlier, Bolan had spent several weeks on special assignment at one of these warehouses. If he could just find the right one...
He located it easily, a low-slung, corrugated steel structure with a peculiarly flat roof, the now-weathered sign-suRplus exports, inc.-and the smaller decaclass="underline" MDI-which, Bolan recalled, were the initials for Munitions Distributors International.
As a skilled armorer, Bolan had been assigned temporarily to assist in the cataloguing and storing of a large shipment of surplused weapons and ammunition which had been sold to the firm by the Government. Many of the items Bolan had handled during that assignment had never been used, though there had also been genuine surpluses dating back to the Second World War. The stuff could not be sold to private citizens in the U.S., but the export business in these materials had been quite active at the time of Bolan's involvement. He was hoping that the Vietnam escalations had not shut off the source of supply. In the back of his mind had long lurked the suspicion that many of the so-called war surpluses were not, in fact, surpluses at all, but Government goofs of overproduction and oversupply. Still-the shipment which Bolan had been assigned to catalogue had been bona fide surpluses of obsolete weaponry. He would be quite content to get his hands on three or four of these "obsolete" weapons.
Bolan left the car in the shadows of the freight dock and circled the building on foot in a cautious reconnoiter, simultaneously searching his memory for the security details. Then he returned to the car, buckled on a tool kit, and fished a packet of U.S. currency from the spare-tire well. He had decided upon his mode of entry.
Ten minutes later he was scooting along the interior of a ventilation shaft; soon thereafter he had located the "special weapons" area and was shopping grimly and methodically for the advantages of military superiority, jotting down the nomenclature and estimated dollar value of each item on a sheet of paper.
He double-checked the completed list, totalled the dollar value, added a ten percent "error factor," and left the list and the money in a conspicuous place. A thief, Bolan reminded himself, he was not. Besides, he ruminated darkly, it was especially fitting that the enemy's money was paying for this purchase.
He disabled the alarm system, boldly rolled open the door to the freight dock, loaded the hardware into his car, then went back inside and resecured the building, exiting the same way he had gained entry. As he was driving away, Bolan spotted the patrol car of the private security guard assigned to the protection of the complex, cruising slowly in the opposite direction. Bolan grinned and gunned up onto the highway. Step One, equalization, had gone off without a hitch. "A "smoke-out" mission was next on tap.