'Well . . . listen . . .'
DiGeorge sighed. 'Yeah?'
'I already started things rolling. I got-ahold of Patty. He's spreading people all up and down the damn highways. I told him to cover everything, and solid. Gas stations, bus stations, road junctions, the whole bit. I told him, uh, I hope this's okay, Deej, I told him to hell with the expense, the sky's the limit. We just want to get Bolan. Right?'
DiGeorge sighed again. 'Right, Lou, that's exactly right. But you come on back here. I want to start mapping out a foolproof campaign. I don't want anymore half-assing around.'
'Okay . . . uh . . . I'm sorry as hell, Deej.'
DiGeorge quietly hung up the telephone, stared at it dolefully for a long moment, then said, 'You sure are, Lou baby.'
Bolan sent his car powering into a squealing turn to follow the torturous mountain road, crested the hill, and began the drop into the interior valley. The twinkling lights of a small town were showing, far ahead. He glanced at his watch and decided that he was making pretty good time, even with all his zig-zagglng and backtracking through the mountains. His gasoline supply was getting low; the powerful car could consume a lot of fuel during two hours of this type of driving. The lights in the distance should be Palm Village, he decided. He wondered if he had gas enough to make it on in, and whether or not he would come onto a service station on this lonely road. A dull ache in his right ankle told him that the injury from the Balboa battle was again demanding attention. He felt shelled-out, weary, and entirely resigned to the role fate had decreed for him. He was going to die by the gun, he knew this. The only question remaining unanswered, in Bolan's mind, was the when of it. Why not right now, he mused. Why prolong it? A forlorn pride surged up from the depths of his weariness. He knew, of course, why it had to be prolonged. A man did not choose a time and place to die; he chose a battleground for life. Bolan had chosen his own battleground. The rest of it was simply a matter of fighting the battle to the best of his ability, and all the way to the end. Was that a philosophy, or a resignation? Bolan shook his head. He recognized it as neither. Philosophies, to Bolan's mind, were no more than idle games. In the final analysis, a man either spent his life or bargained it away. Bolan was spending his.
He then swept around another curve and immediately began slowing for a brightly lighted intersection straight ahead. A roadside sign with GAS-OIL-CAFE caught his attention. It directed him to a rundown building with a single gas pump, occupying one corner of the road junction. Bolan eased on the brakes and swung onto a dusty ramp, bringing the car to a halt at the gas pump. He opened the door and stepped out, gingerly testing the sore ankle. Two other vehicles were parked in the shadow of the building; another was angled toward the highway at the far end of the ramp. Limping slightly, he went around the rear of his car and entered the building. Shelves on the back wall contained a dreary assortment of dry groceries. An ancient pinball machine occupied a dark corner. A rough-hewn counter with four stools constituted the 'cafe.' Behind the dingy counter stood a middle-aged woman in a grease-spotted white apron. Two of the stools were being held down by a pair of elderly men. They wore soiled work clothes, were drinking beer from cans, and they were staring interestedly at Bolan. When he smiled at them, they turned away. Bolan moved on to the end of the counter and addressed the woman. 'I need some gas,' he told her.
'You'll have to pump it yourself,' she replied, in a surprisingly cultured voice.
'All right,' he said agreeably. 'I'll have some coffee, too.'
She shook her head. 'Sorry, I'm out of coffee. How about a beer?'
Bolan grinned and declined with a shake of his head. He stepped toward the door.
'Don't go out there, son,' said a voice behind him.
Bolan paused with a hand on the door and gazed over his shoulder. One of the men at the counter had swivelled about and was regarding him with an intent stare. 'I said, don't go out there,' the old man repeated.
'Why not?' Bolan inquired, his hackles already rising.
'That car still out there? Edge o' the road?'
Bolan nodded his head and moved casually away from the door.
'Three men in it,' the man informed him. 'They was in here askin' about you, little while ago. Figger they're sittin' out there just waitin' for you now.'
'How do you know they were asking about me?' Bolan said.
The old man's eyes raked Bolan from end to end. 'Described you pretty well,' he replied. 'And they're packin' guns.'
'How do you know that?'
'Same way I know you got one under that jacket there. They got a shotgun, too. Saw it'n their front seat when they drove up. Don't act like cops, either.'
'They're not,' Bolan assured him. He turned to the door again.
'My old pickup's out back,' the man said, in a tense voice.
'Yeah?' Bolan was trying to appear relaxed and nonchalant as his eyes probed the vehicle at the intersection.
'If you was to leave your car sittin' there, I could probably drive you right past 'em.'
Bolan examined the offer.
'I was 'bout ready to go, anyway,' the man added.
'There's a suitcase on my back seat,' Bolan murmured. 'I have to have it.'
The old man slid off the stool. 'I'll go out and raise your hood and stick the hose in the gas tank,' he said. 'They'll think you're gettin' serviced. Can I get in that car from this side?'
Bolin was gauging the angle of vision between the two cars. If the Mafiosi remained in their vehicle, they would not be able to see between Bolan's car and the building, especially with Bolan's hood elevated. 'I'll get the bag out and meet you in the rear,' he suggested.
The old man nodded as he shuffled past Bolan and out the door. Moments later the hood of Bolan's car sprang open, blocking Bolan's view of the other vehicle. He quickly stepped outside, leaned into his car for the suitcase, then moved quickly around the corner of the small structure. A rattle-trap pickup truck sat on a dirt driveway at the rear. Bolan quietly deposited his luggage in the bed of the truck and climbed into the cab. He sat on the floorboards and eased the pistol into the ready position. He had hardly become settled when his elderly benefactor climbed in on the driver's side and, without a word, cranked the engine. They jounced around the far end of the building and pulled slowly onto the highway, coming to a full stop directly opposite the stake-out vehicle. Bolan saw the old man nod genially at the Mafiosi, then the gears ground and they lurched on through the intersection.
'They barely gave me a look-see,' the old man reported, chuckling. 'Too busy tryin' to see you gettin' back in your car.'
Bolan counted to ten, then lifted himself into the seat. The highway junction was disappearing around a gentle curve, and again the road was heading into a steep descent. 'Better get all the speed you can out of this bucket, sir,' he advised. 'Those guys won't sit there and stare at an empty car forever.'
'Ain't had so much fun since Anzio,' the oldster declared. 'You figger they'll come shootin' when they find out we suckered 'em?'
'That's what I figger,' Bolan replied quietly. 'You'll have to drop me at the first convenient spot. If they ever catch up with you, tell them I was holding a gun on you.'
'Shoot! I ain't never turned tail on vermin before. And, believe me, son, them back there is vermin.' The old man wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'It's ten miles into Palm Village,' he added. 'I guess I can get you that far. That's where I'm headed anyway.'
Bolan produced his wallet, extracted two fifties, and shoved them into the man's shirt pocket.
'You don't have to do that.'
Bolan smiled grimly. 'I couldn't possibly do enough,' he said. 'You have a right to know . . . those vermin back there are Mafia liquidators.'
The old man smiled. 'Shoot, I know that. Know you, too. Seen nothing but your picture on teevee for most a week now.'
Bolan shot a glance through the rear window, grunted deep in his throat, and observed, 'So . . . I guess you know what you're doing.'
The man's head snapped in a decisive nod. 'Sure do. Know what you're doing, too. Want you to know, you
