A short silence later, Rickert said, 'On the level? This is really who you say?'
'I don't have time for games either, Rickert.'
'Okay. So now just tell me when and where you're hitting so we can be sure to stay out of your way. What is this? What do you want?'
'I just want to play a tape for you, Rickert. It will be delivered to Braddock first thing in the morning, but I thought I'd give you a sneak performance. You listening?'
'I'm listening.'
Bolan touched the rewind button on the recorder, then punched the playback control and snuggled the telephone mouthpiece against the recorder's speaker. He let it run for about thirty seconds, grinning at Loudelk all the while, then stopped the recorder and returned the telephone instrument to his ear. 'How'd you like the sneak preview?' he asked in a cold voice. 'Pretty sneaky, eh?'
The telephone line was silent. Bolan jiggled the hook, and the switchboard operator came on. 'Your party disconnected, sir,' she announced. 'Do you want me to ring back?'
'No, that's okay,' Bolan said, grinning into the' mouthpiece. 'I guess it's a permanent disconnect. Thank you, operator.'
He left the booth and returned to the car. 'How'd he take it?' Loudelk asked, smiling.
'He took it hard,' Bolan replied. 'And ... I think he took it on the lam.'
Chapter Twelve
The Squeeze
'All right, here's the situation,' Bolan told the assembled Death Squad. 'The pressure is building, strong and fast. The local Maffianos are in a state of general alarm. They're using the pattern I've been expecting them to all along, closing ranks and making preparations to crush us the next time we show ourselves. It's Vanh Duc all over again, but with a troubling difference. That difference has been created by the police interest in this operation. The pressure is on the cops, too, and they're trying their best to lower the boom on us. So we have to worry about two fronts. There's also another item that's liable to throw us a curve. The cops are worried about the Mafia buildup. They view this whole thing as a sort of gang war that could spill out onto their streets at any moment. So they've added a bit of spice to the pot. They've decided to begin a harassment campaign that will keep the Mafia off- balance and unable to wage warfare. Okay—so the word has been leaked to the Mafia. They know that the cops are going to begin rounding them up first thing tomorrow.'
'What effect will this have on our plans?' Zitka asked.
'I don't know for sure,' Bolan replied, frowning. 'I do know, though, that our success depends on getting our job done at the quickest possible pace and getting the hell out of this area. L.A. has about the toughest police department in the nation, and when these guys gear up for you, you can bet that your days are numbered. Two immediate effects, or possiblities, that I can see. Either we'll get knocked off our pace as a result of the police Interference or else the Mafia will go into hiding or take a trip or something until the heat's off. Either move will defeat us, or at least defeat our objectives.'
'We can lay low, too, can't we?' Andromede said.
'Not around here,' Bolan quickly replied. 'We can't afford to give the L.A. cops that kind of time-factor to work with. Like I said, these guys know their business. Given enough time, they'll find us and they'll nail us. I had allowed five days for this L.A. operation, and that's all. We've already used two.'
'What are you getting at, Mack?' Zitka asked worriedly.
'Well ...' Bolan scratched his forehead. 'Tonight might be our last chance for a grand slammer. I'd say twenty-four hours at the very most. There's too much working against us now.'
'You're saying it's a full-dress Vanh Duc tonight, then?'
Bolan soberly nodded his head. 'Either that or a full abort.'
'Whatta you mean, a full abort?' Fontenelli growled.
Bolan's eyes fell on Blancanales. 'What's the take so far, Politician?'
Blancanales coughed, smiled, and said, 'In round figures, the grand total is $147,000.'
'Okay,' Bolan said. 'That isn't nearly enough to make all of you independently wealthy, but it's a better stake than you had forty-eight hours ago. If you decide to dissolve the operation here and now, I'll throw the kitty into the split.'
'What're you talking about, dissolve the operation?' Andromede said quietly. 'Who wants to dissolve the operation?'
'It might be best,' Blancanales observed. 'Like Mack says...'
'Best for who? For what?' Fontenelli chimed in.
Every one began talking at once, and the briefing fell into total disarray. Bolan shouted them down and soon restored order. 'Wait 'til you get all the facts,' he told them. 'Now listen to me. I assume that most of you came into the squad because of the money angle. That's just great with me, and I'm thankful to have had your services. But you have to know—these new pressures have altered the timetable and also the money potential. We've reached the showdown stage of the operation much quicker than I'd expected. All of a sudden the gravy has disappeared, and we're down to the raw meat of the situation. It's warfare now, pure and simple. What I'm saying is, the glory is gone from this operation. All that's left now is the hell. I want you to understand that. And I want to give you the chance to cash in your chips and get out of the game.'
'What are
Bolan showed him a grin. 'Well... I'm in it for the hell. I'm going to finish the operation.'
'By yourself?' Andromede asked.
'He's not by hisself,' Washington said quickly, beating Bolan's reply. 'Gravy always has been too rich all by itself. I'll take some of the hell, too.'
'Hell yes,' Gunsmoke Harrington spoke up. 'I'm not splitting, Sarge.'
'Well, talk it over between yourselves,' Bolan said. 'Politician will cash you out if you decide to leave. I'm going down to the beach. I'm recessing this briefing for half an hour. When I get back, well plan the grand slammer around what's left of the squad. Thanks and good luck to all of you, leaving or staying.' Bolan spun about and walked quickly toward the water.
'Well kiss my ass!' Fontenelli exclaimed quietly.
'It looks like at least three positive makes and two more possibles,' Lieutenant Andy Foster reported to Captain Braddock. 'The Indian, we're pretty certain, is Thomas Loudelk, a full-blooded Blackfoot from a reservation up in Montana. He knew Bolan in Vietnam. Disposed of his possessions last week and left the reservation. Tried to cash a thousand-dollar telegraphic money order there. Finally had to go into Butte to cash it. That money order was filed from the Western Union main office here in L.A. The sender was a B. Mackay.'
Braddock grunted. 'I'd say that's positive. Any line on him at this end?'
Foster shook his head. 'Not a thing, but we're still working it. Here's another, a real colorful character they called Gunsmoke in Vietnam. He wore old-Western-style six-shooters, one on each hip. Just a kid, but they say the Viet cong were in real awe of the guy. He's been working out at the wild-West park since his discharge, one of those quick-draw artists. Walked off the job one day last week without notice.' The lieutenant raised a meaningful gaze to his superior. 'Told his boss he'd fired his last blank. Nice kid, they say. Easygoing, likable, good-looking— always had a bunch of girls clustered around him. Name's James Harrington. Father owns a sheep ranch up in Idaho. Hasn't shown up there, and the old man doesn't seem to care if he never does.'
'Friend of Bolan's?'
Foster nodded. 'Practically a disciple. He was living down in Anaheim. Moved out of his apartment the same day he quit his job. No forwarding address.'
'Call it a positive,' Braddock said. ''Who's next?'
'Well ... that's Zitka. The telex from Saigon confirms the make. He was Bolan's right-hand man—sniping team, you know—for more than a year. They worked like a hand in a glove. Zitka was a forward member, the advance recon man. The Viets had a name for him that translates into English as Whispering Death. He's got
