Death Squad

almost as many decorations as Bolan.'

'Let's look at those two possibles.'

This one here is Rosario Blancanales. Special-services sergeant, knew the country over there like' a native. Doubles as a medic and an all-around handyman. Does a little bit of everything— mechanic, gunsmith, plays a couple of musical instruments. Organized schools for the village kids and even had a baseball little league going over there in unpacified territory. Say he has a genius for organization and administration. Twice he was recommended for OCS and twice he flunked the entrance exams. Just not enough formal education, it seems.'

'How would he tie in with Bolan?'

He left special services after his second OCS failure, went into an elite combat unit. Worked with Bolan several times as a guide in enemy territory.'

'And where is he now?' Braddock asked.

Foster sighed. 'He's just a possible, remember. He was working at the VA hospital down in Long Beach. Gave notice that he was leaving long before Bolan came on the scene—about a month ago. His supervisor down there told our man that Blancanales was planning on reenlisting in the army. He left his job on schedule, right to the day of his notice, and he left no tracks at all. None. He didn't reenlist anywhere In Southern California, I can tell you that.'

'Doesn't seem to fit the pattern,' Braddock mused.

'No, but he has disappeared, and he did disappear just after the gunfight out at Zitka's.'

'All right. Keep checking. Who's the other possible?'

'Angelo Fontenelli, also known as Chopper. Heavy-weapons man over in Vietnam, another Bolan sidekick. He's married, has a wife and two kids in New Jersey. The wife claims she hasn't seen or heard of him for two years, and furthermore she's had no child support from him since his government checks stopped coming. That's how she knew he'd been discharged. Or so she says.'

'What do you have to tie him to Bolan?'

'Nothing except the past association. In Vietnam. He's on the suspect list simply because we can't locate him.'

'Okay. Keep on him. How're you doing with those vehicles?'

'Hell, that's damn near impossible, Tim, without some more info to go on.'

'Yeah. Well ... we got one lucky break. Lyons' detail turned up an electronics wholesaler who sold a sizable order of UHF radio equipment this morning. The buyer claimed to be from some technical school. Bought the stuff in loose lots. You know—chassis, components, crystals, odds and ends. Claimed the stuff would be used by students learning to build radio sets.'

'Sounds reasonable,' Lieutenant Foster commented.

'Sure, except the name he gave for the school doesn't check out, and he paid cash for the stuff. Several thousand dollars. What kind of school sends out a buyer with cash money in his jeans?'

'Smells like a hot buy, doesn't it?'

'Sure does. Lyons is down there now getting an itemized list of the sale.

Foster shifted awkwardly in his chair and asked, 'What... uh, what's the latest on Rickert?'

'Stop, you're making me sick at my stomach,' Braddock growled.

'You figure he got tipped?'

'Yeah, and I'd give a month's salary to learn how. Betty said he got a call while he was in the bullroom. Said he turned white as a ghost. He went back into the bullroom, told Menkes he had to personally investigate a hot tip, and he walked out. Five minutes before we went after him. That's the last anybody's seen of him. I don't...'

The ringing of the telephone on Braddock's desk interrupted his spiel. He scooped up the instrument and said, 'Braddock.' His eyes widened and focused owlishly on Foster. 'Okay. Yeah. Keep on it and keep me informed. Yeah.'

Braddock slowly cradled the phone. 'It's starting to crack wide open,' he told the lieutenant. 'That was Granger. A car buyer down on Figeuroa made a lot purchase from an individual today. The deal involved a red 1968 Corvette Stingray, and blue 1967 Ford Custom, a gray 1967 Mustang, and a 1963 Mercury station wagon.'

'Bingo!' Foster exclaimed.

'Yeah, and listen, how lucky can you get? The name of the seller?'

'Yeah?'

'Rosario Blancanales! Except for the Corvette, the pink slips were all in his name, never reregistered. He'd only had the cars one week from the previous owners. Told the buyer he'd bought the cars for resale but his plans had gone sour and now he had to have his money back out of them.

The Corvette has Nevada registration and a bill of sale made out to one Bill Mackay.'

'Now where does this leave us?' Foster asked, eyes narrowing speculatively.

'Leaves us a bit smarter,' Braddock replied. 'We can stop looking for those particular vehicles. We can move Blancanales into the positive-make column. And maybe . . . well, I wonder of Bolan is getting ready to blow town.'

'Doesn't add up,' Foster said. 'Not if he's the one who bought the radio stuff.'

'Let's assume that he is. So ... he is not blowing town. He's shifting gears. He's dumped the hot vehicles, and he'll be picking up some more. Assume that he won't steal, he'll buy. Okay, let's...'

Carl Lyons stepped through the open doorway. The excitement in his manner stopped Braddock in midsentence. 'What've you got, Carl?' Braddock inquired.

'It scares me, what I've got,' Lyons declared. He advanced to Braddock's desk and placed a wrinkled sheet of onion-skin paper in front of the captain. 'The list of radio parts. Look at those crystals, about halfway down the page.'

'I'm looking. What am I looking for?'

'This is UHF, crystal-controlled stuff. Look at the frequencies he bought.'

'I'm looking, Carl, but I still don't...'

'Dammit, Captain, he's covered our Hardcase frequencies!'

Braddock glared tight-lipped at the sheet of paper. Foster half-rose from his chair and craned about to get a look at the parts list.

'Well I'll be a ...' Foster declared in a near whisper.

'How did that son of a bitch get our frequencies?' Lyons inquired angrily.

Braddock was woodenly shuffling through the Intelligence items Foster had placed on his desk earlier. He found the piece he was seeking and spread it out under the desklamp. It was a mug shot, the type of photo used on armed-forces identification cards, of a man with dark skin, thick black hair, and piercing eyes.

'Who is that?' Lyons asked.

'That,' Captain Braddock said, 'Is an Indian. Not a Cherokee or a Navajo, but a Blackfoot. He was standing right there in my doorway earlier today, said he'd seen the Hollywood rhubarb last night. I sent him on down to the control room to file a written statement. I sent him in there myself.'

Lyons could not control the sudden twitching at his facial muscles. Those nervy bastards,' he said, grinning. 'What're you going to do with nervy bastards like that?'

'I'm going to lock them in a cell and throw away the key, that's what I'm going to do with them,' Braddock said. He sighed, staring at the photo of Bloodbrother Loudelk. It's almost a damn shame.'

'And a waste,' Foster added. Think of what they could do, with those brains and energies, if they...'

'What could they do?' Lyons asked, quietly interrupting. 'I mean, really, what could they do? They became men in a different sort of world—entirely different.'

They've got to live in this one, though,' Brad-dock snapped. His manner clearly implied that the maudlin hour was over. He viciously punched a button on his intercom. 'I want all Hardcase personnel on duty immediately. All detail leaders in the control room in thirty minutes. And get me some communications specialists up here right away. What's the latest on that electronics-intelligence outfit from San Diego?'

'The navy is flying them up from Miramer,' came the response. 'Should get here any minute now.'

'With all their gear?'