'Lt. Foster has been wanting to talk to you,' he was informed.
'Well, I'm still here,' Braddock said wearily.
Andy Foster's monotone bounced back at him. 'Definite make, Tim. Shoot-out up near Palm Village late last night. Our boy's handiwork, very plainly.'
'Last night!' Braddock said savagely. 'Why the delay in reporting?'
'The locals had the wrong slant. Tell you about it when you get in. Any instructions?'
'Yeah!' Braddock snarled. 'Get a chopper out here to pick me up! You get on over there in a car — no! First, get hold of those people and tell them to keep their fumbling hands off! I don't want them doing anything until I get there!'
'Ten -four.'
Braddock sat and fumed, his guts churning. Then he lunged out of the car and roared, 'Carl! Sergeant Lyons!'
Lyons came running. 'Yessir?' he asked breathlessly.
'Get someone to take my car in. Yours too. You'n me are taking a chopper ride.'
'Sir?'
'I'm going to give you one more chance to corner the rat. The rat, Lyons. Not the new Robin Hood of the West. You understand me?'
'Yessir,' Lyons replied meekly. He dropped his eyes and disappeared once again beyond the corner of the building.
Braddock fidgeted and nervously squeezed his hands together. Big Tim's grand design was not quite dead yet. Not, in fact, by a hell of a shot. Mack Bolan was going to be had.
Julian DiGeorge felt his self-control deserting him. He raised veiled eyes to his chief enforcer, Lou Pena, and muttered, 'Listen, dammit, I don't want your damn crying excuses! Do you know how close Palm Village is to where I'm sitting right now? Don't give me any vomiting excuses, Lou.'
'I don't know what else to say, Deej,' Pena replied humbly. 'I don't know how the bastard manages it. I just don't know. We got . . .'
'I know what you got,' DiGeorge rasped. 'You got an old defenseless farm hand and a decrepit old truck. And you lost three damn good boys. You lost, Lou, you didn't get anything!'
'I was going to say, we got a pretty good idea which way he's travelling now. I got people all up and down that highway and . . .'
'Sure we know which direction he's travelling. He's heading this way, Lou. Probably here already. Of course he is! He's here already.'
'Hell, Deej, we got thirty boys out there on the grounds. He ain't gonna get through anything like that.'
DiGeorge snorted nervously, lit a cigar, and blew the smoke toward the open window. 'Just like he couldn't get out of that beach house, eh?' He slapped the chair with a flat palm, then did it again.
Pena's eyes followed the trail of smoke out the window. He uncomfortably shifted his weight, coughed, then got to his feet and stood uncertainly awaiting his boss' command. Presently he said, 'What d'you think I oughta do, Deej?'
'You're outdated, Lou,' DiGeorge said, his voice suddenly mild.
'Huh?'
'I think it's about time you retired.'
'Aw hell, Deej, I don't want . . .'
'After you bring me Bolan's head.'
'I'll get it, Deej,'
'You damn well better. You take five cars, Lou. Full of wild men. And you go over to Palm Village. You shake that place like it never thought of being shook. And you pick up Bolan's tracks. You hear me?'
'I hear you, Deej.'
'And don't you come back here without Bolan. You hear me?'
'I hear you, Deej.'
'I want Mack Bolan more than I want anything in this world. You understand me, Lou?'
'I understand you, Deej.'
'Then get the hell out of here! What are you waiting for?'
Pena got out of there. The boss, he decided, was cracking up. First Bolan was about to walk in the front door, then he was clear over in Palm Village. What the hell did Deej expect of him? It was a senseless question, and Pena recognized it as such even as he thought it. What else? He expected Bolan's head, on a platter, that's what. And Pena, the new chief enforcer, had damn well better get it for him. If he didn't, maybe Pena's own head would end up on that platter. It was not a comforting thing to contemplate. Well, by God, Pena's head wasn't going to get on no platter! Deej said to shake the town apart. He'd shake it down, by God, if that's what it took. Lou Pena had to get Mack Bolan. There just wasn't any two ways about it. He had to, by God, get Mack Bolan!
Chapter Five
The plastics man
Jim Brantzen was one of a vanishing breed of men. Caring little for material wealth and not at all for personal prestige, his major passions of life revolved about dedicated service to those who needed his talents and to the advancement of his own particular branch of medical science. To Brantzen, though, cosmetic surgery was not just a science. It was also an art, and a highly creative one. The balding, middle-aged surgeon disputed the contention that 'beauty is only skin deep.' Beauty, he knew, is a totality of the personal image, a totality combining character, spirit, and physical appearance in a package that is pleasing to the beholder. He knew, also, the ravages of character and spirit which could be induced by an unpleasing exterior. His own mother had suffered a hideous disfigurement from an accident when Brantzen was a young boy, and in an age when cosmetic surgery was a bumbling science reserved for the very rich. He had seen a once beautiful and vivacious woman curl up and die inside and later die all over as an embittered and totally withdrawn member of society. Jim Brantzen knew the importance of physical beauty, and he knew how much deeper than skin that importance extended. After all these years, he still awoke sometimes from a cold-sweat dream with the muffled sobbing of his mother-in-seclusion tearing at his heart.
Jim Brantzen had heart, and plenty of it. Enough to volunteer for combat-zone surgical duties in Vietnam. Enough to set up his own makeshift hospital in unpacified territory to administer to the torn and disfigured bodies of Vietnamese children, as well as anyone else who happened along. There was a special place in Brantzen's heart for Mack Bolan, also. On various occasions, the tall and seemingly cold Special Missions sergeant had lugged damaged and bleeding children into Brantzen's small field hospital, often through miles of hostile country, and frequently remaining nearby to defend the small outpost against enemy trackers. Brantzen had recognized in Bolan the same sense of dedication to duty which kept the surgeon at his post. Though Brantzen was unalterably opposed to warfare and violence, he could still respect and admire a dedication in that direction. He had even admired the enemy and their tenacious do-or-die approach to their cause, though disapproving of their tactics and disrespect for human life.
Brantzen knew of Bolan's specialty, of course. He knew that the man had been programmed for murder, that he was a military assassin, and he knew how Bolan had earned that tag, 'The Executioner.' He could still admire him. Indeed, he had to admire him. He had seen him stand up to almost certain death on too many occasions; at the other end of the stick, he had seen the pain-of-soul in Bolan's eyes as he carried broken children into the field hospital. There was no swagger to the man, no story-book bravado; he was a soldier, doing a soldier's job, and doing it with precision and with courage and with dedication. Yes, Jim Brantzen had a deep and abiding admiration for Sgt. Mack Bolan.
He had known also, of course, of Bolan's homefront adventures since his return from Vietnam. He had followed the stories in the newspapers and had wagged his head sorrowfully over the television reports. Some men, Brantzen had decided, just had too much sense of dedication for their own good. If Vietnam had been an
