The van had taken numerous punctures but, miraculously, all the glass was intact.
She said, 'Well. It still runs.'
Bolan replied, 'You see, we have this understanding.'
He was see-sawing about in the turnaround when a glistening and shivering pair of porno girls descended on them.
Bolan poked his head out the window and strove to keep his gaze at eye level as he told them, 'Sorry to hit and run, but it's time to buzz. The fuzz, you know.'
Cynthey showed him a pained smile. 'Just wanted you to know,' she panted. 'I recognized some of those hoods. Two of them... I've seen several times with Thomas Vericci. He's a director of...'
Bolan said, 'I know, Baysavers Ink. He's also a Mafia honcho, Cynthey. Don't let people con you like that.'
She jerked her head and told him, 'I'm just getting that idea. I think I've been conned about a lot of things.' She screwed her battered face around and said, 'Listen. I didn't know about this. I think they just collaborated on this thing. You know? While they pushed us around on Geary, these others came out here to cover all possibilities.'
Bolan smiled soberly. 'That's the way I figure it.' The siren was getting louder and Mary Ching was beginning to fidget. He said, 'You kids better buzz out of here. There could be a return visit.'
'What do we tell the fuzz?'
He handed her a marksman's medal. 'Give them this. It's all the explanation you'll need.'
Panda the Bare blurted, 'Bolan! Mr. Bolan! Thanks!'
He grinned. 'Stay cool and lay low. For awhile, anyway.'
He dug the wheels in and burned away from there. They made it to the bridge approach seconds ahead of the official vehicles, and he turned a tight smile to the fastest gun in Chinatown.
'I guess we made it,' he told her.
'Is that all you have to say to me, Mr. Taciturn?'
The smile loosened somewhat as he replied, 'We're alive, aren't we? What can I add to that?'
She leaned against him and hugged his arm.
'You're right,' she murmured. 'What is there to add.'
He relented. 'Okay. You were great. You're welcome to cover my flank any time.'
'Gee,' she replied with a wry face. 'You just made my whole day.'
'Not quite.' They were rolling with the traffic now, crossing the big span. 'It's time for that call to Barney Gibson. You remember what to say?'
She twisted the rose-petal face into a disgusted scowl. 'Of course I remember what to say.'
'Okay. I'll drop you at the marina. Make the call and then get clear.'
She growled, delicately, way up at the top of her throat, and told him, 'And I get screwed without even a kiss.'
He grinned at her and said, 'What?'
'Damned if I will. That phone call, old heart of rocks, is going to cost you one hellish kiss.'
Bolan chuckled, and a minute later he pulled out of the traffic from the bridge and nosed into a little observation area.
She got her hellish kiss, then a couple more, then he gruffly shoved her toward the door and told her, 'Make the call.'
Her eyes were all deep pools of understanding and tender concern.
'You feeling better about everything now?' she huskily asked him.
He nodded and replied, 'Some.'
A procession of police cars screamed past, headed for the bridge and reflecting the setting sun off their windshields.
Bolan thought he spotted a black face in the lead car.
Mary watched the procession pass, then she slipped outside, leaned back in for a final look, and told him, 'That was quick. I'll bet they're barricading the Golden Gate. Doesn't that make you feel important?'
He told her, 'Not exactly. Uh, if I get lucky, lady gunner, let's meet you know where.'
She said, 'A thundering herd of dinosaurs couldn't keep me away. Mack... dammit... don't be so wild. Take care of yourself.'
He gave her a solemn wink.
She closed the door and stepped back. He beeped the horn at her and swung back into traffic.
Most of it was headed the other way. It was that time of day, and the city was emptying itself.
But not entirely.
The plot was simple, sure, but Bolan was hoping it would keep a very select number of people inside the big, gutsy city this evening.
Yeah, a very select number.
Barney Gibson would not let him down, Bolan felt sure of that.
But it still was not all in place and... no Mary, Mack Bolan was not feeling that much better yet. Not yet. It was time for the Executioner to add his ante to the growing pot.
It was time to pay a call on an ambitious hood who thought he was destined to rule the earth.
Then maybe, the Executioner would feel a lot better about his world.
It was time to show some style to the king of style.
He stepped out of the private elevator and iced the foyer sentry with the muzzle end of the Belle, firmly against the forehead.
'It's up to you if you live awhile,' Bolan coldly announced.
The guy was a hard item, sure, and those eyes didn't flinch much but he was thinking about long life and happier times. The voice was strained with controlled fury as he replied, 'Sure, tough, let's live a little.'
Bolan asked, 'Who's in there?'
'Just th' boss.'
'No one else?'
'Would I lie to you, guy? At a time like this?'
Bolan promised him, 'If you're wrong, silk, I'll finish you on my way out.'
The bodyguard felt that perhaps he should explain, to cinch the deal. In a cordial tone, he reported, 'They're all out chasing your tracks. He's in there alone, buy it. Who'd of thought you'd just waltz in here? In broad daylight yet?'
'You don't like the guy much,' Bolan decided.
The hardman shrugged, but carefully. 'Pay's the same whether I like 'im or not. There's no pay for dead men.'
If the guy was expecting a pat on the back, he was sorely disappointed. The Executioner felled him with a jolt to the throat, then made sure with a Beretta slap to the head.
He fished the key from a special pocket and quietly let himself into the penthouse suite.
A stereo tape system in the corner was recreating the Nashville sound, with Johnny Cash artistically relating the glory of the old days of railroading. Bright lights were on behind the bar. The bar itself was littered with soiled glasses and overflowing ashtrays, and it reeked of stale beer.
Franco had been entertaining.
Bolan passed on through the living room and into the glass side of the joint. All of San Francisco and goodly portions of Alameda and Marin Counties were laid out there for inspection.
The sliding doors to the terrace were open. Bolan paused beside a planter with a real live tree embedded in it and called out, 'Franco?'
The enforcer was on his terrace, leaning against the safety wall on both forearms, enjoying the sight and smell in the late-afternoon sun of his city.
He was in shirtsleeves and a pearl-handled snub was clipped to the belt at his waist.
Franco turned his head only, about halfway around, and said, 'Yeah, who's there?'
'Me,' Bolan replied quietly.
