As the doctor was departing, a man with an icy voice who identified himself as Mack Bolan was passed through to the DeMarco library via telephone. He talked to Tom the Broker Vericci and suggested that midnight could be the hour of doom — for everyone connected with Roman DeMarco. The caller gave special mention to a 'Mr. King.'
By seven o'clock all lights were lighted, inside and out, at the mansion on Russian Hill and jittery men prowled ceaselessly about the grounds and along the streets surrounding the property.
While, in the library, there was standing room only as the talk got down to the nitty-gritty business of personal survival in an uncertain world, and the hissing voice of Don DeMarco devoted itself to a series of cryptic telephone consultations with an unnamed 'friend' who seemed entirely reluctant even to accept the calls.
Finally, at eight o'clock, DeMarco completed the last of these telephone conversations and turned to his cadre with a relieved sigh.
'Okay,' he reported tiredly. It's set up. He'll meet with us in an hour. But we got to come alone. And we got to talk Wo Fan into coining with us.'
At ten minutes past the hour of eight, a cautious acceptance from the Chinese community signalled a sure meet with Mr. King.
The hollow men, the stuffed men, had cast their vote to lean together... to the bitter end.
From his eagle perch, Mack Bolan watched them depart — three big limousines moving slowly out of the drive and easing onto the streets of the city.
He scrutinized them closely, burning details into his scout's memory cells, and he watched until they turned down Lombard, 'the crookedest street in the world.'
Then he made the scramble to his battered, mud-streaked war chariot and picked up the procession as it crossed Taylor.
They made a stop and a pickup at the gates of Chinatown, and one of the vehicles remained there.
Bolan prudently made a swing around that plant and picked up the remaining two vehicles of the procession at the corner of Stockton and Sacramento.
They turned up Market. Bolan spotted them a light signal, then he swung out in casual pursuit.
The limousines went on all the way up Market to the Portola district, then started the climb toward Twin Peaks. Another vehicle dropped out there.
Bolan again ran a disengaging pattern and came onto the taillights of the target car halfway up the hill.
He was getting an idea, now, of where they were headed, and he relaxed a little. But not much. A pair of lights had kept swinging on him throughout the trip, dogging him all the way from way back on Russian Hill somewhere — or, at least, they seemed to be the same lights. He did not wish to get overly hung up on that rear vision — whatever might be back there, the target was ahead and this was where his primary concentration must be focused.
Twin Peaks is one of those 'mustn't miss' tourist magnets of the San Francisco area, the geographic heart of the whole scenic wonderland that is San Francisco. From her overlooking peaks, which rise majestically above the other terrain like the proud thrust of a sleeping woman's breasts, the breathless visitor gets the entire bay area spread out below him and for a seemingly infinite distance, and it is especially spectacular at night time. In fact, the many observation-point lanes and pullovers once provided a heady lure to the lover's lane crowds, before the car- window bandits and rapists found the lure equally rewarding.
Bolan had been there many times, but neither as lover nor bandit, and tonight he was feeling a bit of tugging from both frames of consciousness. He was, he hoped, going to rob the mob... and he was going to love doing it.
Not in any bloodthirsty sense, hell no. Bolan had long ago reached the point of gagging over blood offerings... but, yeah, this was a damned important mission. Much more so than he had suspected just 24 short hours earlier. And he hoped, he hoped with an almost romantic fervor, that Twin Peaks was the appointed place for the meet. Up here, way up here where on a clear day the entire kingdom was spread out for inspection, would be the most ironically proper spot to meet the hollow men.
And, yeah, it was the place.
He saw the limousine pull into one of the little lanes which circle into a secluded observation park, and he killed his lights on the curve and dead-sticked it on in.
Something flickered in his rearview mirror as he rolled to his stop, but he could not be sure that it wasn't a reflection of distant city lights — and he for damn sure was not going to start chasing rear-guard phantoms at this point of the pursuit.
He snatched up the stuttergun and pulled a brief and silent recon to the rear, then he went on forward, sticking to the hillside and blending with the shadows until he was looking down on them.
The Mafia limousine was standing there with her horns to the safety rail, engine idling, parking lights on, all doors closed and the lights of town reflecting from raised windows.
A light standard rose up between the limousine and another car, a drab looking little foreign job, Japanese or something, and the lamp which was supposed to discourage smooching and robbing also seemed to be discouraging the lone occupant of the smaller vehicle.
Obviously, if they were to have any sort of meaningful discussions, they would have to take place in the limousine — and that would be crowded enough — or they would have to take place in the open air.
The guy was shy. Obviously he did not wish to leave his vehicle.
He had rolled down his window and was half-lying across the seat in an effort to talk across to the limousine.
Bolan waited and watched.
Presently the doors of the limousine opened and the occupants slowly struggled to the outside.
Vericci was the first out. He had been driving. Then followed Ciprio and old man DeMarco and, finally, from the back seat, two gentlemen dudes of obvious Oriental backgrounds.
Bolan immediately recognized Wo Fan... but the other guy ...
He whistled softly to himself and wondered. The commie? All the commissioners of California crime... in one group?
Important, yeah. Maybe more important than Bolan could fully grasp.
The group straggled hesitantly toward the little import. Bolan automatically checked the safety switch on the burper and waited.
Come out, man, come out. Let me get a look at you before I rub you.
The guy didn't come out, but his head did, craning outward and upward beneath the overhanging lamp for a smiling welcome to his visiting dignitaries of despair.
Bolan stared at that face with a stunning recognition — and, for a moment, he tried to tell himself that he was not seeing what he thought he was seeing.
But then a lot of little things suddenly jogged together in that combat-hardened mind, and Bolan knew in a flash that indeed he was seeing 'Mr. King' in the flesh... and what a damned irony.
The name wasn't really King, of course. Almost as big but not quite... almost as respectable, but not quite.
Bolan felt his belly roll over and quiver, and he left those concealing shadows and moved silently across the paved surface for a close kill.
He did not want to miss this one. He did not want to miss this rotten son of a bitch... this guy who was selling out not just his own people but maybe an entire nation in the bargain... this guy who killed and robbed and raped and starved and oppressed not just an occasional handful but thousands every day without ever experiencing the sight or smell or taste of blood in his delicate senses... no, Bolan did not want to miss this guy.
DeMarco spotted the spectre of death first, and the old man made a move which could have passed as a clutching at a suddenly fibrillating heart, but it went on inside the coat and jerked rapidly back out again, and it was hauling hardware.
The others whirled at about that instant, and there was panic... scraping feet and frightened grunts and diving hands... even the guy inside the little car was fumbling with something on his dashboard... and Bolan put everything he had ever been and ever hoped to be into that squeeze of the trigger.
He did not let off until the clip was dead, and all the hollow men had lost their stuffing, and were leaning
