accelerator pedal and leaned into the curving approach to the warehouse area just as the radio crackled and Captain Braddock's crisp tones joined them. 'Hardcase units 1, 3, 5, and 7, attention—Hardcase alert—Zone immediate! Divert and stand by further.'
'Christ, they're hitting in Hollywood, too,' Officer Evers commented, glancing at Lyons. His foot faltered on the accelerator.
'Forget it, we're on this one now!' Lyons snapped. They were threading between a line of parked patrol cars. Uniformed officers in white helmets and carrying riot guns could be seen moving cautiously on from hi the compound. A fire captain was vigorously waving Lyon's vehicle through, to clear the drive. Firemen were darting about in the intense heat, dragging hoses and other paraphernalia.
Braddock's voice had returned to the air. '... screen across all Zone 2 intersections between King Five and King Nine. Close and apprehend. Unit 3, acknowledge.'
Evers stared morosely at Lyons. 'Are you going to acknowledge?' he asked tightly.
The sergeant was leaving the vehicle. He leaned tensely back through the doorway and said, 'You acknowledge, if you want to. Tell him we're already here and I'm out of the vehicle.'
'I better acknowledge,' Evers replied, reaching for the mike. Lyons was even then out of earshot, moving swiftly into the confusion.
George Zitka was pounding along a narrow alleyway, a canvas bag suspended from his shoulder. Deadeye Washington loped along at his heels, the long legs moving in an effortless stride, an automatic weapon riding across his chest, a smaller bag dangling from a huge hand. They angled across a deserted parking lot, passing to the rear of a taco house, and spurted across Vine Street. A Ford sedan eased around a corner, moving slowly. They ran alongside the Ford for a short distance, passing weapons and other burdens through the open windows; then the doors opened, and Zitka and Washington flung themselves inside, the car already picking up speed.
Gunsmoke Harrington, behind the wheel, asked anxiously, 'How'd it go?'
Washington chuckled and said, 'Scared the pee out of bigshot Varone. He insisted we take the money—just plain insisted. We obliged him.'
Zitka was panting with exertion. 'We caught 'im throwin' one into some hot little blonde.'
'Yeah?' Harrington swiveled his head about in a long stare at Zitka, then almost reluctantly returned his attention to the road. He swung into a sidestreet and gunned along in second gear to the next intersection and swerved into the approach to the Hollywood Freeway. 'How come I miss all the fun?' he groused.
'Hell,
A police car, beacon flashing angrily, tore past them in the opposite direction. 'Wonder where he's going?' Harrington asked, grinning.
'I bet he's headed for that recording studio,' Zitka said. He flashed an amused glance toward Washington. 'You know—that place back there where we heard all the commotion?'
Deadeye Washington was all smiles. 'Sounded to me like somebody was just tearin' hell out of all that expensive equipment. Wonder who'd want to do a thing like that?'
The Ford was on the freeway ramp and angling for a shot into the traffic. Harrington stiffened momentarily, his eyes following a speeding vehicle that had just zipped past them. 'There goes Blood-brother,' he announced. 'Looks like our timing was perfect.' Harrington found his spot and moved the Ford smoothly into the flow of traffic. 'Wonder how the sarge is doing with his strike.'
'Don't you worry none about that man,' Washington said softly. 'He knows where it is, man, and what it is and how it is. Don't you worry none about that soul.'
Sweat was running down Carl Lyons's arms and dripping from the tips of his fingers. He could not have said, moments earlier, whether it had been the incredible heat or some stubborn cop's instinct that had driven him to this corner of the yard, but the muffled explosion along the fence corner suddenly assured him that fate had placed him there, whatever the form of persuasion. He sensed, more than saw, the movement of the tall grass near the fence. His weapon was in his hand before he even realized it, and he was in a weirdly frozen eyeball-to-eyeball encounter with a grinning ape and a light machine gun. The man was clad in army fatigues and a dark beret, with crossed, solid-state two-way radio was strapped to his shoulder. He was kneeling on one knee and grinning up at Lyons over the sights of the very efficient-looking automatic weapon.
'Drop it,' Lyons instinctively commanded.
'Huh-uh,' the other man said, still grinning.
The noise and confusion a bare hundred yards distant seemed entirely remote and part of an entirely different reality, the dancing firelight adding to the weirdness of the scene.
'This is no Mexican standoff, Bolan,' Lyons said, his voice slightly quivering in the contained excitement. 'I'm police officer, and I'm ordering you to drop your weapon.'
'I'm not Bolan. Go ahead and shoot. You'll reach hell one sure step ahead of me.'
Lyons's blood ran cold as another voice joined the conversation. It was cool and deliberate, and it was saying, Thumb off, Chopper, and walk away.' A tall man was standing on the outide of the chain link fence. Lyons suddenly understood the explosion that had focused his attention to the spot. The center post was half-concealed in a cloud of black smoke; it was twisted grotesquely, and torn strands of the chain link were clinging to it. One section of the fence was curling back toward the next supporting post. They had blown the fence.
The tall man with the cold voice was holding an army .45 at arm's length, and he was pointing the gun at the grinning ape.
'I ain't used to walkin' away, Sarge,' the ape snarled.
'It's either walk or be carried, Chopper,' the cool voice advised.
Lyons experienced a vague sense of mental confusion. The big guy was taking
'Start walking, Chopper,' the tall man commanded sternly, ignoring Lyons's protest completely.
The ape was still grinning but without humor. A growl rattled in his throat; then he got slowly to his feet, his eyes remaining hard and unflickering on the lawman.
Lyons felt dazed. His ears roared. The .38 police special seemed to be hanging out there in front of him of its own volition; yet he was very strongly aware of the slowly tightening pressure of his finger upon the trigger. The ape took a slow backward step, then another, carefully placing his feet on the uneven ground. Lyons angled his gaze toward the tall man. 'You're Bolan,' he said.
The man nodded curtly. 'No fight with you, Officer,' he said lightly.
'Since when?' Lyons asked. He did not recognize the sound of his own voice.
Bolan was moving softly toward the ape now, getting between the slowly retreating figure and Lyons. 'Never have,' he intoned soberly. 'You're right, and I'm right.' His eyes flicked toward the burning warehouse. There's the wrong ones. There's my fight.'
The ape was fading fast now. Lyons wondered vaguely why he was just standing there. Bolan's .45 was now moving slowly down and in. He eased it into the flap of the holster. 'Now I'm walking,' he said softly.
Lyons shoved his pistol to full arm-extension toward the tall, black-clad figure. 'You're under arrest, Bolan,' he snapped.
'I'm walking,' Bolan repeated. He spun on his heel and faded silently into the darkness.
Lyons stared unbelievingly at the spot where The Executioner had stood. He lowered his revolver and poked it angrily into the holster. The sound of running feet advanced from the confused din at his back, and a moment later two uniformed officers drew up alongside him.
'I
'Must have been a timed explosive,' Lyons muttered. 'Damn thing practically blew up in my face.'
'You didn't see anything, eh?'
'No.' Lyons gazed out into the darkness beyond the fence. So—he'd met the clever bastard face to face. And let him simply walk away. 'No, I didn't see anything,' he said calmly.
