Death Squad

advanced me,' he said quietly. 'Put it in the kitty.'

'It wasn't an advance,' Blancanales protested. 'It's a bonus.'

'Put it in the kitty anyway,' Hoffower insisted.

Blancanales accepted the money and added it to the stack on the table. Andromede stared at the 'war fund' for a strained moment, then quickly counted a thousand dollars from his packet and dropped it onto the table. Fontenelli wavered painfully, then followed suit.

Washington was staring after the quickly receding figure of Mack Bolan as he trudged up the beach. 'There go de judge,' he said with a soft sigh. Then he stepped to the table and deposited a stack of bills.

Loudelk was smiling faintly. 'Soft probe, eh?' He tossed an uncounted stack into the growing kitty. 'Here's my vote for the winning side.'

The vote of confidence quickly became unanimous, the war fund swelled, and—most important—the ten had become one.

Flower Child Andromede walked to the edge of the patio, then turned back to his comrades, his face in a saintly expression, and said, 'Vanh Duc, Vanh Duc, through blood and muck, if it's not a gangbang, it's a piece of bad luck.'

'What he talking about?' Washington muttered.

'Liberation, I guess,' Loudelk quietly replied. 'We know about that bag, don't we, black man?'

Washington grinned without humor. 'Yeah, man, we know that bag.' He raised his voice and directed it toward Andromede. 'Hey, Chaplain— come on over here and confess my sins.'

'You handle your sins, brother, and I'll handle mine,' Andromede replied, grinning. 'Right now, I go to build up my contempt of death. Join me. Well meditate together beside the still waters.'

'I'll join you at Vanh Duc, man,' Washington replied softly.

'There's a reality.' Andromede sighed and walked away. Death, he had long ago decided, was the only true reality.

Chapter Four Hardcase

Captain Tim Braddock had been with the Los Angeles Police for eighteen years. Married, father of three, still hard and trim at the age of forty-two, he looked more the successful young business executive than a captain of detectives. Braddock was 'on his way,' according to the scuttlebutt around the Hall of Justice. Respected, admired, competent, effective—these were the terms most commonly employed in any discussion of the man. For the previous two years, he had been shunted into administrative and liaison details, public-relations work, and other nonpolicing duties that seemed to be pointing him toward higher echelons of police business. And now he had been assigned as coordinator of the hottest job to hit the force since the Kennedy assassination—the Bolan case.

The project had been appropriately code named Hardcase. It had aroused the active interest of every police agency in the state. Representatives of most of these were now assembling in the briefing room to hear L.A.'s approach to the problem. A man from the Attorney General's office in Sacramento would be out there, as would liaison men from the state troopers, several federal agencies, and various sheriffs departments and a heavy contingent from L.A.'s neighboring municipalities.

Braddock felt as though he were about to enter a lineup; in just a moment he would be asked to step forward, stand straight, state his name and occupation, and say something in his natural voice. He shivered inwardly. A forlorn part of him wished fervently for a return to the earlier, simpler, no-nonsense days of cops and robbers, to a time when being a cop was simply being a bastard, going after the lawbreaker, and shooting him dead or bringing him in to a certain punishment. The practical area of Braddock's mind knew, however, that those simple old days were gone forever. A cop was now one part politician, one part diplomat, one part big brother, one part father image, one part savant, one part constitutional lawyer— all of which left very little room for that part which was just plain cop.

The 'just plain cop' was a vanishing American. Tim Braddock did not wish to vanish. He had come a long distance in eighteen years; eighteen more might well see him sitting at the big desk in the chief's office. Ambition could be a stern taskmaster; in this twentieth-century pressure-boiler world of competition, the will to succeed was closely akin to the instinct for survival. It boiled down to that, and no one was more aware of this grim fact than was Tim Braddock.

He squelched the butterflies flitting about his stomach with a stern inner command and listened as the deputy chief was introduced, then allowed his mind to wander as the number-two at L.A. made his presentation of the broad generalities of the case. Braddock was well acquainted with the generalities. He was certain that every officer in the room was equally aware of The Executioner's background and recent history. The audience was respectfully attentive, however; after all Braddock reasoned, the man addressing them was merely one step below the top of the largest police agency west of Chicago. Also, they were being asked for neither approval nor cooperation. Braddock, in his talk, would be asking for both. There would be no room, at that podium, for just- plain-cop Tim Brad-dock. And if he did not pull this thing properly ... well, that chiefs desk would begin to look mighty remote.

The deputy chief was angling into Braddock's introduction. '... And Captain Braddock will be coordinating this department's handling of the Bo-Ian affair. His office will be the point of direct contact between all local, state, and federal efforts toward Hardcase. Gentlemen—Captain Tim Brad-dock, Los Angeles Police Department.'

Someone in the back of the room applauded briefly as Braddock walked toward the podium. Applause was out of order here. The captain tossed a wink at the back wall, smiled drolly, and spoke into the microphone. 'Somebody out there knows me,' he said genially.

The audience responded with light laughter and Braddock's guts felt better. The ice was broken. 'Just so that everybody will know me, Officer John Ward will distribute some cards.' He angled a nod toward a uniformed officer who stood in the pit just below the speaker's platform. 'You can think of these as calling cards,' Braddock went on, in the lightly genial manner he preferred for starters. 'I'd appreciate it, though, if you would regard the information on these cards as confidential. The telephone numbers youll find there are reserved exclusively for Hardcase communications. The radio frequencies are for special primary and secondary nets established for mobile units assigned to Hardcase. We presently have ten cars assigned exclusively to this project on a twenty-four-hour basis. Each car is assigned to a specific sector of the city. We are going to ask that each of our neighboring police agencies maintain a listening watch on these special nets, so that they may be fully on top of any developments and be prepared to lend assistance as required.'

Officer Ward was moving efficiently along the line of chairs, issuing a stack of the cards to be passed along each row. Braddock continued. 'Special instructions have been issued to every mobile unit in this department, for a prearranged reaction upon receipt of a Hardcase alert. Bolan is a military tactician, and a darned effective one, I'm told. He should not be regarded as a lunatic. He is not a wild-eyed fanatic or a bloodthirsty gunslinger, and any attempts to deal with him from this viewpoint will generally be ineffective. From all I have been able to learn of his M.O., he studiously avoids any confrontation with police authority. He apparently goes to great lengths to protect innocent bystanders. He is still, of course, a dangerous criminal. He must be apprehended at the earliest possible moment.

'Now—I want to take just a moment to review with you The Executioner's activities at Pittsfield last month.'

Braddock shuffled his papers, delicately cleared his throat, directed a pleasant gaze upon the assemblage, then began his reading. 'On August 22nd, firing from an upper floor of a building a hundred yards distant, he shot to death five officers of a Mafia-controlled loan company, in the street outside their office. He used a Marlin .444 with telescopic sights, and he fired only five shots. There was no return fire, although two of his victims were armed. No injuries were sustained by bystanders.

'Apparently he then managed to infiltrate the local Mafia activities, went to work for them, and gained a familiarity with their operations in and around Pittsfield. According to police intelligence, the Mafia was tipped to Bolan's true role shortly thereafter, and a contract was let for his death. On the morning of August 31st, two Murder, Incorporated, contractors were shot to death during a gun battle in Bolan's apartment.