'I can try,' Bolan replied. 'I do think — '
'Come on in, we'll split a gallon of coffee. You'll have plenty of company. I've got media people out the ass around here. Come on in.'
The voice went icy as Bolan told the genial captain, 'Can't. I've got to go hit Nyeburg.'
'What?'
'Well if you guys aren't, that leaves only me.'
'What? What are you — say! What the hell is this!'
'This is Bolan. Sorry for the little masquerade, but I needed the poop. Don't release that statement on Nyeburg, it will bounce. The guy's guilty as sin. I'm going to take him. Stay loose, Captain.'
Bolan hung up to a dead silence, studied his fingertips thoughtfully for a brief moment, then stepped outside to rejoin the downpour.
Even if the PLO should take it serious and alert the hard cops, he figured it would take a while to get a response going.
He moved directly across the rainwashed parking lot, pausing halfway across to take note of the fact that it was largely deserted — due, perhaps, to the bad weather — formulating a quick plan to be played by ear with both fingers crossed all the way. He went on to the PNA office and stepped inside. It no longer looked like a banking substation in there. Interior modifications had resulted in a small reception room separated from an outer office by a low, wrought-iron railing. A leather couch and a couple of chairs were the chief decor; beyond the railing, two desks and a couple of file cabinets; beyond there, closed doors to a pair of inner offices; at the far end of the reception area, a rear exit.
Two attractive young women, a blonde and a brunette — punching bags, probably, for a lecherous boss — were in a coffee klatch at the desks, snickering over something and obviously having a good time. Both looked up at Bolan's entrance but neither made a move toward greeting him. The blonde glared distastefully at the moisture dripping from his cape, then turned away.
He locked the door and turned the 'closed' sign into position, then sloshed on to the railing and told the girls, 'Okay, you're closed. Hurry!'
Both women merely stared at him, faces blank.
He opened the gate and held it for them. 'Go on. Hurry. Didn't you get the flash? You got about thirty seconds to evacuate this joint.'
The blonde leapt to her feet and gasped, 'What?'
'Methane gas escaping,' Bolan explained. 'Come on, we're clearing the whole area. Anybody else in here?'
The blonde staggered bug-eyed toward her purse, stuttering and pointing toward the closed door behind her. The other girl was already moving toward that door. Bolan intercepted her and pulled her back. 'Go on,' he commanded. 'I'll get them. Go out the back. Get in your cars and get moving. Head south.'
The women made a dash for the rear door.
Bolan tried the door to the inner office and found it locked. He kicked it open and moved in quickly, the silent Beretta in hand and ready beneath the cape.
Tommy Rotten sat at a small desk with a
'Where's Nyeburg?'
'Jesus I don't know!'
Bolan squeezed off a whispering round from beneath the cape. It plowed through the magazine at dead center between the youth's outspread hands and thwacked on into the wood beneath.
The kid jumped a foot off the chair and the hands leapt skyward.
'Honest I don't know!' he yelled. 'Hey, I ain't armed!'
'Nyeburg!' Bolan insisted.
'He didn't come in! Didn't even call! I don't know nothing!'
All the yelling brought someone who might know, though. She was a lady all the way, still quite lovely in a mature fashion, a senior edition of Dianna Webb as she stepped quietly in from the adjoining office. Cool eyes swept from the quaking youth to the tall man in the other doorway. The voice even sounded like Dianna's as she inquired, 'What is going on here?'
'I'm looking for your husband,' Bolan replied, just as coolly.
'He's out of town. Tommy, sit down.'
Bolan said, 'He stands! Open that door all the way, Mrs. Nyeburg, and come on in here.'
Those cool eyes faltered a bit. She said, 'I see,' and did as she was told.
Bolan stepped past her and took a quick look into the other office. A heavy vault occupied one entire wall — a holdover, perhaps, from branch banking.
Bolan told the lady, 'You'll have to open the vault.'
She replied, 'What if I refuse? Will you shoot me?'
He said, 'No. But I might take another shot at the kid.'
'I'll open it. But you won't find Mr. Nyeburg in there.'
'Maybe I'll find his tracks, though,' Bolan said, smiling despite himself. She was a cool lady. 'Do it,' he said, still smiling faintly.
Tommy Rotten gasped, 'Do it, please, Mrs. Nyeburg. This guy is Mack Bolan. The Executioner. You know. Do it, please!'
Yes, she knew. She had already known. As she returned to the other office, she told Bolan, 'The police sketches on television don't do you justice, Mr. Bolan. You look twice as mean, in person.'
He said, 'Win some, lose some.'
Tommy Rotten was accorded a wag of the head. The boy moved quickly to follow the woman. Bolan stepped in behind them and closed the door.
As Mrs. Nyeburg worked on the vault, Bolan worked on the boy.
'Are you a made man, Tommy?'
'No sir, not yet.'
'Who's your sponsor?'
'Sir?'
'Your connection — who's sponsoring you?'
'Danny Trinity.'
'Too bad. You've lost a sponsor.'
'Yessir, I been wondering. I mean, I lost everybody.'
'Related?'
'Sir?'
'Were you related to Danny Trinity?'
'Yessir, we're cousins.'
'Were.'
'Yessir. We were.'
'How old are you?'
'Eighteen.'
'How long you been connected?'
'Just, uh, since we come out here.'
'From the Bronx.'
'Yessir, from the Bronx and Staten Island. Hey, I never done nothing like this before.'
'What have you done?'
'Sir? Nothing! I ain't done nothing! I just got outta school.'
'You should have stayed, Tommy.'
'Yessir.'
'You know Tony Vale?'
