'Guts and skill.'
Grimaldi chuckled. 'What else? Give me something I can handle,'
'Better have a rope ladder, Jack. I guess that's about the only special. Oh, no ... if you have a basket ...'
The pilot groaned. 'You going after a basket case?'
'Could be. Better be ready for it.'
'Okay. Give me five minutes to prep, another five to fly. See you in ten. I hope.'
Yeah, sure,
There was damn little else to cling to.
14
Numbered
The tall buildings rose eerily from the low-level mists, stark in their isolation, foreboding, capped with twinkling red lights as a warning to low-flying aircraft — a hazard, yeah, one hell of a fine hazard.
Bolan pushed a sketch onto the pilot's knee-clip and circled a spot with his finger. 'This one, the two o'clock position, Jack. Let's take a low pass for look-see. Tell me if you can put down there.'
Grimaldi whistled softly into his headset. 'If we can't, Sarge, I'd recommend a scrub. We've only got about four hundred feet to play with, and it's closing fast. If we're down when it closes, well, okay. We can always lift off and pray for someplace to land.
Bolan growled, 'Yeah. Go look.'
They went by in a slow pass, circling at fifty feet above. The roof was a jumble of utility structures, air- conditioners, supports for the hazard-lighting tower — bounding it all in, a steel parapet about four feet high.
Grimaldi was the first to note the clear area. 'Southeast corner,' he said, elated. 'There's room.'
Bolan's attention had been diverted elsewhere. Two men, in foul-weather hoods, were huddled against a small housing near the north parapet. And they had spotted the chopper immediately, were watching it with considerable interest.
'Go around again, Jack. Couple of bandits at twelve o'clock.'
'Where?'
'Small structure at the north wall. Elevator, maybe — or stairwell. Let's make them nervous.'
The pilot grinned and kicked the little ship into a steep descent, crabbing around in a near-spin to skim dangerously along the rooftop.
Both men ran into the open, electrified by the stunt and obviously shaken.
Bolan was threading the sound-suppressor aboard the Beretta. He was rigged for light combat — black- suit, AutoMag, Beretta, chest pouch, single utility belt.
'Give me a razzle-dazzle approach,' he instructed the pilot. 'Go in like an eagle. Ill clear the area and keep going. Lift off in three minutes, that's three exactly, with or without me. If it's without, stand by upstairs for another five — if you can — but that's my point of no return. Take off and don't look back.'
'Gotcha,' Grimaldi replied. 'Like an eagle, huh? How's this?'
The little bird went into a steep climb then heeled, tilted, and swooped back across the rooftop with hairbreadth clearance. The guys below were running for the open area and waving hardware, now, but they hit the deck and hugged it as the 'eagle' swooped overhead.
Grimaldi was a master at his work. Forward motion halted with a quick upward jerk, followed immediately by a quick drop and a hover with the skids probably no more than six inches above the deck.
Bolan hit the hatch with a 'Tally-ho!' at his lips and the whispering Beretta streaking flame from his right hand.
The two 'bandits' were caught midway in a scramble for footing, and never quite made it. Bolan paused above them for a moment to verify the results then jogged on to the housing where their presence had first been noted.
And, yeah, it was an elevator. Limited duty, two stops only, the penthouse and the floor below it. Perfect.
He called the car and stepped quickly inside, punched the penthouse button, and erupted from there at that level with the Beretta Belle in whispering attack.
A guy on a stool at the opposite wall got his mouth open and never found time to close it, a 9mm Parabellum slug zipping in there with shattering impact and splattering the wall behind with more life forces than any man could spare.
Another guy, at the end of the lobby area, managed to get a hand inside his coat — his last bloody inch before doomsday.
Bolan reached back into the elevator car and threw the control to 'out of service,' then propped the door open with the sentry stool just to make certain. There was no other elevator service to this level. Penthouse visitors evidently were required to transfer cars at the next level down. An emergency stairway with a fire door was the only other access.
He stepped across the guy at the entrance to the apartment and kicked the door open.
An MP type just inside gawked then gurgled under the impact of another snorter. Bolan kept going and found another in the kitchen then another just exiting from a bathroom — and he left them there where he found them.
A large bedroom with two glass walls was empty; another, a mere cubicle with no glass at all, contained a dresser and a bed with a technically nude young lady spread-eagled and bound to the latter by wrists and ankles. A small handtowel was stuffed into her mouth.
The eyes became frantic at the sight of Bolan, and a muffled moan escaped the gag.
He stood over her and carefully removed the towel, then coolly inquired, 'Is this some kinky game or is the young lady in trouble?'
It was a cheap shot, sure, but he was as angry as relieved and just couldn't let the opportunity slide.
She wore only the slinky chemise he'd first seen her in, plus bikini briefs. By her struggles or some other force, the dress had become raised in wadded folds to the breastline.
She turned away from the Bolan gaze and closed her eyes.
'Ready to go home, babe?' he asked her in a kindlier tone.
'God, yes,' she whispered.
He cut the sashcord from her wrists and lay the stiletto on her bare belly. 'Meet me at the elevator,' he instructed. 'Where's friend John?'
'I-I don't know for sure. And I don't care for sure. He left hours ago. Something about the Seattle-Tacoma Airport.'
Bolan snapped, 'Hurry!' and jogged out of there.
He scattered micro pickups all over that joint, even in the bathrooms, then made a run for the lobby.
Dianna was waiting for him there, standing astride the overturned stool in the elevator doorway, teeth bared and corners of the mouth pulled back in a horrified grimace as she stared transfixed at the former occupant of that stool.
'Know him?' Bolan growled. 'Yes, th-that's David Turner.'
'Was,' he said, and pushed her gently on into the car then kicked the stool aside.
He'd just cycled the controls for a return to service when Dianna lunged forward with eyes glaring and a gurgling in the throat, terrified gaze leaping beyond Bolan's shoulder to something behind him.
He whirled to see the fire door half-open, a guy pushing through, others close behind on the stairwell.
The guy in front wore crepe-sole canvas shoes and casual slacks, turtleneck jersey, light nylon wind- breaker — handsome guy, wavy blond hair concealing the ears and curling to the rear in a mod fashion, facial expression altering rapidly from annoyance to alarm as those gazes clashed. The man directly behind looked like some moviemaker's impression of Aristotle Onassis — a chubby guy done up in swank suit with silk lapels, a
