Nightmare in New York

exploded inwardly.

And then Bolan was done. He released his grip on the peak and slid slowly down the far side of the roof, throwing in a fresh clip in a rapid re-load of the Beretta as he went and taking care to favor the bad shoulder. Thats twice, Sam, he was saying to himself. The third time around will be all for you.

Across the way, Sam the Bomber was lying face down on his office carpet in a sea of shattered glass and wondering if he was shot or just cut up. Numbly he realized that he had not even seen the bastard, had not even heard any gunshots. Where the hell had the guy been firing from? All Sam had seen was his boys toppling over like rubber toys deflating, then whamand Sam's whole damn world was exploding around him.

This was going to look bad, damned bad. The word would be all over town now that Bolan was doing a job of human engineering on the contractor's contractor, and that was going to look bad as hell. That, he knew, was going to be the big crack in the dam of Sam the Bomber's life's work. He was being engineered by one hell of an engineer.

Well… at least now he could call Freddie and tell him that he'd made that contact. Yeah, he sure had made that contact.

Chapter Five Purity

Bolan's withdrawal from the scene of combat was via the public transportation system. When he left the subway at 125th and Lenox, he hopped a bus to 110th and walked into East Harlem. According to his poop book, he would find an enterprising businessman there by the name of William Meyer who sold objects de la guerreat reasonable prices and without questions. He found Meyer in a little machine shop in an alley behind a bakery, and it took no more than a minute or two for the arms expert to decide that young Meyer knew his business. The guy was an ex-GI and an armorer like Bolan — but, unlike Bolan, completely warred-out and barely able to get around. He showed his visitor the stump where his right foreleg had once been and the synthetic marvel which had replaced his entire left leg from the hip down — and they talked briefly about land mines and the hells of warfare in a hostile land. Then Meyer took Bolan to the basement in an elevator he'd built himself and showed him some of the fine weapons he'd also built himself, and some he'd modified or rebuilt, and some he'd merely picked up from one place or another.

He sold a lot of stuff to the Panthers, he explained, also to various fascist and militant leftist groups, and even a couple of cops did business there from time to time.

Meyer's cynical smile told Bolan as much as his words did, and Bolan understood that smile. He had seen it on a lot of warriors who'd left parts of their bodies on the battlefields. This particular smile told Bolan that a munitions maker did not take sides… he was pure like Rachel Silver and just did his thing building destruction for whatever damn fools wanted to come along and set it loose upon the world. Yeah, and Bolan was one of those pure fools who came along. It seemed like a lousy way to run a world, but this was no time for Bolan to go into thatagain. He'd searched his soul so many times it was getting raw. Like God, Bolan did not propose — he merely disposed. He made his selections from Meyer's arsenal and paid the man from his rapidly dwindling war chest, adding an extra fifty for special delivery to a midtown parcel depot.

While returning to the surface in the elevator, Bolan elicited the information that a guy could pick up some action in the rear of a barber shop just around the corner — anything from lottery to craps and horses — he could even get contact numbers for business girls, if Bolan was so inclined, but they would run from fifty to a hundred per wallop. Meyer also assured him that the place was secure against busts, a point which Bolan seemed very concerned with. Sure, the joint enjoyed the protection of one Freddie Gambella. Yes, Meyer had met Gambella once — big in the rackets, but a nice guy after all. No, Meyer had never supplied arms for Gambella. He understood that the mob had their own sources, legit ones — they couldn't be bothered with a small businessman like William Meyer.

Bolan could. There were times when Bolan simply had to believe in fate. The Executioner left the small businessman and went directly to the 'protected' back room just around the comer.

He found quite an operation going there. The 'back room' was four times larger than the shop itself. There were slots, card and crap tables, football pools galore, and bootleg lottery and offtrack racing stalls in direct competition with the State of New York. Bolan drifted through and counted more than a dozen obvious employees — how many not-so-obvious ones would be anybody's guess. He located the inevitable back-room-behind-the-back- room where all the goodies would be kept, the door to which was being protected by two guys in honest to God security-guard uniforms.

It was simply too much to pass up. Bolan had not dipped into the Mafia's wealth since Los Angeles, and the war chest was about flattened. He debated the advisability of pulling a soft recon first and returning later with a battle plan, then decided that he would probably do just as well to simply play it by ear and dive right in. The recent skirmish in the Bronx would no doubt have Gambella presently somewhat off balance, and Bolan would probably find no better time for a knockover than right now.

He ran a hand inside his jacket and fingered the outline of the shoulder wound. It felt fine. Okay Freddie, stand by for a ram.

Bolan composed his face into a scowl and marched right at the door to the goody chamber. One of the uniformed guards moved uncertainly to one side, no more than half a step but it was all Bolan had been looking for. He elbowed the guy and growled, 'Come on, come on.'

His hand was on the door and the guards were exchanging uneasy looks with each other when the one who had yielded came out with a confused challenge. 'Who are — I don't seem to — you gotta have a ID to get in there.'

'Aw shit,' Bolan said, his voice dripping with disgust. 'You fuckin' clowns better learn what's what or you'll have Freddie's ID stamp all over your ass.' He fixed the worried one with a cold stare. 'Are you gonna push that button or aren't you?'

The guard's eyes wavered and his hand fumbled to the wall behind him. In a very dry voice he said, 'Mr. uh…'

Bolan snapped, 'Mr. Lambretta, and you better never have to ask again.'

'Yes sir, Mr. Lambretta, I'll remember that.' The guard's finger found the button and punched out a code. Seconds later a buzzer sounded on the door and the guard pushed it open and held it wide for Bolan's entry. 'Sorry about the foul-up, Mr. Lambretta, Go right in.'

Bolan growled, 'Forget it,' and went right in.

It was a typical setup. A vault and several desks with adding machines and calculators behind a wire fence, a short counter with a mixed assortment of men and women, some old and some young, perched on stools counting money and feeding coins into roller machines. Two more uniformed guards, one at the door through which Bolan had just entered, another at a door to the rear — alleyway, Bolan guessed — holding burpguns, no less.

Typical but big — it was one hell of a big operation. Bolan read central stationall over the place. It was a clearing house and bank for street runners. This joint was not just being protectedby Gambella. Bolan was betting his life that it was owned lock, stock, and barrel by the mob. His eyes found the controller with no difficulty whatever — a harried-looking little man with white hair and gold-rimmed glasses.

Bolan slapped the front door guard on the rump as he strolled past and went directly to the wire cage and caught whitehair's eye and summoned him with a crooking finger. The little man came over and peered at Bolan through the wire mesh, the eyes inquisitive and wondering where he'd seen Bolan before.

Bolan did not give him much time to wonder. In a voice low-pitched and edged with urgency, he told whitehair, 'Don't panic now. I'm Lambretta, Central Precinct. Don't worry. Freddie's on his way over.'

The guy blinked his eyes and grunted, 'Huh?'

'I said don't worry.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' the controller told him, his breathing staggering a bit. 'Why is Mr.