San Diego Siege

Schwarz asked, 'What if they won't shake?' Bolan's voice dropped an octave in the reply. 'Then well have to burn them out.'

The Politician wriggled under an involuntary shiver. He coughed into his fist and said, 'I'm starting to understand why you didn't want this town on your hit parade, Sarge. It could get pretty nasty, couldn't it.'

Bolan was staring at the tops of his fingers. Schwarz commented, 'What happened to the good old days of simple warfare, eh?'

'They were left quite a ways down the trail,' Bolan replied quietly. 'The thing gets more complicated all the time, Gadgets.'

The expression in the electronics man's eyes reflected a new understanding of this quiet man in executioner black. This was a new Bolan, a wary and sophisticated warrior — essentially the same man he'd known earlier in the wars, but with that subtle shade of difference ... he was a man with a high mission.

'There'll still be plenty of fireworks before we close this one,' Schwarz muttered.

'Bet on it,' Blancanales growled. He sighed. 'Well, I'd better be moving out. How much range we got on these shoulder phones?'

'Figure ten miles,' Schwarz replied thoughtfully, his mind obviously on some other matter.

'Figure a lifetime,' Bolan quietly corrected him.

In this business, Bolan knew, each beat of the heart was a lifetime in its own right.

'You guys be very careful,' he commanded gruffly. 'Play it to the numbers, and very close.'

The three solemnly shook hands and went their separate ways.

A city under quiet siege awaited their heartbeats.

6 Hardcase revisited

The daytime routine was barely underway at the Los Angeles Hall of Justice when Captain Tim Braddock found himself in an interesting telephone conversation with his counterpart at San Diego.

'What makes you think you've got Bolan down there?' he asked John Tatum, homicide chief at the southern city.

'It's just an uneasy feeling, at this point,' Tatum replied in a troubled voice. 'I've never had so much as a smell of the guy before, though ... I guess I'm hoping you can tell me I'm all wet.'

'Well—' Braddock sighed. He and Tatum had been friends for many years. 'What've you got, John?'

'Item One, an apparent suicide. Let's talk about that one first. Last night, late. Retired army general, once got a lot of press for his colorful combat activities in Vietnam. Lately head of Winco Industries.'

'Howlin' Harlan Winters,' Braddock said with a heavy voice.

'You knew him?'

'Not personally. Go on.'

'He put an army Colt to his head and pulled the trigger, or so the evidence would indicate. Paraffin tests are positive — all the routine checks and physical evidence support the suicide angle. Coroner agrees.'

'Did he leave a note?'

'No note. The county is ready to close it as a suicide, but....'

Braddock lit a cigarette and sucked in a lungful of smoke, exhaled violently and asked, 'But?'

'Well ... Winters was a bachelor. Lived alone, except for a niece. She discovered the body, and — '

'How do you figure Bolan in this? What's your Item Two?'

'I'll take the last question first, it's easier. Somebody pulled a heist on a shipment of cash skimmed from a Vegas casino. Happened just a few hours after Winters died. One of our undercover men phoned in the report a couple hours ago. He says that Ben Lucasi is frothing at the mouth and importing triggermen from all over. Our operative couldn't get the full story, but he says it smells of a Bolan hit.'

'Yeah, he likes to hit them in their money bags,' Braddock mused. 'That's all you have on that?'

'That's it.'

'Okay, back to Item One. You think Winters was murdered, I take it. Is the niece a suspect?'

'Hell no, but Bolan is.'

Braddock sighed. 'Okay, let's have it.'

'Let me background you a bit first. Winters had this beach-pad out near Del Mar. You know that area. Fifty percent of his property line fronts on a sheer cliff overlooking the ocean. The only way up from the beach is via an elevator which is controlled from above. In other words, no visitors from below without an invitation from above.'

'I have the picture,' Braddock said. 'But isn't Del Mar out of your jurisdiction?'

'Technically, sure. But we got called in for routine consultation and ... well... look, Tim, if Bolan is operating anywhere between Tijuana and L.A., don't talk to me about police jurisdictions.'

Braddock chuckled drily and said, 'Well said, John. And welcome to the club.'

The San Diego cop was becoming flustered. He growled, 'Let me lay this out for you, will you? Now look, half the Winters property is secure from trespassers by the cliff. Okay. The other half is double-fenced and a pair of Doberman man-eaters roam a no-man's-land between those fence-rows. Those guys are mean as hell — a couple of very unhappy sheriffs deputies will attest to that — and there simply is no way past them without calling the house and getting an escort through the fang zone.

'Okay, this is getting interesting,' Braddock commented.

'Yeah. Just wait. Miss Winters says that there were no callers last night. That is, no visitors. She doubles as a girl-Friday, housekeeper, chief-bottle-washer and all the rest for the general. She — '

'How much rest?' Braddock wanted to know.

'What? Oh, nothing like that, Tim. It was more like a father-daughter relationship. Winters raised the girl. Parents died when she was a tot. Army brat. He dragged her around the world with him. I checked her out thoroughly. She's clean.'

'Okay. Go on. What about Bolan?'

'Where was I? Okay, no official visitors. She went to bed at eleven o'clock or thereabouts. The dogs were on station. The general was working in his study. At a little past midnight, she was awakened by a disturbance outside. The dogs were snarling and carrying on. There also may have been a gunshot. She's not sure on that point. She ran downstairs and found her uncle slumped in a chair near the fireplace, half of his head blown away. Claims that she fainted, doesn't know how long she was out. Her story comes confused along in here. When she came around again, she says, the dogs were still at it. Suddenly they got quiet. A minute later, this man walks into the study. Are you ready?'

Braddock growled, 'I'm ready. Hit me.'

'This was a tall man, well built, athletic. She says he walked in like a cat. He was wearing a black combat outfit. Hands and face smeared with some black cosmetic. She further describes him as quote, guns and things strapped all over him, unquote.'

Braddock found himself leaning tensely forward in his chair. He said, 'Now wait a minute, John.'

'No, hear it all first. She — '

'This was after she'd found her uncle dead?'

'Like I said, it's confused. But that's what she says. The guy walks in, looks at the dead man, gathers up a sheaf of papers from the desk-memoirs, she says — puts them in the fireplace, and sets fire to them. Then he simply walks out.'

'Bullshit,' Braddock growled.

'That's her story, and we can't shake it.'

'Did he leave a marksman's medal at the scene?'

'No.'

'Then he didn't kill the man,' Braddock declared.

'How can you leap to a conclusion like that?'

'Look, you called me as a Bolan expert, right? I'll leap to any damn conclusion I wish. When Bolan kills he