San Diego Siege

nothing....'

'Well yeah, but God what they have to go through to get the stuff. That's what finally stuck in Howlie's craw. He helped them get two systems already, without even realizing what he was doing. Then he stumbled onto it and tried to freeze them out. It was a neat racket and I'd like to meet the guy who thought it up. Thornton's electronics subsidiary is subbing on a military contract for a whole bunch of these rigs, complete systems. Thornton supplies various components used in the final assembly. One of Howlie's companies had the final inspection and quality assurance contract for the military. Through quality rejects and a lot of juggling, they managed to piecemeal-out enough rejected components to assemble two complete systems. They've got them holed up somewhere right now, Thornton swears he doesn't know where, until they get enough to complete the link to Vegas. But God, it was a sweet idea. I guess they marked the QC rejects as salvage, cancelled out the serial numbers, and buried all the records of the final transactions.''

'Or burned them,' Bolan said. He was remembering a thick stack of ashes in the Winters fireplace. 'Could those be the papers Lisa Winters was yelling about?'

'It's beginning to make sense,' Blancanales said thoughtfully. 'Howlie was a poor sap, a dupe. He dug up the records and took them home ... maybe to study them and confirm his suspicions. Once he knew, he told them to go to hell.'

'He would do that,' Schwarz said musingly.

'He'd have to have an edge on them somewhere,' Bolan pointed out. 'And his edge was the records. He could expose the whole scheme by publicly producing those records.'

'Mexican stand-off,' Blancanales said. 'He'd also be incriminating himself. So he couldn't just haul off and let fire. But ... as long as he had those papers....'

'Right,' Bolan agreed. 'So why would he burn them? He had the boys over a barrel.'

'Maybe he just couldn't keep them there,' Schwarz said quietly.

'It's why he sent for Able Team,' Blancanales decided.

'Too late,' Schwarz murmured.

'Too late for the living,' Bolan told them, ice creeping into his voice. 'But not too late for the dead. Come on. We're moving out.'

'Where to?' the Politician inquired.

'You, to see a young lady. Concerning a stack of papers and why they were burned.'

'Wait'll I comb my hair,' Blancanales said, grinning.

Bolan stabbed Gadgets Schwarz with his eyes. 'You've got the cold job,' he warned him. 'Find that stolen gear.'

Schwarz's eyelids fluttered rapidly, but all he had to say about the assignment was, 'Okay. So I'll bundle up good.'

Bolan did not share the secret with his buddies, but he had saved the really cold job for himself.

It was time to spread the tar around.

He had to roust Tony Danger.

Even if it meant rousting him from a jail cell.

He did not know it at that moment, but a jail cell was precisely where he'd have to go to nail the guy.

15 Cold play

It was getting dark out when Carl Lyons and John Tatum decamped from the Captain's office, headed toward a quick meal and a few casual moments of relaxation before facing the long night ahead.

It had been a rough day of dreary police work — interrogations, questioning of witnesses, seemingly endless conferences with city and county officials, and finally the big Mafia roundup of outraged and bitterly complaining local honchos.

That last had been the worst, in Tatum's book. The mob had plenty of clout in the area, at every court level, and it had been damn tough just getting an overnight hold on the swaggering bastards without specific charges to book them on.

A legal eagle in the D.A.'s office had finally come up with one of those old 'public good' statutes which was at least firm enough to base an argument upon until morning.

Maybe that would save the night, anyway.

Tatum paused at the duty desk to sign himself out, and he told the young cop from L.A., 'I don't know, maybe Braddock is right and this is the best way to cope with the problem. Maybe we can just stalemate the guy out of town. It may be an ounce of prevention, but it sure isn't good police work, not in my book.'

'The important thing is to hold down the fireworks,' Lyons remarked. 'Bolan isn't all that big and bad. And I guess he figures there's always a next time. He'll play the odds, that's for sure. For him, the numbers say don't push it— another time is coming.'

'It'd better not,' Tatum replied grimly. 'One more killing and this town will blow sky high. God, the pressure. Did you feel it in there?'

'I felt it,' Lyons admitted.

'And the press hasn't even got ahold of it yet.' The Captain glanced at the clock above the duty desk. 'That is, for another five minutes. I don't know how the word gets around, but they tell me the city-hall phones have been burning all afternoon.'

'Concerned citizens,' Lyons suggested wryly.

'Yeah, very important concerned citizens.'

'That should tell you something.'

'It tells me plenty. But what the hell can I prove?'

Lyons shrugged. The Captain finished signing-out and they went on along the corridor toward the vehicle area.

A tall patrolman in an immaculate uniform, sporting a thinline mustache, swung in from a side corridor, nodded his head cordially at Lyons, and went on by.

The sergeant from L.A. grunted and asked the San Diego homicide chief, 'You allowing face hair down here now?'

'Had to,' Tatum said grumpily. 'They got a constitutional right ... and they also got a damn good union. What the hell. So long as it's not too far out, what's the harm? You gotta sway with the times, I guess. We're not still running around in Toonerville Cop uniforms, are we.'

Lyons grinned. 'No, but the Toonervilles wore face hair.'

'So, change is sometimes a healthy thing ... even in a town like San Diego.'

'That's right,' Lyons agreed. He stepped outside and took a deep breath. 'You've got a sweet town here, Cap'n.'

'Thanks.'

They walked to the Captain's personal vehicle. Lyons slid in beside Tatum and told him, 'Maybe you shouldn't feel so bad about a Bolan visit. The guy has a way of clearing the air, making things even sweeter.'

'I'll pretend you didn't say that,' Tatum replied gruffly.

Lyons chuckled. 'I told you I owed the guy my life. I didn't tell you I owe him twice. You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess.'

'Rotten apple,' the Captain rasped.

'Sure, but we may have never known if it hadn't been for Bolan. He tipped us about the guy. I couldn't believe it at first. You know what they called Rickert ... the twenty-four-hour cop. He was a twelve-hour-cop and a twenty-four-hour Mafioso. This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did.'