“Or go into any dark warehouses with Captain Davis as my backup,” Chief Jansen said.

“Right. Now I’ve got to get in touch with my contact inside the Mafia machine and see what their next move is going to be.”

“You’ve got a contact inside Nazarione’s Mob? How in hell did you do that? I’ve been trying to do that for five years.”

Bolan told him briefly how they turned around the man. By the time the Executioner had finished the story they were back at the spot where Bolan had picked up the chief.

As Jansen got out, Bolan told him he would keep in touch.

“And be careful, Jansen. Don’t even trust your best friend.”

It was well after midnight when Don Nazarione met with his number-two man in his third-floor office.

“At least we have some good news,” Nazarione said. “Captain Davis tells me the frame-up on Assistant Chief Vincent went off like a military maneuver. The chief is in jail, booked on suspicion of possession of cocaine, theft of cocaine from the police lockup, drinking while driving and a few other charges they’re still working on. That eliminates one more. Now there’s only Chief Jansen to bother us.”

Scimone nodded. “But remember, we need somebody to help run the place who knows how. You don’t just wipe out the whole management staff of a new business when you take over. We need one or two down there besides our patsies.”

The Mafia boss grunted. “We’ll have Davis up as an assistant chief just as soon as possible. There’s an opening now.”

“Davis said he wants three more men eliminated as soon as possible. We’ll worry about that down the line.” Scimone took a drag from a long cigar. “What we have to do is give the impression that all is moving along smoothly, that everything is normal and routine. Any changes will have to be done slowly and look reasonable.”

The phone rang. At a signal from Carlo, Scimone picked it up. He listened for a minute, then hung up.

“Somebody rammed a pool cue through Jo Jo’s heart at that pool palace place. He’s in the morgue waiting for an autopsy.”

“Bolan?” Nazarione asked.

“Has to be. What about Jo Jo’s wife?”

“Send a couple of cars over there and bring her and the two kids over here. She’s a handful, and I’d rather a lot of nosy reporters don’t get to her. You know how sloshed she usually is.”

Scimone moved toward the door.

“I’ll go myself. We’ll put her and the kids in the south wing. They won’t bother you from there.”

Nazarione waved and headed for his private elevator. For just a few hours he wanted to get away from business.

Ardly Scimone took one man and a crew wagon and drove to the Albergetti residence. The police had been there, had talked to Angela and left. When Scimone arrived, Angela was lying in the middle of the living room, her blouse open, a drink in her hand, an empty Scotch bottle beside her. They bundled her up with the two kids and took them back to the Nazarione estate.

At first Angela barely said a word. She looked drunk, but in fact the booze had not yet affected her. She stared at Scimone and began swearing. By the time they approached the big house she had worn out her immediate anger.

“I’ll kill him!” she shouted. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch who did this to my husband. I’ll kill him!”

When Angela got out of the car, she couldn’t walk. Scimone had to carry her upstairs. The farther he carried her, the more relaxed she became as the alcohol finally took over her body.

Scimone set her on the bed in the wing where she would stay with her children, then hurried out the door. He locked the door from the outside. They were going to have trouble with that one. He had seen widows go this route before. When she sobered up she would be a real hellcat.

Mack Bolan had been hunting Captain Davis for over an hour. The captain was still on duty but not in the watch captain’s office. He was out investigating some problem or just cruising the town. Bolan had made some purchases earlier in the evening to be ready for a possible showdown. He wanted to handle Davis before he could do any more damage to the Baltimore Police Department.

The Executioner wished he had a police radio so he could contact the captain directly. Instead he phoned.

“Yes, I need to talk to Captain Davis. If you can reach him have him call this number. I’ll be here for five minutes. Tell him the name is Bolan.” He hung up at once. Now if Davis took the bait, he would come with plenty of backup firepower.

Would he call? Or would he find the location of the phone booth and close in on it? Not enough time for the latter; he would call. Bolan waited by the phone. The booth was in the darkness beside a filling station. He left the door open so no light showed.

Two minutes later the phone rang. Bolan picked it up on the third ring.

“Yes?”

“Bolan! What are you doing in my town?”

“I’m working over the Mafia. I need your help.”

“Go on.”

“I thought you might give me some inside information on the Mafia operation here.”

“Yeah, I could do that. Where can we meet?”

“Just you and me — no other cops involved.”

“Sure, sure, no problem.”

“You know where Gwynns Falls Park is?”

“Yes.”

“Drive there in an unmarked car. Come straight in the main entrance at the far end of the first parking lot. Open your door so the overhead light comes on and wait for me.”

“I’d be a perfect target.”

“Are you worried? Is someone gunning for you?”

“Of course not, but cops are always targets.”

“Your choice. See me there in half an hour or forget it.”

“I’ll be there.”

Bolan ran for his car. He was on the side of town nearest the park, and wanted to be there first. He hoped Davis wouldn’t send any patrol cars as backup. He figured not. Davis would know about the head money and would want the five million all to himself.

Ten minutes later, Bolan drove into the green area, eased into the second parking lot and checked out the first. It was too big to set up an easy trap. He filled a two-and-one-half-gallon garden sprayer with the cans of liquid he had bought earlier and set the nozzle to eject a steady stream instead of a spray. Then he sat behind a big maple tree and waited in the moonless night.

Precisely on time, a car rolled through the gate and into the first parking lot. It came to the end and stopped fifty feet north of Bolan. The headlights snapped off and the door opened, spreading light inside the car. It would make Davis almost blind to the outside.

Quietly Bolan moved into the darkness and trailed a three-inch stream of gasoline from one of the cans ten feet behind the unmarked police car. He made a U with the gasoline, pouring it on both sides of the car.

The darkness and the light inside the car let him do the task unseen. He crept into the wooded section at the end of the parking lot, shouldered the heavy sprayer and moved toward the car. He settled behind a wide tree to the right of the car but out of range of the headlights, in case the cop turned them on.

“Davis, is that you?” Bolan called. His voice sounded strangely hollow in the dark outdoors.

A figure stood beside the door.

“Yeah, so let’s talk.”

“Take out your piece and lay it on top of the car.”

“Hey, you don’t ask a cop to give up his weapon.”

“I do. I’m allergic to cops. But you’re safe with me, you know that.”

There was a pause, then a sound of metal against metal. Bolan figured Davis would also have a hidden weapon.

“You’ve been lucky so far, Davis. You’ve got away with everything. First the two thousand a month bribe money you’re taking from Don Nazarione, then the snuff on Lieutenant Paulson, and the blackmail on the two assistant chiefs. You even pulled off the cocaine plant on Chief Vincent.”