He made the run without attracting attention. Then he heard someone shouting at the guards to return to their posts.

Bolan rose and examined the closest window. It was locked from the inside. Breaking it would make too much noise. As he stared, a woman appeared, looked back at him, grinned and raised the window.

“Looking for a way inside?” she asked.

It took Bolan that long to recognize Angela Albergetti, Jo Jo’s widow. Now she wore a blouse, and her blond hair was combed, brushed and set beautifully.

“Come on in before they find you. We wouldn’t want to get blood all over that nice sport shirt.”

Bolan went over the sill and into the room. He was on his feet at once, and she stood in front of him.

“That should be worth at least a thank-you. I know I’ve seen you somewhere before, but I can’t quite place you. Oh, I’m Angela.”

He nodded.

She laughed. “Well, are you going to say hello, or blow up the rest of the house? You made a good start on the motor pool out there.”

“Hello, Angela. The house is safe. That was what we call a strategic diversion.”

“I don’t know who you are, but I like you. And I’m not overly delighted with the management right now. They moved me out of my house because they thought I’d shout everything I knew about these guys to reporters. I just might have. They got my old man killed yesterday or the day before. Sometime.” She looked up and shrugged. “Whatever. What’s your line of work?”

“I help people to change their minds about things.”

“I’m ready.”

“Later. First I need to do some research upstairs.”

“In Don Carlo’s office?”

“Right. And I’ll have to come back through here when I’m done.”

She nodded.

Bolan smiled and moved silently, swiftly to the hall door. This was the south wing. He had to get to the main wing, third floor. He hesitated at the door.

“Want me to show you the way?”

“Yes, and be a cover for me.”

“Hey, this could be fun. I want to see Carlo’s surprise when you walk in.”

“He should be in the motor pool by then. Let’s go.”

They moved down the hall, upstairs to the third floor and to a connecting door that led into the main wing. No one was on duty outside the godfather’s sanctum.

Bolan knocked, waited, then opened the door and slid inside, leaving Angela in the hall.

The room looked as it had before. Now there was an unfinished handwritten letter on the desk, and behind it a big chart on a bulletin board.

Bolan stared at it, then studied the names on lines under it. Three assistant chiefs of police were listed, along with Chief Smith and Lieutenant Paulson. At the bottom of the chart were a number of dates, but one had been circled. Tomorrow! On a note beside it was a phrase. “At the Mayor’s State of the City Speech.”

Bolan checked some file drawers and the desk, but found nothing that would be helpful. He decided it was time to haul ass, as he used to say in the army.

He eased open the office door and peered out. A Mafia soldier with his back to the door was talking to Angela.

The Executioner swung open the door, surged out and brought the side of the Beretta down across the soldier’s skull. The man turned and collapsed, out cold. Bolan caught him and eased him to the floor.

“Let’s get out of here!” Bolan whispered.

They ran lightly down the hall, through the access door and into the other hallway. Then they walked past a maid, whose arms were full of rumpled sheets, and a minute later were safely in Angela’s room.

“They’ll find that goon quickly and you’ll be in trouble,” the Executioner said.

She smiled. “Then you’ll just have to take me with you or they’ll do all sorts of ugly things to me.”

Bolan scowled for a moment, then shrugged. “Do you have any pants? It’s easier going out windows and over walls in pants than in a skirt.”

“I’ll have to change.”

“I’ve seen ladies change clothes before.”

“Yes, I’ll just bet you have.” She took a suitcase from a stand and pawed through it, found a pair of tan pants and a tan blouse. She watched him closely as she removed her blouse. When he remained silent, she dropped her skirt, revealing skimpy blue panties. A moment later she shrugged and put on the blouse, then the pants and slipped into a pair of worn running shoes.

“If you want to wait until it gets dark, we could think of something to do to pass the time.”

“Sounds interesting, but I have a deadline. Raise the window and look around. Are they still looking at the cars?”

She raised the window. There was no screen.

“I see only a pair of guards.”

“Figures.”

Bolan stood well back in the room and looked outside. It was going to be harder to leave than it had been to arrive. He had no more diversions. The bombs planted in the house would have to wait for another time. Getting the woman out would make it tougher — unless he used her as a diversion.

Briefly he outlined an idea to her and she giggled.

“I love it! I haven’t had so much fun since I went skinny-dipping in the pool of the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

Watching at the window they timed the rounds of the guards. When the way was clear, they slid out through the opening. Bolan pulled the window shut and led Angela through the shrubs down to the tennis-court trail, where there was a gap in the brush.

They waited in the shrubs until a young guard approached, carrying an Uzi. The timing was critical. As the guard came near, Angela stepped out of the brush.

She jumped with feigned surprise and turned around. In the few seconds it took him to recover, Bolan rose out of the brush and brought the hardened edge of his palm down on the man’s neck. The man dropped and the Executioner dragged him into the shrubbery. Then he and Angela crossed to the far side of the walk, hidden again.

At the path near the fence, Angela sat on a patch of grass in the sunshine and opened her blouse for a little bit of all-over tan. The first guard to approach cleared his throat about twenty feet away. She pretended to be sleeping as she leaned against the wall. The guard walked quietly by, staring. He did not see Bolan rising behind him.

The Executioner swung the Uzi submachine gun he had confiscated from the other guard, smashing it against the side of the man’s neck. His neck cracked loudly. When the criminal soldier collapsed, he would never rise again.

Bolan boosted the woman over the six-foot block wall, then went over himself. They slumped against the wall, then as a neighbor’s dog barked, they calmly walked to the street and Bolan’s rented Buick.

Three miles away, Bolan pulled to a curb.

“What now?” Angela asked.

“That’s up to you. You’ve escaped. Can I drive you somewhere?”

“No, I like it here with you.”

“I have some work to finish. Do you have any relatives where I can take you?”

“No, just back to Carlo’s castle.”

Bolan turned around, opened the suitcase on the rear seat and slid the Uzi inside. Before he could stop her, Angela grabbed a grenade. She held the arming handle down and pulled the ring, removing the safety pin.

She sat in the passenger side of the car, holding the grenade in her right hand, a strange, wild look on her pretty face.

“I finally remembered where I saw you before. It was at our house the night Jo Jo died. Hell, he wasn’t much, but he was mine! He fathered my children. What am I supposed to do now — live off the goodness of the godfather for the next sixty years?”

She did not wait for a reply.

“No way! I’ll work the streets first, selling my ass! Then here you come, the big killer, the man who made me a widow. At least I remember, and I know I have to do something about it. Guns are hard to use. You can miss when you try to kill someone. But a grenade! There’s no chance to miss. So what if I have to stay here with you to make sure? I just let the handle pop off and I hold it right in your gut and blow both of us all over the inside of this car!” Her eyes were wild and she was breathing fast. She reached down and rubbed her breast. “I’ll blow us both to hell! Better that way. Damn sight better that way. Carlo can raise my two kids.”