Lightning struck the ground a hundred yards away and the smell of raw sulfur blended with the smoke. Bolan jolted into action. He ran through the burned area, getting safely away from the flames.

When he looked back at the spot where he had last seen Carboni, he could see only the flames whipping forward, consuming the entire circle that had protected the Mafia hit man. It had developed into a searing, boiling fire storm.

Bolan knew he should wait for the fire to burn out and check for a body to be sure that Vince Carboni was dead. But an inner voice drew him away.

He figured Carboni had had only a small chance of escaping the flames.

Now Bolan had to return to his contacts in the police department and talk to Nino Tattaglia in the Mafia snakepit to find out if the schedule was holding. He had to know for sure if the “changes” in the police department were still set for tomorrow night.

For a moment he wondered if he could trust Assistant Chief Jansen. He could have set up that “blackmail” situation for Bolan’s benefit. For now Bolan would trust only his own instincts and make everyone else prove himself.

Immediately he had the problem of getting back to town. He discarded the Uzi in the wheat field. It had been a gift from the Mafia. He threw away his combat webbing and web belt. He had extras in his hotel.

He hid his two handguns in his shirt as he jogged to the closest highway, then hitchhiked into the nearest town where he could find a taxi.

The thought still plagued him — could he entirely trust Chief Jansen, or did Jansen have his eye on the top spot as chief of police working with the Mafia?

The phone rang five times before Assistant Chief Jansen picked it up. He had been sleeping soundly.

“Yeah, I’m here. What time is it?” He looked at the clock on his nightstand. “Two-thirty! Who the hell is this?”

“I’m your blood brother, Jansen. You remember the motel. I’ve been busy today. Anything new going down on the new police policies?”

“Not that I could see. There was a fire in Gwynns Falls Park. Looks like Captain Davis met hell a little early. I figured you might have made the introduction. That’s been put down as an accident. Any comment?”

“He must have deserved it. Anything doing with the other two assistant chiefs?”

“Not a thing. They’re sitting tight, doing what they have to do but really marking time. One of them took the day off today.”

“Has Chief Smith showed up yet?”

“No. You said he wasn’t hurt? There’s a lot of speculation downtown about him. The police commissioner is furious.”

“Smith must be lying low for a day or two. Anybody else bother you?”

“No. Not a problem. I heard there was a shootout north of town today. You involved in that one?”

“For a while. Personal matter. Will you be at the mayor’s State of the City talk tomorrow night?”

“Plan to be. I’m part of the official delegation from the department.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a nice sleep.”

Bolan hung up and considered calling Tattaglia, but decided to wait. He could use a few hours of sleep himself. His left arm began to throb again. He put an antiseptic, antibiotic salve and a bandage on the wound. It would heal but leave a scar. He really did not need another one.

Ten minutes later he was asleep.

The next morning at seven, Bolan called Tattaglia.

“Who the hell is calling in the middle of the night?”

“Morning, Nino. Greetings from Leo. Any developments?”

“Oh, it’s you. Quiet yesterday. Probably before some kind of a storm. They don’t tell me much yet. But it’s tonight.”

“Right, at the mayor’s bash. I’ll be there. Heard anything about the chief?”

“Heard something about a chief once or twice, but I’m not high enough up the totem pole.”

“Get up there. We need you.”

“Working on it.”

“Leo will encourage you. Remember, he can yank you back to that cell anytime he wants.”

“I know it. I’m cooperating.”

“Keep your eyes open, and be sure you’re packing tonight. You have a legal concealed-weapons permit, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Stay hard.”

Bolan hung up and checked the name of a lawyer he had to see. The man should be in his office by nine.

The Executioner was sitting in the lawyer’s big swivel chair when the barrister came in that morning. No one else was in the office.

“Good morning, Payne Sanders. Sit down and let’s talk.”

“Who the hell are you? Get out of my chair and out of my office or I’ll call the security guard.”

Bolan stood over the five-foot-ten lawyer. Icy blue eyes bored into Payne’s. The smaller man stepped back.

“You touch me and I’ll sue you for assault and battery.” Sanders said it evenly, but the punch had gone out of his voice. He retreated another step.

“Stay here, Sanders. We have to talk. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

He wiped his sweaty forehead and sat in the client’s chair beside his desk, where he almost never sat.

“I understand you were legal counsel for Capt. Harley Davis. He left certain documents with you that were to be turned over to the police in the event of his untimely death. I’m here to pick them up.”

“I had no connection with any Harley Davis. I am certainly not his lawyer.”

Bolan sighed and rose. He stepped to the chair and stared down at the lawyer.

“Mr. Sanders, I’m hoping that such an obvious lie doesn’t mean that you’ve already disposed of the documents to a higher bidder. I know the Mafia don, Carlo Nazarione, would pay plenty to have those papers and pictures. Have they thought to contact you about them yet?”

“No. They haven’t contacted me because I have nothing they might want — certainly nothing involving Mr. Davis, whoever he is.”

“Good try, Sanders. Acting class was obviously your best subject. Don’t try it again. I don’t have a lot of time.” Bolan took a five-inch knife from the sheath inside his boot. The narrow finely-honed blade glistened in the brightly lit office.

“Sanders, I once read an FBI seminar brochure that said it is not productive to try to encourage a person to give out information by what they called digital trauma. You can figure out what that means.”

Sanders shrank in his chair. “If I knew this Davis, I’d be glad to cooperate.”

“I don’t agree with the FBI. Putting fingers out of joint can be a fine way to encourage a man to talk.”

Sweat appeared on Sanders’s forehead.

“What was the name again?”

“Capt. Harley Davis of the Baltimore Police Department.”

“My secretary takes care of all of those ‘in case of’ files. Let me contact her and see.”

Bolan shook his head. He touched the tip of the knife to the lawyer’s shoulder.

“No way. That valuable file is right here in your office. All you have to do is stand up, get the file and hand it to me. How much did Nazarione offer you for it?”

“A hundred thousand. I’m a businessman.”

“And you told him two hundred thousand and he dickered and you hung up.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re a brave man, Sanders. I’ve known Mafia dons who would have you turned into turkey meat for a cute trick like that. You’re also lucky. I’d say a week in the Caribbean should put you in the clear. Baltimore is going to be extremely unhealthy for you for the next week.”

“I was just trying to make a couple of dollars!” Sanders was blinking back the tears.

“They would kill you right now if they knew how to get the documents and photos. I’m going to turn them over to the police, so let’s have them right now.”

Sanders put his head in his hands and cried. He looked up, tears on his cheeks. “He suckered me into it three years ago. I have lots of ‘in case of death open and deliver’ files. But this one kept growing and growing. It was sealed, but I opened it and made copies. Man, he certainly had the goods on these Mafia goons! He could nail them to the wall anytime he wanted. I knew they were paying him off. The problem was they wouldn’t pay me off for the same material. I jacked up my price to Davis a little and he never even noticed. The file got so thick I stopped looking in it. When he died, I didn’t know what to do. Being an officer of the court I was honor bound to turn over evidence to the court, the D.A., the police. But I held off. Then Nazarione himself called me. We met and talked. He gave me a packet of twenty one-hundred-dollar bills as a tip. Said there was lots more.”