“...and said he would have no comment. Here at home, police have identified the victim of an early-morning murder that on-the-scene people describe as a torture killing. Elizabeth Hanover, a student at the University of Baltimore, was found dead in her apartment this morning by a friend. The coroner said she had been gang-raped and tortured. There are no suspects in the crime and no apparent motive. One resident reported a car leaving the front of the apartment about four-thirty this morning.”

Bolan turned off the set and stared out the window. Either they had come quietly while he was in the car, or they had arrived after he left. He slammed his hand against the wall and swore.

Another innocent victim dead because of him! Someone who merely brushed against him for a few hours! If he had done it differently...

He hurried from the hotel and walked for two miles, working off some of his fury. Then he stopped at a phone and called the business number Nino had left for him.

“Cousin Harley — same old voice,” Nino said on the phone. “Figured I’d hear from you.”

“Nino, anybody in your family get a broken arm last night?”

Nino laughed. “Yeah, I figured you’d know about that. A little enforcer named Wally ‘The Beast’ Franconi. A damn tough cookie.”

“Not tough enough when I find him. Where does he hang out?”

“Franconi runs a poolroom over on Grand.”

“Thanks, Nino,” Bolan said, and hung up, figuring how to deal with Franconi. This had to be a day The Beast would remember for the rest of his life — no matter how few hours he had left to live, or how unpleasant they would be.

Capt. Harley Davis swore at the phone, then picked it up. “Davis here.”

“What the hell is going on down there, Davis? You know who this is. A perfectly legitimate nightclub gets blasted to rubble. Where the hell is our police protection?”

“Hey, easy. I’ve been having some problems. My force is spread thin. No way all the cops in the world can stop something like that. The attacker always has the advantage — you know that. We’re doing what we can to find the bomber and take care of him.”

“We’re doing the same thing, Davis. I’m pissed at you and the department. Hell, we pay taxes. What good does it do? Now three more places have closed because some nut set off smoke bombs in them. No big damage but a lot of sick people and mad ones.”

“He’s trying to scare you.”

“Who?”

“Hell, you know. Mack Bolan, the guy who calls himself the Executioner. He’s always after... places like yours.”

“So find him and nail his hide to the closest flagpole.”

“I’d like to. He’s made my damn ulcer kick up again.”

“Fuck your ulcer. I’m losing money.”

“We had to take two of your boys in on gambling charges. No way we could avoid it. I’ll set it up so they can get released on their own recognizance.”

“Damn well better.”

“Send me anything you have on this Bolan. Isn’t there a picture of him? I’ll check the wires on him. FBI had something going a while back.”

“You get something going. You shut this joker down, and do it damn quick!”

“Yeah. Nothing I would like better.”

They hung up. Captain Davis slouched in his chair in the glass-enclosed office. At least the glass went to the ceiling to provide a little privacy, soundwise. He was forty-nine years old and awaiting his thirty-year retirement, due in three years. Before then his plan was to have a nest egg to keep him on easy street. Hell, he might have to stay on a few years more, if he could keep raking in a hundred thousand a year from his friends.

He laughed softly. Friends, yes, just as long as they knew that he had enough on them to send them to prison for life. He had and they knew it. It became a delicate matter of compromise and cooperation.

Now this damn Executioner guy storms into town. Not even he could get in the way of the timetable. Davis took off his shoe and rubbed his foot. It still hurt once in a while. He’d been in too many fights with drunks and dopers to get off without any injuries. Even been shot twice. Damn, the years had gone fast!

He brushed back what was left of his brown hair and pushed his reading glasses in his pocket. Still had perfect distance vision — that was what counted now.

Bolan the Bastard, Jo Jo used to call him. Yeah. He’d have someone check the BPD files, then call the FBI.

In the meantime he could have a bigger problem. He consulted his phone list, then called a number he seldom used, almost never from this office. The call went to the Alonzo Fruit Company. When an operator answered, his message was brief.

“I’d like to talk to the man. This is Keno.” He hung up and returned to work on a burglary case that two of his detectives had almost wrapped up.

His phone rang and he picked it up. “Yeah, Davis here.” When the other voice came on he sat up straight and smoothed down his hair.

“Yes, sir, good to talk to you, too. Sir, this Mack Bolan matter. Is this going to hurt our timetable?”

The voice on the other end was slow, relaxed, with a touch of Old World Italian.

“We don’t think it will affect us. We know about this small problem and our people are working on it. We will solve it perhaps today, and then nothing will be in our way. This Bolan is human — he bleeds. If you bleed you can die.”

“Yes, sir. I’m doing what I can here. He’s a lawbreaker and we’ll exert the full power of the police in tracking him down.”

“Good. Now one small insect is left in your garden. We would be happy if it could be taken care of as quickly as possible.”

Sweat beaded on Davis’s forehead. He wiped it with his hand. The phone showed wet spots.

“Yes, sir. That matter will be taken care of... today.”

“Good. I knew we could count on you.”

“Thank you for returning my call, sir.”

“Yes. And remember, be sure it’s done today.”

The wire went dead and Captain Davis hung up slowly. Damn! He had to do it today. He shook his head, breathed deeply, then dialed one of his plain-clothes men. The cop came in at once.

The two men in business suits huddled; two hundred dollars changed hands well below the glass line in the wall, and the cop left at once.

Captain Davis finished his coffee and made another call. “Need to see you for a minute, Paulson,” he said.

It was arranged.

Ten minutes later the captain’s assistant drove him down Johnson Street. They had set up an undercover burglary sting operation involving cops acting as fences to buy stolen goods; the transactions were videotaped. They were approaching the operation when the police radio in their unmarked unit came on.

“This is seventy-three Baker. I have a suspected robbery in progress in the 3400 block of Market Street. The big warehouse. Request a backup.”

Captain Davis grabbed the mike. “This is X-twenty-seven. I’ll take that backup by seventy-three Baker. We’re within two blocks of the location.”

Lieutenant Paulson hit the siren and swung into the next lane.

“No siren! We don’t want them to know we’re coming!”

Lieutenant Paulson shut it off, leaving the red light blinking. Paulson had spent five of his twenty-six years on the force. He was a go-getter and an absolutely honest cop. He wasn’t the captain’s choice as his second in command on burglary and gambling for nothing. Paulson was Mr. America, easygoing, fearless, bright and ambitious. He had earned his B.A. degree in three years, studying nights and weekends.

“We’ll check the sting later,” Davis said, his adrenaline pumping. He checked the service revolver in his snap-on belt holster. His .38 was there and ready. In his back pocket he felt his cold piece.

The unmarked police car stopped near the warehouse. A cruiser was nearby. The two cops in it grinned when they saw Davis. He nodded at them. They had each earned an envelope with fifty dollars in it.