"But?" Bolan prompted.

"Well we really do need to have a monitor on their radio nets, but it will take some inside work to just find out what those frequencies are."

"All right, consider that as an objective," Bolan agreed. "We want their radio frequencies. That should be an easy mark. Any radio amateur could probably give us that. But they probably have some special radio net for their elite unit. We'll need that, above all. Go on, Gadgets."

Okay, that would be in the nature of just routine intelligence. These people don't tell their secrets over the radio, though, bet on that. So we need some way to monitor their telephone conversations, their official discussions, and their bull sessions. That means we have to get inside or..."

"Or what?"

"If this elite squad has a ... well, they have to have, don't they? A honcho, a guy in charge. We need to know who he is and where his headquarters are located."

"The L.A. cops operate out of the Hall of Justice, don't they?" Harrington put in.

"I don't mean just the damn building," Schwarz said. "I mean a particular room or office."

"You're really serious?" Fontenelli asked, "You'd try to get in there and plant bugs, right in the damn police station?"

That may not be necessary," Schwarz replied. "I might be able to use a directional mike."

Bolan and Zitka exchanged thoughtful glances.

"I made a pickup once from a quarter mile," Schwarz told them. "Of course, it was in quiet countryside. Noise level is much higher in a city like L.A., with a lot of diffusion of sound waves. Generally, without too much diffusion, you can trap a sound from anything you can see."

Bolan sighed. "Give it a try, Gadgets. You and Brother get down there as soon as you feel ready and scout the layout. See what you can figure out, but don't make any actual move until I've reviewed your plan. We'll give this a top priority, and we make no further hits until our intelligence apparatus is functioning. While you're out, pick up that tape from the Varone drop. I'll want to know his reactions to tonight's hit." He showed Loudelk a grim smile. "I'm depending on your instincts, Brother, to keep this play safe. If it can't be done without undue risk, well just get along without it. Okay?"

Loudelk smiled. "Okay."

"I'll have to build a mike," Schwarz added.

"You have all the stuff you need?"

"I think so. If not, I can pick up what I need in any electronics shop."

Bolan shifted his gaze to Blancanales. "We've used the vehicles long enough, Politician," he said crisply. "Better drop them and get some more. Be very discreet. Include my "Vette—get me something else. Anything that's got some fire. Maybe a Porsche, eh?"

"You don't mean the horse, too?" Blancanales asked, frowning.

"No, but see what you can do about some new paint and decals. What about license tags?"

"No problem there." They're scared to death you were going to make me rig up a new horse."

Bolan chuckled. "We might have to drop the horse idea entirely after another strike or two. They're bound to tumble to it sooner or later, and then that big mother becomes a dead liability. Be thinking about a new gimmick."

Blancanales' frown deepened. "My nightmares are gettin' worse all the time," he groused.

The remark produced laughter from around the room. Andromede leaned over to place a hand on the Politician's shoulder and loudly announced, "My nerves, man, I wouldn't have your job..."

"Yeah I know," Blancanales sourly interrupted, "Between a nympho's tits."

"No, I was going to say, in a confession booth in a cathouse."

When the good-humored eruption had quieted, Andromede added, "And I'm ready for some R and R."

Bolan was studying his watch. "Well, it's getting on to four o'clock," he said. "I can't offer you much in the way of recreation, but it is time for a bit of rest. Let's all turn in. Eight o'clock reveille."

"Four hours!—I'm losin' my powers!" Andromede groaned.

"I'm gonna shove that poetry right up your ass one o' these days," Fontenelli growled good-naturedly.

"Only with your nose, bro," Andromede replied.

He tossed a playful punch that missed Fontenelli by a foot, then danced lightly away, shadow boxing across the room and into the hallway.

Bolan sighed and got to his feet. He was having second thoughts about this death squad bit. The responsibility for these men's lives and fortunes was beginning to weigh heavily upon him. He was using them, and he knew it, and the knowledge bothered him. Bolan had a consecrated interest in this war upon the Mafia. These men did not. What right had he to involve them in this life-and-death business?

Deadeye Washington had also risen to his feet and was now walking beside Bolan toward the hall to the bedrooms. He seemed to sense Bolan's feelings. "These guys are here 'cause there's really noplace else they'd rather be," he told Bolan in a soft drawl.

"Maybe you're right," Bolan murmured.

"Sure I'm right. Some men just live to die, 'cause they're already dead."

"Are you already dead, Deadeye?" Bolan asked, looking at the big Negro with some surprise.

This black man? Sure, man. I was born dead. And I'm still borning."

It was not a particularly comforting idea for Bolan to take into his dreams.

"Okay, so Bolan turned up a new gangland front for us," Captain Braddock said wearily. His manner was clearly one of irritation as he glared at his young detail leader, Sergeant Carl Lyons. "So what do we do—hang a Legion of Merit around his neck?"

Lyons responded with an embarrassed smile. "I merely pointed out that his presence here isn't entirely negative," the sergeant replied. His gaze wavered, broke, and shifted to Lieutenant Bickert. He found little comfort there.

"Looks like Bolan's found a convert," the lieutenant sneered. "Listen, kid, don't get your wires crossed. This guy and his drill team are the most vicious threat to hit this city in my memory. Don't go getting any romantic ideas."

"Who is he a threat to?" Lyons replied stubbornly. "The only people I've seen hurting so far are those who should be hurting. Hell, I..."

"That's enough of that!" Braddock snapped. "I don't want any intellectual discussions around here about the debits and credits of Mack Bolan. It's nonsense, utter damn nonsense, and I'll release you, Sergeant, from Hardcase duty, effective immediately, if that is your wish."

"That is not my wish." Lyons clipped back. "My wish is to see Mack Bolan behind bars." His anger seemed to evaporate in a flash. He raised a smile to the captain and added, "I'll bet you an evening on the Strip that I'm the man who brings him in."

Braddock's face brightened. "You're on. You want a piece of this action, Charlie?"

Rickert smiled and shook his head. "I'm just a cop, doing a cop's job," he said. "I don't make book on anything that might happen. But you're going to win that bet, Tim. Wet-behind-the-ears, here, won't get within hailing distance of Bolan. The word is out, all over town. My informants tell me that Mack Bolan is as good as dead."

"What do you mean, Charlie?" Braddock was wearing a troubled frown.

Rickert spread his hands in a delicate gesture. "Only that the Mafia generals are taking over the action, that's all."

"I'm still not sure I understand what you're saying."

"According to the words I'm getting, the family has not been overly worried about Bolan. They put out a hundred-thou open contract and forgot about him. You know what an open contract means. Anybody can collect—anybody who can bring in Bolan's scalp. Well . . . now the family is getting worried. The bounty hunters have been striking out. They can't even get a finger on the guy, and meantime he's chopping hell out of the local nephews. So they're taking over the action. It probably means a hot war."