There was a brief silence from the other end the connection. DiGeorge could almost see the wheels of Pena's brain whirling toward the right words. "I . . . he got away from us, Deej," he said dismally.

"Whattya mean, he got away?" DiGeorge shrilled.

"I mean he got away. Julio and some boys took off after him, but he had a pretty good lead. I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"Well, I dunno if they'll be able to catch him or not. He had a pretty good lead, and in a good car. Uh . . . Ralph Scarpetti's dead. So's Al Reggnio. And two or three others are hurt, not seriously. I got a nick myself."

DiGeorge swore softly into the transmitter, then carefully placed the revolver on the desk.

"And he burned up two of our cars. That's how come I'm so long checking in. Had to send a boy in after some transportation."

DiGeorge's eyes were glazing. He loosened his collar and rocked gently to and fro on the edge of the desk. Presently he said, "So. Some hit, eh? I send fifteen boys out after one lousy punk and I wind up with two dead, half a dozen hurt, two cars . . ." DiGeorge's voice choked off. He tugged at his collar again.

"Listen, Deej, this guy is no punk," Pena offered defensively. "He's a damn one-man army. God, he shot these flares up in the air, see, and caught us right out in the open. Hell, I can't figure how he even knew we were coming. It was pitch-dark, and we weren't making any noise, not even breathing hard. Then, out of nowhere, bloom, here's these goddam flares floating down on us. And he opens up with a goddam heavy machine gun. Hell, we're lucky any of us are alive to talk about it. This guy ain't no punk, Deej."

"Yeah. Okay, Lou. Where are you now?"

"Pay phone, north side of Santa Mortica. I guess we got out of there just in time. Met a sheriff's car on the way back, lights flashing and all that crap. I guess somebody . . ."

"Stop guessing, Lou, and bring what's left of your boys on out here."

"Well . . . listen . . ."

DiGeorge sighed. "Yeah?"

"I already started things rolling. I got-ahold of Patty. He's spreading people all up and down the damn highways. I told him to cover everything, and solid. Gas stations, bus stations, road junctions, the whole bit. I told him, uh, I hope this's okay, Deej, I told him to hell with the expense, the sky's the limit. We just want to get Bolan. Right?"

DiGeorge sighed again. "Right, Lou, that's exactly right. But you come on back here. I want to start mapping out a foolproof campaign. I don't want anymore half-assing around."

"Okay . . . uh . . . I'm sorry as hell, Deej."

DiGeorge quietly hung up the telephone, stared at it dolefully for a long moment, then said, "You sure are, Lou baby."

Bolan sent his car powering into a squealing turn to follow the torturous mountain road, crested the hill, and began the drop into the interior valley. The twinkling lights of a small town were showing, far ahead. He glanced at his watch and decided that he was making pretty good time, even with all his zig-zagglng and backtracking through the mountains. His gasoline supply was getting low; the powerful car could consume a lot of fuel during two hours of this type of driving. The lights in the distance should be Palm Village, he decided. He wondered if he had gas enough to make it on in, and whether or not he would come onto a service station on this lonely road. A dull ache in his right ankle told him that the injury from the Balboa battle was again demanding attention. He felt shelled-out, weary, and entirely resigned to the role fate had decreed for him. He was going to die by the gun, he knew this. The only question remaining unanswered, in Bolan's mind, was the when of it. Why not right now, he mused. Why prolong it? A forlorn pride surged up from the depths of his weariness. He knew, of course, why it had to be prolonged. A man did not choose a time and place to die; he chose a battleground for life. Bolan had chosen his own battleground. The rest of it was simply a matter of fighting the battle to the best of his ability, and all the way to the end. Was that a philosophy, or a resignation? Bolan shook his head. He recognized it as neither. Philosophies, to Bolan's mind, were no more than idle games. In the final analysis, a man either spent his life or bargained it away. Bolan was spending his.

He then swept around another curve and immediately began slowing for a brightly lighted intersection straight ahead. A roadside sign with GAS-OIL-CAFE caught his attention. It directed him to a rundown building with a single gas pump, occupying one corner of the road junction. Bolan eased on the brakes and swung onto a dusty ramp, bringing the car to a halt at the gas pump. He opened the door and stepped out, gingerly testing the sore ankle. Two other vehicles were parked in the shadow of the building; another was angled toward the highway at the far end of the ramp. Limping slightly, he went around the rear of his car and entered the building. Shelves on the back wall contained a dreary assortment of dry groceries. An ancient pinball machine occupied a dark corner. A rough-hewn counter with four stools constituted the "cafe." Behind the dingy counter stood a middle-aged woman in a grease-spotted white apron. Two of the stools were being held down by a pair of elderly men. They wore soiled work clothes, were drinking beer from cans, and they were staring interestedly at Bolan. When he smiled at them, they turned away. Bolan moved on to the end of the counter and addressed the woman. "I need some gas," he told her.

"You'll have to pump it yourself," she replied, in a surprisingly cultured voice.

"All right," he said agreeably. "I'll have some coffee, too."

She shook her head. "Sorry, I'm out of coffee. How about a beer?"

Bolan grinned and declined with a shake of his head. He stepped toward the door.

"Don't go out there, son," said a voice behind him.

Bolan paused with a hand on the door and gazed over his shoulder. One of the men at the counter had swivelled about and was regarding him with an intent stare. "I said, don't go out there," the old man repeated.

"Why not?" Bolan inquired, his hackles already rising.

"That car still out there? Edge o' the road?"

Bolan nodded his head and moved casually away from the door.

"Three men in it," the man informed him. "They was in here askin' about you, little while ago. Figger they're sittin' out there just waitin' for you now."

"How do you know they were asking about me?" Bolan said.

The old man's eyes raked Bolan from end to end. "Described you pretty well," he replied. "And they're packin' guns."

"How do you know that?"

"Same way I know you got one under that jacket there. They got a shotgun, too. Saw it'n their front seat when they drove up. Don't act like cops, either."

"They're not," Bolan assured him. He turned to the door again.

"My old pickup's out back," the man said, in a tense voice.

"Yeah?" Bolan was trying to appear relaxed and nonchalant as his eyes probed the vehicle at the intersection.

"If you was to leave your car sittin' there, I could probably drive you right past 'em."

Bolan examined the offer.

"I was 'bout ready to go, anyway," the man added.

"There's a suitcase on my back seat," Bolan murmured. "I have to have it."

The old man slid off the stool. "I'll go out and raise your hood and stick the hose in the gas tank," he said. "They'll think you're gettin' serviced. Can I get in that car from this side?"

Bolin was gauging the angle of vision between the two cars. If the Mafiosi remained in their vehicle, they would not be able to see between Bolan's car and the building, especially with Bolan's hood elevated. "I'll get the bag out and meet you in the rear," he suggested.

The old man nodded as he shuffled past Bolan and out the door. Moments later the hood of Bolan's car sprang open, blocking Bolan's view of the other vehicle. He quickly stepped outside, leaned into his car for the suitcase, then moved quickly around the corner of the small structure. A rattle-trap pickup truck sat on a dirt driveway at the rear. Bolan quietly deposited his luggage in the bed of the truck and climbed into the cab. He sat on the floorboards and eased the pistol into the ready position. He had hardly become settled when his elderly benefactor climbed in on the driver's side and, without a word, cranked the engine. They jounced around the far end of the building and pulled slowly onto the highway, coming to a full stop directly opposite the stake-out vehicle. Bolan saw the old man nod genially at the Mafiosi, then the gears ground and they lurched on through the intersection.