Braddock swore softly and knelt to examine the firing lock on the machine gun. "Every day, in every way, I find this guy getting more and more dangerous," he said. He lifted his eyes to the face of his young sergeant. "Suppose we'd tracked Bolan down first, Carl. How many men would it have cost us to take this place?"

Lyons showed a startled frown. "I don't believe Bolan would resist arrest," he declared solemnly.

"You don't, eh?" Braddock grunted to an erect position and rocked back on his heels, hands gripping the backs of his thighs. "You worry me, Carl," he added thoughtfully. "Some day you're going to put your trust in the wrong . . ."

"It's not a matter of trust," Lyons curtly interrupted. "I've stood face to face with the man, I've talked to him. He's not the usual run of the mill . . . "

"Usual or not, Mack Bolan is a desperate man," Braddock cut in heavily. "You get him into a corner and he's going to come out shooting, just like he did here last night. Do you think he asked those people for a password before he started chopping them up?"

"I don't think . . ."

"Then don't talk either!" Braddock said angrily. "I'm trying very hard — very hard, Carl, to forget the fact that Bolan escaped us at Balboa in your vehicle."

Lyons flushed an angry red, spun on his heels, and went into the house. Scowling, Captain Braddock watched him disappear through the doorway, then he sighed heavily and said, sotto voce, "But I can't forget it, Carl. I just can't."

Another thing the captain could not forget was the goal he had been so meticulously pursuing for so many years. Most observers at the Hall of Justice were generally agreed that Big Tim would reach that goal. No other officer on the force seemed to be such a certain candidate for the Chief's chair. Some day, with the kindness of fate and the inexorable workings of the civil service procedures, Big Tim would be the Big Chief. Lately, however, an AWOL soldier who seemed to think he could bring Vietnam tactics to American streets was raising a large question mark around the kindness of Tim Braddock's personal fates. Braddock had to get Mark Bolan. A failure now, with the entire nation keeping score, would deal unkindly with a good cop's lifetime design. Braddock would get Mark Bolan.

Braddock returned to his car, opened the door, and slid heavily into the seat. He picked up the microphone for the two-way radio, punched the button for the special Hardcase network, and established contact with his operations center. "Braddock," he clipped. "Nothing but dead ashes here. I'm coming in."

"Lt. Foster has been wanting to talk to you," he was informed.

"Well, I'm still here," Braddock said wearily.

Andy Foster's monotone bounced back at him. "Definite make, Tim. Shoot-out up near Palm Village late last night. Our boy's handiwork, very plainly."

"Last night!" Braddock said savagely. "Why the delay in reporting?"

"The locals had the wrong slant. Tell you about it when you get in. Any instructions?"

"Yeah!" Braddock snarled. "Get a chopper out here to pick me up! You get on over there in a car — no! First, get hold of those people and tell them to keep their fumbling hands off! I don't want them doing anything until I get there!"

"Ten -four."

Braddock sat and fumed, his guts churning. Then he lunged out of the car and roared, "Carl! Sergeant Lyons!"

Lyons came running. "Yessir?" he asked breathlessly.

"Get someone to take my car in. Yours too. You'n me are taking a chopper ride."

"Sir?"

"I'm going to give you one more chance to corner the rat. The rat, Lyons. Not the new Robin Hood of the West. You understand me?"

"Yessir," Lyons replied meekly. He dropped his eyes and disappeared once again beyond the corner of the building.

Braddock fidgeted and nervously squeezed his hands together. Big Tim's grand design was not quite dead yet. Not, in fact, by a hell of a shot. Mack Bolan was going to be had.

Julian DiGeorge felt his self-control deserting him. He raised veiled eyes to his chief enforcer, Lou Pena, and muttered, "Listen, dammit, I don't want your damn crying excuses! Do you know how close Palm Village is to where I'm sitting right now? Don't give me any vomiting excuses, Lou."

"I don't know what else to say, Deej," Pena replied humbly. "I don't know how the bastard manages it. I just don't know. We got . . ."

"I know what you got," DiGeorge rasped. "You got an old defenseless farm hand and a decrepit old truck. And you lost three damn good boys. You lost, Lou, you didn't get anything!"

"I was going to say, we got a pretty good idea which way he's travelling now. I got people all up and down that highway and . . ."

"Sure we know which direction he's travelling. He's heading this way, Lou. Probably here already. Of course he is! He's here already."

"Hell, Deej, we got thirty boys out there on the grounds. He ain't gonna get through anything like that."

DiGeorge snorted nervously, lit a cigar, and blew the smoke toward the open window. "Just like he couldn't get out of that beach house, eh?" He slapped the chair with a flat palm, then did it again.

Pena's eyes followed the trail of smoke out the window. He uncomfortably shifted his weight, coughed, then got to his feet and stood uncertainly awaiting his boss' command. Presently he said, "What d'you think I oughta do, Deej?"

"You're outdated, Lou," DiGeorge said, his voice suddenly mild.

"Huh?"

"I think it's about time you retired."

"Aw hell, Deej, I don't want . . ."

"After you bring me Bolan's head."

"I'll get it, Deej,"

"You damn well better. You take five cars, Lou. Full of wild men. And you go over to Palm Village. You shake that place like it never thought of being shook. And you pick up Bolan's tracks. You hear me?"

"I hear you, Deej."

"And don't you come back here without Bolan. You hear me?"

"I hear you, Deej."

"I want Mack Bolan more than I want anything in this world. You understand me, Lou?"

"I understand you, Deej."

"Then get the hell out of here! What are you waiting for?"

Pena got out of there. The boss, he decided, was cracking up. First Bolan was about to walk in the front door, then he was clear over in Palm Village. What the hell did Deej expect of him? It was a senseless question, and Pena recognized it as such even as he thought it. What else? He expected Bolan's head, on a platter, that's what. And Pena, the new chief enforcer, had damn well better get it for him. If he didn't, maybe Pena's own head would end up on that platter. It was not a comforting thing to contemplate. Well, by God, Pena's head wasn't going to get on no platter! Deej said to shake the town apart. He'd shake it down, by God, if that's what it took. Lou Pena had to get Mack Bolan. There just wasn't any two ways about it. He had to, by God, get Mack Bolan!