Captain Hannon rose ominously from his desk and fixed Stewart Dunlap with an angry gaze. "What the hell do you mean, lay off?"he asked in a thick voice.

The Justice agent's ever-present smile hung on as he explained, "I'm just passing the word, captain — relax. The official request is coming down through channels. I just thought you'd like to-"

"Well you can think again," Hannon rumbled. "The Dade Force is not laying off." He grabbed for his pipe and thrust it between his teeth, then pulled it out and jabbed it toward his visitor. "Wholesale murder has been done in this town, Dunlap, and no self-respecting cop can turn away from something like that. Our chief, by the way, is a highly self-respecting cop."

Dunlap shrugged and said, "It's not for Bolan's benefit, John. There's a hell of a delicate angle to this thing, and we . . ."

"I'm listening," Hannon prompted him.

Dunlap's smile lost the battle. He dropped into a chair and soberly inspected his fingernails. "A five-year undercover operation may be at stake. Brognola says he'll get cooperation if he has to go clear to the President."

"Uh-huh, Brognola's behind it," Hannon observed. "Okay, so now you're going to tell me that Bolan has a CIA license or something."

The agent doggedly shook his head. "Hell, no, I told you this wasn't for Bolan's benefit. But we've got a man in there, inside La Cosa Nostra, John. We're just trying to protect him. Wouldn't you?"

"The best way to do that would be to apprehend Bolan, wouldn't it? Does Bolan know who this guy is?"

Dunlap's frown deepened. "He does and he doesn't. I mean, if he meets him face to face, yes, he'll recognize him. We're not afraid of our man holding his own against Bolan. We're afraid of him getting pinned into a Bolan-police firefight."

"Who's been telling me," Hannon asked sarcastically, "that Bolan never shoots at cops?"

"He hasn't in the past," Dunlap quietly replied. "In a fire fight, though, one guy looks pretty much like another. You go busting into Bolan's war, especially with a bunch of non-uniformed officers, most anything could happen."

"Well," Hannon said, sighing, "you're talking to the wrong man anyway. I don't make these decisions."

"I know that, John. I was just advancing the word."

"If the chief says lay off, I'll have to lay off. If he doesn't, I'll be going in with everything I've got."

"Yes, I know that, too."

"How high up is this inside man of yours?"

"He has Family rank."

"What Family?"

Dunlap sighed. "You know I can't tell you that. He has an Eastern territory, I'll tell you that much. And, listen, you've seen the success we've been having up in that area. We've been setting them up and knocking them down just like-"

"Okay, okay," Hannon said heavily. "So what's this Brognola doing besides talking to the President?"

"He's trying to contact our man."

"To what effect?"

"To get him out of there, as gracefully as possible, until things quieten down."

"I'll make a deal," Hannon quickly declared.

"What kind of a deal?"

"I'll hold off the Dade Force until Brognola gets your man out. If . . . if, Dunlap, you turn right around and scratch our back."

Dunlap said uncomfortably, "Damn, you do think like a cop, don't you. I know what you want, but go ahead and get it in the record. What sort of a back scratcher do we have to have, John?"

"I want to know where they are, all of them. A complete list, any place where Bolan might launch a hit. Now isn't that painless? Who could ask for a better deal than that?"

Dunlap was chewing it. He said, "I'll have to talk it up. I don't know. Anything that jeopardizes our man's cover is no deal at all. We go passing out Intel like that. . . Look, John, we don't gain anything by busting these people, and you know it. Their attorneys are downtown with writs before we can get the cell doors closed. We're building cases, John, not harassment proceedings. Bolan's been a great help in that area, also. They're all so jittery, they're making mistakes. Like-"

"Well, you go talk it up, Dunlap. We're almost ready to roll. With or without your help, see, we know a few places where Bolan might show up."

"The Kirkpatrick woman?"

Hannon nodded. "When she busted, she busted all over the place. Admitted that Bolan had visited her and that she fed him information." "Got her locked up?"

"Nope. Made a deal with her, too. We turn our back on her, uh, delicate indiscretions, also take her word that she spoke to Bolan only after the Sandbank hit and under duress."

"You could hold her," Dunlap pointed out, "as an accessory to the Plaza job."

"Sure, but for what gain? Hell, I believe her story. She gave us what we wanted, we gave her what she wanted. No booking, no notoriety, and she gets out of Miami on the first available flight."

"You're not even interested in her as a material witness," Dunlap observed. "That says plenty right there. You don't expect to take Bolan alive."

Hannon's gaze wavered and broke. "You don't really believe that boy will throw down his gun and let us take him," he stated quietly.

"I believe he'll fight you only if forced to," the agent replied evenly. He got to his feet. "No deal, Hannon. I don't barter a man's life away."

"Not even for the life of your own Mafioso?"

Dunlap said, "Get screwed, Hannon," and quietly walked out.

The captain stared morosely at the vacant doorway, then dropped into his chair and swiveled about to gaze through the window, his face a study in frustration. He placed the pipe in his mouth and bit down savagely, winced, then removed it and depressed a button on his intercom. "Tell Lt. Wilson I want him in here double quick," he snapped.

The report came back, "He checked out, captain. Said he'd be gone about thirty minutes."

"Say where he's going?"

"I believe he's taking the Kirkpatrick woman home. Want me to try a radio contact?"

Hannon scowled at the clock. "Give him until eleven o'clock. If he isn't back by then, get him if you have to put out an all-points."

He flipped off the intercom and turned back to the window. Barter a life away, eh? What the hell did Stewart Dunlap know about bartering lives? For the first time in a long time, Captain Hannon seriously began to think about his retirement. He wanted out of it, he decided. He wanted out of the whole rotten mess. Stoolies, junkies, hookers, punks, muggers, rapists — what a hell of a parade for a man's life sum. And what made a cop an anointed executioner? In whose name did an officer of the law take to the streets to gun down society's misfits? By whose order and by what convention did John Hannon, 35-year veteran of law and order, calmly and precisely plot the death of a confused kid from Vietnam?

Executioner? Hannon sighed. The world was filled with executioners. Some were sanctioned, some not. Who decided, in the ultimate court of all the courts, which were and which were not?

Hannon placed the pipe carefully upon his desk and went to the window. Retire to what? There was no one in John Hannon's life now but stoolies, junkies, hookers, muggers . . . And an executioner. A 30-year-old kid fresh from the blood puddles of Southeast Asia . . . an executioner.

He went back to the desk, put on his coat, grabbed his hat, and went out. Captain John Hannon was not retired yet. He was still very much a cop. And it was time to begin the construction of a death trap . . . for an executioner.

The "confused kid" from Vietnam did not feel at all confused at the moment. He knew precisely what he was doing. Before the hell broke, he needed a name . . . the name of a boat which sometimes hosted parties for visiting Mafia dignitaries. There would not be time, once the assault was underway, to run about seeking directions to the next front. He left his car discreetly parked one street over from Jean Kirkpatrick's place on Palmetto Lane and, stripped to the night suit, made his way quietly between the neat stucco houses, across the alleyway, and over the fence into the Kirkpatrick rear yard.