The other guard had come down to join the discussion. Harry thrust his burpgun at him and muttered, "Shit, I'm a security man, not no goddam transportation expert. Awright, somebody let me out."

Feldman went back behind the cage and pressed the door release. The buzzer squawked and Harry stepped into the alleyway muttering to himself. The other guard was standing there with a dumb look and a burpgun under each arm. Bolan took one of them, saying, "Here, give me th' damn thing. Listen, you may as well go out there too. Don't let anyone get curious and start hanging around."

The guard looked to the controller for an okay. Feldman nodded his head and again operated the doorlock. The guy went out, greatly perturbed and fiddling with the visor of his cap.

The man with the crooked spine came out of the vault pushing a wheeled cart bearing neatly wrapped packages. Bolan stepped in through the open gate and placed the burpgun on the counter as the crippled man was reporting progress. "These are the tabulated receipts through noon today, Mr. Feldman. We'll have the balance in about five minutes. We're just going to sack it, if that's all right."

The controller jerked his head in a quick okay. "And leave the coin," he commanded.

Bolan picked up one of the packages from the cart and was looking it over. It was a five-grand bundle. Yes, this was definitely a central station. There were at least fifty of those packets on the cart. And someone" had said that legalized betting in New York would put the mob onto hard times.

Bolan grabbed a canvas satchel off the floor and began stuffing it with five-grand packages. Feldman watched him for a moment, then said, "Why don't we just leave it on the cart? If Harry gets a van…"

Bolan replied, "And suppose he can't? You just want to toss these packages loose into the seat of a car?" He zipped the bag shut and threw it at the rear door, twenty-five thousand dollars worth, then grabbed another.

Feldman stood there through a brief moment of indecision, then he too began transferring the packets into a bag. Bolan completed Ms second baggy job and gave it a toss, then told the controller, "Hey listen, I'm going to go out there and see what that clown is doing."

Feldman nodded his head agreeably, obviously happy to lose "Lambretta's" company. Bolan picked up the burpgun and walked to the door, then turned to stare at the whitehaired man. "The fuckin' door," he growled.

The controller grimaced and moved impatiently to send the unlock signal to the door mechanism, then turned away with an unhappy scowl. Bolan pulled the door open, kicked a money bag outside, quietly dropped a marksman's medal to the floor, and went out. The door clicked behind him and he told the waiting guard, "Watch that satchel, it's got twenty-five thou in it," then he walked quickly to the end of the alley, a matter of twenty-odd steps, peered into the street briefly and immediately returned to the doorway.

He told the guard, "Okay, you keep your eyes peeled. Here, take this Hamn gun." He shoved the burpgun into the guy's hand, picked up the satchel of money, and walked away.

Bolan did not look back as he made the turn onto the street. He was afraid to. The corners of his mouth were beginning to twitch out of control, and he might burst out laughing if he had to look at that guard's face one more tune.

The Executioner could not feel a bit bad about stealing from the mob, and he could think of no one he would rather have contribute to his war chest than Freddie Gambella.

Somebody was going to be catching a lot of hell, of course, but Bolan would save his sympathy for people who deserved it. That den of thieves back there would get everything they had coming to them. As for Gambella, if he thought thishurt then he'd better wait awhile.

The tall man with the canvas satchel went on unhurriedly along the quiet street and stepped aboard a downtown bus, and the corners of his mouth were still twitching, and he was wondering if Harry would ever come back with those wheels.

Bolan dropped into a seat across from an elderly black lady, and he allowed himself to break down and laugh a little. The lady was darting curious glances his way, but Bolan didn't mind. A pure fool had engaged the enemy in an act of pure war, and he'd exited laughing. Yeah, it was a hell of a way to run a world. But it would have to do until something better came along. Pure love, maybe. Yeah, and Bolan found himself thinking about Rachel Silver. Yeah. Pure love.

Freddie Gambella was seated casually in the big swivel chair, a telephone held to the side of his head by a softly manicured hand, when Sam the Bomber pushed hesitantly into the panelled library and made his way softly across the cushioned floor. Sam never had felt overly comfortable in this room — maybe it was the books that made him feel so depressed — and he was feeling particularly out of sorts on this visit.

Gambella threw his visitor a flash of the eyes that told him to have a seat, and he growled softly into the telephone, "He traded a whatfor it?"

Sam sat down and watched the muscles bunching and unbundling in the Capo'sjaw, then he studied his own hands and picked nervously at the bandaids on his fingers. Sam always hated to come in and find Freddie on the goddam telephone, Jesus he hated just sitting there watching and listening and wondering when his turn would come.

"Well I guess I just can't figure it," Freddie was saying. "Were they all hypnotized? You mean he just walks in there and passes himself off as a made cop and starts giving orders and they all just snapped shit?"

The first gaze rested on Sam the Bomber as the receiver rattled a longwinded response, then Freddie cut in on it. "Stop," he commanded in a thick voice. "Don't tell me any more about it. I don't want to know. I don't want to hear such dumb… I just don't understand Feldman, and I don't want to. All these years and he — listen, we got telephones, right? You just pick up the little gadget and you tap out a number, right? And you get instant advice, right? I want to know why Feldman wasn't looking for some instant advice. You get me, Tommy?"

That would be Tommy Doctor, Sam was thinking. And he was wondering what the doctor had done to get on the carpet this way, Freddie didn't usually talk this way to his people. All that anger was usually buried in a quiet manner and a gentle tone, only you always knew it was there whenit was there — Freddie had a way of letting you know without getting himself all worked up on the outside. Sam just hoped that what the boss was saying to Tommy Doctor had nothing at all to do with Sam Chianti. And then Sam's heart lurched as the next words came — yeah, they sure had something to do with him.

"Now you listen to me, Tommy. I want Bolan, and I don't want no excuses, I want the man. You put the boys in cars, and you put them walking the streets. You put boys sitting on their asses in bars and cafes, and you put boys everywhere in this town. I want boys in subway stations, air terminals, bus and train depots. I want our cabs alerted, and I want every street worker, every union hall, every precinct station, every committee, every club, every joint, I want everybody in this town looking for Bolan." Freddie's eyes were starting to bulge and he was running out of breath. A bad sign. "And Tommy… don't you talk to me again until you're telling me that you've gotBolan. Have I made myself clear?"

The receiver made one or two faint sounds and Freddie said, "Just don't forget it," and he hung up and turned his undiluted attention to his lifelong friend, Sam the Bomber.

"I guess you got the most of that," Fred told Sam.

Chianti nodded his head miserably and fingered a bandaid at his chin. "Yes, and I understand exactly how you feel, Freddie."