"You're with Sam the Bomber," Bolan reminded him.

The guy nodded vehemently and said, "Yeah, but not like you think. Only temporary, I'm on loan from Jake Sacarelli. I run girls over in Brooklyn. I never got in on no contract before."

"So you've fumbled your big chance, soldier."

The guy's eyes were getting frantic. He said, "Christ, I was just following the baggage, that's all."

"You and who else?"

"Me'n Tony Boy Laccardo."

"And where is Tony Boy now?"

"He's waiting down by the elevator, just down th' hall."

Bolan nodded curtly and asked, "Okay, and who else?"

Brownsuit swallowed hard and replied, "We got a wheelman waitin' down at the curb."

"What kind of car?"

"Chivvy, I think. Yeah. A blue Chivvy."

Bolan commanded, "Finish pulling that gun out, but use the other hand, and just let me see two fingers. Pull it out and set it down easy."

The Mafiosocomplied, then quickly straightened up and croaked, "Christ, don't wipe me, Bolan. I got nothin' against you personal."

"Who knows you came here, other than your two partners?"

Brownsuit must have thought he saw a glimmer of hope. He quickly replied, "Nobody else, I swear. We been watchin' those damn bags since Saturday. We really didn't expect no payoff, it was gettin' to be a drag. Nobody knows, Bolan. And I got nothin' personal against you. Lemme go, huh? I mean, wing me or something if you think you gotta, but Christ don't cut me down cold, Bolan."

This was the part of warfare which Bolan thoroughly hated. No man went willingly to his death, no one was ever quite prepared for the cold and utter finality of that moment, especially when he was standing there helplessly waiting for it. Bolan did not like to kill cold.

But his dilemma reminded him again of the cool words of Rachel Silver, about not taking sex but rather allowing sex to take her. To Rachel, that was purity. Well, there was purity in warfare too. A good soldier, likewise, did not take war; he let war take him. An impure or unwise soldier became just another dishonest politician, or gouging businessman, or something worse. Still — Bolan found himself squirming under his distasteful duty.

Of course, if Brownsuit had walked in and found Bolan lying half dead and helpless in bed, he would have finished trim off without a qualm, and then he would probably have hacked off Bolan's head with a penknife and carried it proudly to the Commissionein a paper sack. Even so, if this were simply a case of Bolan versus the pleading Mafioso, he would not feel so compelled to kill. It was highly important, though, to Paula Lindley and her roommates that this man die. Bolan knew what would happen to the girls if this guy walked out alive. Their lives would not be worth a nickel.

Bolan told the brownsuited pimp from Brooklyn, "I've nothing personal against you either, soldier," the Beretta phutted softly through its silencer and Brownsuit died without even knowing it, a high-velocity Parabellum angling in through the bridge of the nose and displaying several cubic inches of brain tissue in painless and instant death. If Bolan had to kill cold, this was the way he preferred.

He pulled the suitcoat up over the guy's head and stuffed in a small throw-pillow to lessen the spread of blood, tying the bundle into place with the coatsleeves. Then he put on his own jacket and stepped over the body for a tete-a-tStewith Tony Boy Laccardo, "just down th' hall."

He found him there, and killed him there, without a word and without a warning, as Tony Boy raised surprised eyes from a racing form. Bolan shoved the remains into a janitor's closet where he found a huge mop with which he sponged up the pool of blood on the floor of the hallway. Then he returned to the apartment, transferred Brownsuit to the same dress cart which had brought Bolan there, and he stopped off at the janitor's closet for a quick pickup of Tony Boy. He tossed the mop in too, covered the bodies with rags from the closet shelf, and took his cargo into the elevator down to the garage.

A dull-faced attendant glanced at Bolan without curiosity as he wheeled the cart to a loading dock near the exit.

Bolan yelled over to him, "I gotta bring my car in."

The attendant moved his head in a bored nod and went back to his funny book or whatever he was reading.

Bolan went out and proceeded unhurriedly to the corner of the building, then along the front toward a waiting blue Chevrolet idling in a no-parking zone at the curb. He approached from the rear, opened the right-front door, and slid in beside the wheelman. The guy did a double take on his unexpected guest, the eyes freezing still on the Beretta.

An icy voice told him, "I want Sam the Bomber's address, and I want it with no shitting around."

The wheelman's voice came choked and ragged and with no shitting around as he replied, "Look in the glove box, I think there's some cards."

Bolan looked and found a thin stack of business cards, embossed with Chianti's name in fancy gold lettering and the interesting announcement: Human Engineering Contractor. Bolan found that almost funny, but he pocketed one of the cards and slammed the door on the glove compartment with no show of humor and told his temporary companion, "Okay, let's roll. Around the building and to the garage entrance, west side." He restrained the driver for a moment to pull a small calibre pistol out of the man's waistband and toss it into the back seat, then he waggled a finger at the wheelman and the vehicle lurched forward.

Moments later they were easing into the underground garage and backing to the loading ramp. Bolan took the keys from the ignition, pushed the man out and slid out behind him, then handed him the keys and commanded, "Open the trunk."

The wheelman meekly accepted the keys then went reluctantly to the rear of the car, his eyes searching for some hint of help in the offing but finding nothing of comfort. The only other sign of human presence was the attendant in the little glassed-in office, hunched over his desk and utterly absorbed in something there.

Bolan leapt onto the dock and positioned the cart with his foot, then told the wheelman, "Get up here."

The Mafiosogave Bolan a questioning look, but did as he was told without overt challenge to that indisputable authority, even though the Beretta was no longer in view. He joined his captor and awaited further instructions.

They came coldly and simply, "dean that junk out of my cart."

The man shrugged and seized a hand full of rags and tossed them into the trunk of the car. Then he saw the blood on his hands, and his knees buckled and he almost fell. Calmly the death voice commanded, "All of it!"

The guy already knew what was beneath the remaining rags. He shivered and clawed them away from the corpses, then quickly averted his gaze and whispered, "My God, oh my God."

Bolan's jacket opened and the Beretta peered out at the shaken man. "You've got about one heartbeat to get busy, soldier."

The man nodded and sent furtive glances in all directions, then leaned into the cart and lifted out Tony Boy and set him in the trunk with a distasteful grunt. Brownsuit was a bit heavier and the wheelman's legs were going rubbery on him. Bolan lent a hand and they got the big man fitted in atop Tony Boy, then Bolan put his prisoner to work mopping out the cart. When the job was finished, the bloody rags and the soggy mop went into the trunk over Brownsuit and Tony Boy, and Bolan told the wheelman, "Okay, you too. Get in there."

The guy's face went dead white and he gurgled, "God no, not that, don't make me get in therel"

Bolan told him, "You won't mind," and phutted a painless Parabellum through an eyesocket. The guy fell over into the trunk and Bolan helped him stay there, shoving him on in beside his companions and doubling the legs over to clear the latching mechanism.