He returned the instrument to the duty officer and asked him, "Did you get a report on a civil crash at McCarran?"

The officer replied, "Yes sir. A private jet wiped-out during its landing roll, just a few minutes ago. Gear collapsed or something. The runways are cleared and open, though."

Brognola thanked the Air Force officer and went back outside. He gave not a damn whether or not the McCarran runways were open. He did give — though — quite a bit of damn about the guy who was undoubtedly behind it all.

He rejoined his party outside the operations office and told the chief marshal, "That was Bill Miller, FBI district officer. Our friends arrived, okay, but it appears that our eternal warfare expert was on hand at McCarran to welcome them to the city of hope. And from the sound of the report, he disillusioned them right off the bat."

A smile was wavering at the marshal's lips. He said; "What a guy. He took them on right there at the airport?"

"Took 'em on, hell. Practically shot them out of the sky. Demolished the plane, killed eighteen, hurt a bunch more. The brothers came out with scratches…"

"That's a bit much," the marshal commented, his lips flattening against his teeth. "The guy is going rocky, Hal."

The group of lawmen were moving along the flight line to the transport section. Brognola heaved a deep sigh and said, "I don't know. I've never known Bolan to be fast and loose with the civilians. He's usually pretty careful about that — always, in fact. It may be significant to note that there was absolutely no other traffic — not on the ground, not over the field, not even in the entire control zone."

"It still sounds rocky. When he starts going after airplanes…"

"What's so damned sacred about an airplane?" the justice official snapped testily. "A target is a target to the guy, so long as the civilians are clear and safely out of it."

The marshal grinned and said, "Hell, I didn't know you cared."

"Well I do, and I guess it's no secret. I've tried everything to… but orders are orders — and believe me, I'll put a bullet in his head as fast as not. I just like to keep the perspectives in mind, that's all."

"I like the guy myself, Hal. But that can't change anything."

"Not a thing," Brognola agreed.

"We'll gun the poor S.O.B. down just like we would any lunatic. Right?"

"Right," Brognola calmly replied, refusing to be baited.

The party had reached the helicopter area. The marshal stepped back to allow the other man to board first. "Even though we know he'll never return our fire," he said quietly. "Right?"

"You'd better hope not," Brognola muttered. He climbed into the aircraft and turned back to add, "I've seen the guy's work. He's a real classy sharpshooter, make no mistakes. And he goes for the head."

"I won't make any mistakes," the chief marsha] replied. "We have a few sharpshooters in our troop too, you know."

Brognola signed and dropped into a seat. "That's the only damn reason you're here."

Indeed. It was the "only damn reason" Brognola himself was there. He'd been the guy's champion. Now, as the official closest to the problem, it was logical — if ironic as hell — that he be given the task of eliminating the problem.

As for Bolan shooting back… Brognola knew damn well that he would not. A more distasteful chore had never arisen during a career often sadly lacking in taste. But… it was the way things were.

He had to get Bolan. He simply had to get him.

The Vegas Strip has a "grapevine" second to none in the world. Despite efforts by both police and underworld to quiet the fact of the Executioner's presence in town, the word spread among the regular residents with the vigor of an uncontrolled forest fire.

The incident at the airport, together with the executions on the Strip itself and the invasion of Gold Duster earlier that morning, became the chief topic of hushed conversation in the twenty-four hour city. These inevitably led to a rehashing of the Bolan legend, much of it inaccurate or exaggerated.

"The guy has a CIA license to kill." This was the favorite story.

As close runner up, "He's got a thousand faces, and nobody really knows what he looks like."

"Just watch," went another attention getter, "when he's finished, the cops will step in and mop up his leavings."

The consensus of opinion in the law-abiding community was heavily sympathetic to Bolan. All of the professionals in Vegas knew, of course, which were the mob joints and which were not — this also was a perennial favorite topic of conversation. Most of the "straights" had adopted a live and let-live attitude toward the mob — this was the Vegas tradition. It was no secret, however, that the legitimate casino operators resented the unfair advantage which naturally fell to the kinky businessmen through their connections in high places and a virtually unlimited supply of financial support. So the straight people of Vegas were shedding no tears over the Bolan crusade, except for the fear that it might depress the tourist situation.

Just the same, there was a noticeable apprehension all along the Strip and in the city's Glitter Gulch — wherever games were played in that valley. Dealers flipped their cards with one eye on the table and the other on the door. Pit bosses nervously scrutinized unfamiliar faces and security personnel strolled about with hands resting on pistol butts.

The city's visitors, assiduously kept "out of the know" by the regulars, remarked upon the number of police vehicles cruising the Strip and the hordes of foot patrolmen on Fremont Street, particularly in Glitter Gulch. If one were to look carefully he might note that some of these officers were from other areas adjacent to Las Vegas — such as North Las Vegas, East Vegas, Henderson, and even from Boulder City. A person with a practiced eye for concealed weapons could possibly discern the presence also of great numbers of alert guntoters in civilian clothing, although the observer would need a great instinct for separating the good guys from the bad.

And all about Las Vegas — the city of strangers — faces suddenly became highly importar't almost an obsession, for those who lived and worked there. Police accosted everyone who seemed to stand out a little from the crowd, frequently they accost d one another Hardfaced men in tailored silk suits and dark glasses stood in hotel lobbies and prowled the lounges and the casinos also "accosting" anyone who aroused their suspicious natures and here, also, the frequent mutual stare-downs and violent reactions between accoster and accosted would have been comical, if not so potentially tragic A minor shoot-out did occur in a Fremont Street tavern between two men who were 1ater identified as "free-lancers," bounty hunters seeking the pot of gold in Bolan's head.

In this latter regard, special police details were stationed at the airport and in bus and train depots to turn back an expected invasion of gunmen, both freelance and otherwise.

The "Bolan Watch" was on, and if the atmosphere in the civilian community was tense, it was downright explosive in the police and underworld segments.

It was leaked in the press, for example, that a special federal "strike force" was in town and that a highly placed official in the Justice Department was coordinating all police efforts in the matter. There were rumors of hard feelings among the local cops, and a wire-press reporter in Carson City, the state capital, charged that state and federal officials had clamped a "news blackout" on the events at Las Vegas.

Rumors of a different nature began flowing from the Gold Duster when Vito Apostinni "didn't show up for the noon count." The story that swept along the Strip claimed that "Heart o' Gold Vito got planted in Skeleton Flats," this latter a reference to the unofficial graveyard supposedly existing in the desert somewhere along Highway 91, far south of the city.