Bolan had a vast respect for the judgement of the combat-intelligence expert. His decision was quick and positive. "Change the game plan," he replied. "Remain on station and cover Gadgets for his intel run. Gadgets, start your drain operation in exactly ten minutes. Pol, follow him out. Ill be covering from Station Charlie. Regroup with all caution at Point Alpha."
It was beginning to size up as a rather short siege.
The enemy, it seemed, was already gearing for the break-out.
The emergency conference had been shaping up for better than an hour. The key men from Mexico had arrived and the boys from the California desert interior were expected at any moment. Additionally, a four-point telephone conference was being set up on scrambler circuits with New York, Phoenix, and Los Angeles.
Ben Lucasi was not letting any Bolan dust settle on him. Maybe the other bosses around the country were reluctant to yell for help when the bastard came crashing in on them — not Big Ben Lucasi. He had been accorded the "Big" tag not by virtue of his physical dimensions but by the size of his ambitions and ideas.
And Big Ben Lucasi did not take this brand of crap from anybody.
When the telephone sounded off, he'd thought it to be the scrambler conference coming through … but it was only Tony Danger.
"What th' hell, hang up," Lucasi ordered. "I'm expecting the national wire."
"Here's something maybe you weren't expecting," his lieutenant advised him. 'That goddam Bolan came out here and conned my boat crew into taking him out to sea. He hit our French connection, bumped the guy, scattered the shipment on the high seas. Whattaya think of that, Ben? A million fuckin' bucks giving the fishes a thrill."
"Th' rotten bastard!" Lucasi muttered angrily. "What the hell d'you think he's pulling this crap for?"
"Well, he's not just tweaking our noses," Tony Danger assured the boss. "Bet your ass, he's got something very serious on his mind."
"Awright, you get it on over here!" Lucasi demanded. "We're about ready to go to council. Listen, Tony, we're going to put an end to this bullshit here and now. You say he killed Beloit?"
"Yeah. And there went four hard months of sweat and tears. I tell you, Ben, this stuff is getting hard to come by. We just can't afford to lose good brokers this way."
"I know, I know," Lucasi replied, commiserating with his favorite lieutenant. "Well look, get it on back here. We'll take care of Mr. Smart-ass for good and all."
"Be there in ten minutes," Tony Danger promised, and hung up.
The delegates to the convention were all in the game room, quietly consoling their ruffled nerves with the best booze from the Lucasi liquor closet. He told his house captain, the Diver, "I'll be in there with the boys. That call comes through, you send it right in on the squawk box."
"I just come in to tell you," Diver said, "that something funny is going on outside."
"What d'you mean, funny?"
"If you got just a second, I'd like to show you."
Lucasi followed his chief bodyguard to the patio, his guts shivering just a little under this new "funny" business.
The big guy was pointing up the street. "See that bread truck up there ... up inna next block?"
Lucasi growled, "Yeah. So what?"
"So it's been in this neighborhood for the past two hours."
"Is the guy making deliveries?"
"Seems to be. But, hell, how long can a guy spend in one neighborhood?"
"Depends," Lucasi replied, with a stab at humor, "on how many stud-hungry housewives he's servicing, I guess. Is that what you brought me out here for?"
"That's not all." The Diver swiveled about to sight along his outstretched arm in the opposite direction. "See that up there?"
"I see a little green truck," the boss replied, with some irritation. "So what?"
"So I seen the same damn truck over on the next street earlier this morning. Right after we got hit."
Lucasi was attempting to appear unruffled. He drawled, "All right, I never accused you of bad instincts, Diver. What d'you think is so funny about this?"
"I think maybe we're being watched."
"Oh?" Lucasi thrust a cigar between his teeth and chewed on it for a few seconds, then said, "There was sure something funny about that hit here this morning. You thinking that, too?"
The Diver soberly nodded his head. "It just isn't like Bolan."
"He hit the Pepe awhile ago," Lucasi confided, sotto voce. "Bumped Beloit and dumped our shipment in the ocean."
"Sounds like he's getting smarts somewheres," Diver muttered. His eyes were roaming the exterior of the house. "He could've bumped you, Mr. Lucasi, as easy as anything. I keep wondering why he didn't."
"I guess maybe he just wasn't ready to," Lucasi replied in a strained voice. The tension was wearing through again. He loudly cleared his throat and added, "I guess he had something else on his mind." Lucasi was following the scan of his house captain's gaze. The hairs rose along the back of his neck. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he growled.
"Well, we know he's not working alone this time," Diver quietly replied. His arm rose and he pointed toward a second-floor window. "Do you see something up there? On that ledge there, by the window?"
Lucasi's blood almost stopped flowing. "Shake this fuckin' place down," he commanded, almost choking with the effort at speech. "I mean good and fast!"
The house captain took off on a run, loudly calling his boys together as he went.
Lucasi hurried after him, tremblingly intent upon clearing that open area with all speed.
"Suckered!" he muttered to himself. "Sonuva-bitch!"
For damn sure. The bastard had suckered him with the oldest trick in the books.
But maybe it wasn't too late to pull the fat out of the fire. Maybe, by God, Mr. Smart-ass would find his own fat searing in the flames this time.
"Those trucks!" he screamed. "Get out there and grab them trucks!"
10
Point blank
Bolan was watching from a high point of ground which was several blocks removed from the Lucasi home, following the play there with powerful binoculars.
He had been on station and waiting when Schwarz began his intelligence run in the war-wagon, had watched him pull up to within fifty yards of the target and dismount, open the hood over the engine, step inside the van.
He saw Blancanales, also, another hundred yards or so downrange, inching along in the bread truck.
Bolan spoke into his shoulder-phone to advise, "Pol, the ears are out."
"Roger, I have him in sight," came the instant reply. "How's it look from station Charlie?"
"Peaceful," Bolan said, then: "Whup! Couple just came out the side door. It's ... Lucasi. And the big houseman. Something has their interest."
The focal field of the binoculars covered only the two men and several feet of turf to either side of them.
"I believe they're looking at you, Pol. And … Gadgets! Are you in?"
"I'm here," came a strained reply.
"They've spotted both of you, and I'd say are jumping to conclusions. I can feel their little minds a'whirring. Yep. Yep."
Lucasi's weasel face was sharply etched in the focal field, wondering, worrying, discovering ...
Bolan commanded, "Break off! They're wise. Break now!"
Schwarz protested, "I only drained two banks."
"Got the phone tap?"
"Getting it now."
"Stay with it," Blancanales urged. "I'm covering."
Bolan concurred, though with misgivings. Numbers were all-important in this sort of game. He snapped, "Thirty seconds more, then you haul it I Pol, start your move!"
"Rolling," came the response from Blancanales.
Bolan released the binoculars and reached for his power sniper, the Weatherby Mark V. Using .460 Magnum soft-nose mini-bombs, the big piece gave him better than a thousand yards of kill — much more than he would need for this mission. He fitted his eye to the scope and began reading ranges.