It was getting dark out when Carl Lyons and John Tatum decamped from the Captain's office, headed toward a quick meal and a few casual moments of relaxation before facing the long night ahead.

It had been a rough day of dreary police work — interrogations, questioning of witnesses, seemingly endless conferences with city and county officials, and finally the big Mafia roundup of outraged and bitterly complaining local honchos.

That last had been the worst, in Tatum's book. The mob had plenty of clout in the area, at every court level, and it had been damn tough just getting an overnight hold on the swaggering bastards without specific charges to book them on.

A legal eagle in the D.A.'s office had finally come up with one of those old "public good" statutes which was at least firm enough to base an argument upon until morning.

Maybe that would save the night, anyway.

Tatum paused at the duty desk to sign himself out, and he told the young cop from L.A., "I don't know, maybe Braddock is right and this is the best way to cope with the problem. Maybe we can just stalemate the guy out of town. It may be an ounce of prevention, but it sure isn't good police work, not in my book."

'The important thing is to hold down the fireworks," Lyons remarked. "Bolan isn't all that big and bad. And I guess he figures there's always a next time. He'll play the odds, that's for sure. For him, the numbers say don't push it— another time is coming."

"It'd better not," Tatum replied grimly. "One more killing and this town will blow sky high. God, the pressure. Did you feel it in there?"

"I felt it," Lyons admitted.

"And the press hasn't even got ahold of it yet." The Captain glanced at the clock above the duty desk. "That is, for another five minutes. I don't know how the word gets around, but they tell me the city-hall phones have been burning all afternoon."

"Concerned citizens," Lyons suggested wryly.

"Yeah, very important concerned citizens."

"That should tell you something."

"It tells me plenty. But what the hell can I prove?"

Lyons shrugged. The Captain finished signing-out and they went on along the corridor toward the vehicle area.

A tall patrolman in an immaculate uniform, sporting a thinline mustache, swung in from a side corridor, nodded his head cordially at Lyons, and went on by.

The sergeant from L.A. grunted and asked the San Diego homicide chief, "You allowing face hair down here now?"

"Had to," Tatum said grumpily. "They got a constitutional right ... and they also got a damn good union. What the hell. So long as it's not too far out, what's the harm? You gotta sway with the times, I guess. We're not still running around in Toonerville Cop uniforms, are we."

Lyons grinned. "No, but the Toonervilles wore face hair."

"So, change is sometimes a healthy thing ... even in a town like San Diego."

"That's right," Lyons agreed. He stepped outside and took a deep breath. "You've got a sweet town here, Cap'n."

"Thanks."

They walked to the Captain's personal vehicle. Lyons slid in beside Tatum and told him, "Maybe you shouldn't feel so bad about a Bolan visit. The guy has a way of clearing the air, making things even sweeter."

"I'll pretend you didn't say that," Tatum replied gruffly.

Lyons chuckled. "I told you I owed the guy my life. I didn't tell you I owe him twice. You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess."

"Rotten apple," the Captain rasped.

"Sure, but we may have never known if it hadn't been for Bolan. He tipped us about the guy. I couldn't believe it at first. You know what they called Rickert ... the twenty-four-hour cop. He was a twelve-hour-cop and a twenty-four-hour Mafioso. This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did."

"And here you are," Tatum remarked quietly.

"Then there was Las Vegas. I was up there on special assignment with a federal strike force. Undercover job. I dummied it, and the boys tumbled to me. Beat the living shit out of me. They were hauling me to the desert to bury me alive when Bolan turned up. The guy challenged a motor convoy. Single handed. Blasted them to kingdom-come, right in the shadow of their fortress, then slipped me out of there with half of the Nevada mob on his ass. And I couldn't even walk."

Tatum sighed heavily and said, "Hey, cut it out. I've heard all the songs about the guy. I still have a job to do."

"Sure, that's the way I feel," Lyons said. "Bolan knows it, too. Any other way and I don't think he'd respect me. He's that kind of guy. Hard-nosed as hell when it comes to duty and ethics. Ill tell you one thing, Cap'n. I'm sure glad he doesn't shoot at cops."

"I've heard that one, too," Tatum growled.

"Believe it."

The Captain relented, grinning, and declared, "Some cops I've seen, maybe he should go after them."

Lyons sat bolt upright in the seat and smacked a hand against his forehead. "That cop!" he yelled.

"What cop?"

"The dude with the mustache. Hell oh hell, John, it was him!"

"Him what? What's the matter with you?"

"It was Bolan! Walking around your station in a uniform!"

"Aw bullshit," Tatum snarled. "What would Bolan be doing ... ?"

He pulled the car to the curb with a screech of tires and lunged toward his radio microphone.

"I thought you knew the fucking guy so personally," he yelled at Lyons.

"Aw hell, you never get that much of a look at the clever bastard, John. He's a genius at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you he's in your station house!"

"For what?"

"What the hell do you think for what? Where are all the boys tonight, John?"

Tatum's hand was frozen around the microphone. He squawked, "Well Jesus Christ! Well be the laughing stock of ... !"

He flung the microphone down and doubled back in a screeching U-turn, burning rubber toward the possibly most disgraceful discovery in twenty-six years of hard-nosed police work.

The Executioner, for God's sake! Making a hit on the San Diego jail!

Bolan had been required to hang around the locker room for only about ten minutes before spotting the size and type of guy he was waiting for — a young patrolman going off duty and changing into civvies.

And it had been a simple task, after the cop departed, to pick the lock and borrow the uniform. It was a good fit. He even took the time to use the guy's brush to get rid of a bit of lint here and there. He wanted to look sharp.

He left a marksman's medal and three fifty-dollar bills on a shelf in the locker, quickly applied a false mustache to his upper lip, and went out of there.

He was only a few steps out of the locker room when he rounded a corner, practically colliding with Carl Lyons and another detective.

And that was a bad moment for the Executioner.

Of all the cops in the world he didn't need to bump into at a time like this, Lyons was first. He was one of the few men living who'd had intimate opportunities to get to know Bolan's new face.

The bogus cop smiled faintly at his old friend of past campaigns, tucked his chin down in what he hoped would pass as a friendly nod and brazened on past.

He kept expecting a cry of alarm — was mentally preparing himself for it and looking for a way out — but when he reached the duty desk and risked a glance over his shoulder, Lyons and the other cop were nowhere in view.

The building was crowded and confused, lots of in-and-out traffic, standing-around traffic, and just plain officious bustling — noise level about equal to a concert by the Rolling Stones.