In a tight voice he told Captain Tatum, "Don't cancel any bets," and stepped forward to take the call.

Yeah, God was still in heaven.

It was Bolan, sounding sober and troubled as he announced, "I've got Tony Danger, Lyons."

He threw an eye signal to Tatum as he replied, "Man, you know how to hurt, don't you. Never mind the throat, just rip the heart out."

That flinty voice told him, 'Tell your buddies not to worry. Ill take good care of their prisoner. Just borrowed him for awhile."

"You better tell 'em yourself. Here, I'll — "

"No wait, Lyons. I'm almost ready to pass this town. But first I have to set something up. As long as you're around...."

The Sergeant chuckled drily. "You know I can't — "

"You can this one. Listen to it, anyway,"

"I'm going to put another man on the line with us, Mack. Cap'n Tatum, Homicide. Good man, take my word for it."

"All right, but shake it. I'm on short numbers."

Tatum was already at the extension phone. He took Lyons' nod and picked it up. "Tatum, Homicide," he announced. "Is that you, Mack Bolan?"

The Captain's eyes lifted to Lyons as that steely other voice vibrated the receivers, some indefinable emotion registering there in that locked gaze — not awe exactly, but something closely approaching it. Tatum was a cop who could respect greatness, under the law or not.

"It's me. Sorry if I shook your cage. I'd rather not. I'll return your prisoner as soon as he gives me what I need. An hour, maybe. Two at the most. Meanwhile I need something from your end. Soon as I get it, I'll pass this town. Didn't want to come here in the first place. Good town, San Diego. But you're infected with the creeping rot. I wouldn't even know where to begin carving it out. But I'm going to tip the bucket. It's up to you if it becomes a floor or not."

"Wait," Tatum rasped. "Let's talk about Tony Dan — "

"You wait," the frigid voice snapped back. "The mob boys in your town are second stringers. There's not a Capo among them, not even a serious pretender. Your real trouble is in your environment, and I'm not talking about air pollution. You've got a community structure that allows second-stringers like Lucasi and Tony Danger to get a strangle-hold on everything that's good here. Are you with me, Tatum?"

"I'm following you," the Captain replied, almost meekly.

Lyons could not believe it. The big tough cop was standing there getting a lecture, even responding to it with humility. Well, maybe he had it coming and knew it. He was a big man.

Bolan was telling him, "One of your proudest citizens — Maxwell Thornton. He's not the great white father he's cracked up to be. He's a sick, miserable, harried man. The mob has the spurs in him, and they're riding the guy into the mud. Maybe he deserves it, but San Diego doesn't."

"Yes," Tatum commented quietly. "Thornton is an important cog in our little overgrown country-club here. He's been accused of rawhiding business practices but...."

"But nothing. He's covered with dirt. You'd be doing the guy a favor to bust him. One-to-five is a better rap than the one he's serving now. Okay, Thornton isn't the only one, but he'd be the crack in the dam. Get him, and all the other dirty straights will fall through the hole. When that happens, Lucasi and company will be out of business in this town. That's all I want. Scratch my back, Tatum, and I'll pass your town."

"All right," the Captain replied soberly. Tell me where the itch is."

Bolan began the telling, but Lyons only half-heard. The marvel was not the story that Mack Bolan was revealing.

The marvel was that big tough rawhide cop, who was standing there like an adolescent boy receiving the first full course in sex education from a dad who did not believe in pulling punches, a boy with eyes opened wide in wonderment and fascination and awe ... afraid to believe and afraid not to, daring to hope and hoping to dare.

Yeah.

Lyons could say it with a certainty now.

Mack Bolan was a guy who made his own odds.

When the conversation was ended, Tatum stepped over to the duty desk and told the warden, "Just hang onto those receipts, Tom. And log out Tony Danger. Show him released to his own recognizance, as of the time of those receipts."

The jailor looked dumbfounded, but he nodded his head in understanding.

Then the Captain grabbed Carl Lyons by the arm and propelled him toward the big office at the end of the hall. "Time for the summit conference," he declared in a heavy voice.

"What's the play?" Lyons wanted to know.

"Maybe I'm crazy — or maybe I was crazy. Anyway, we're releasing that pack of filth. They'll get no protection from the law in this town. They made their lousy bed, now they can die in it."

"You don't mean that," Lyons feebly protested.

"The hell," Captain Tatum said, "I don't."

Yeah. That guy also wrote his own numbers.

Tony Danger was bound, gagged and curled into the cramped luggage compartment of the foreign sportster — no doubt suffering the intimations of unavoidable death which were far more agonizing than the final act itself could ever be.

Bolan had shed the police uniform and was now rigged for open warfare. A military web-belt encircled the waist of the black combat outfit, supporting the AutoMag's leather plus a variety of personal munitions — among these, several small fragmentation grenades and a couple of firesticks.

The silent black Beretta was slung into a snap-out shoulder rig at his left side. Another belt crossed the chest from the other shoulder, bearing spare clips for the two autos.

It could be a hell of a hot one.

He hoped that Tatum had bought the idea ...and that he would find some way to sell it higher-up.

The Ferrari was parked in the shadows of the marina clubhouse at Mission Bay. Bolan had already established the fact that Danger's Folly was in her berth and crewed. He glanced at his watch and tried not to fidget ... the numbers were getting too damned close ... where the hell was the girl?

The pre-arranged check-in by Blancanales and Schwarz had brought encouraging news.

Schwarz had reported: "Well it's a pretty cold trail, but I think I may have something. Been talking to some of the technicians out at Thornton Electronics. I believe that's where they reassembled the data-link gear. I got a rumble from one of the guys about some rough-terrain vehicles they brought in last month. He said a special crew was working nights only, some secret project, packaging something very mysterious into those vehicles. I didn't want to push it too hard, but I managed to get some approximate dimensions on the vehicles. Enough to say yeah, it could be. Then I picked up some cross-intelligence. Those mobile rigs, if that was them, weren't driven out of there under their own power. They were hauled away in two big vans from Thornton's trucking line. Again, at night and under tight security wraps. I'm following up on that."

"Okay," Bolan had told him. "Play it cool, Gadgets, not too close. If you get in a jam, beep the Politician. My numbers are too tight."

The report from Blancanales was almost as promising. "She's not in very good shape, Sarge. Tore up over Howlie, but it's more than that. She's scared out of her skull. I finally got her opened up enough to admit that it wasn't her that burnt the papers, but she won't say who did. Doesn't trust anybody, she's really frozen. She didn't know that was you, last night, by the way. I guess she's not thinking too clearly, sort of numb from the shoulders up. Know what I mean? I believe I could blast her loose if I could convince her that you're really on the job. I don't suppose you could make it up here?"

Bolan had to tell him, "No, I'm right on the numbers. But turn on a radio or a TV. The press is into it with both feet now. Maybe she'll believe them."