Part 10 (2/2)

Tendrils of the Mafia cancer were woven throughout the fabric of this great little city's business and social communities. The in-growth was still tenuous, however, and the encroachment had not yet reached the cannibalistic stage. But Mack Bolan knew his enemy. And he had learned quite a bit, in a relatively short time, about the city of San Diego.

And, yeah, this was one city he could not avoid. Some of the area's most solid citizens had been trekking to the tar pits of licensed greed-in many cases, perhaps, unaware that a band of cannibals were lurking there in the shadows, patiently awaiting the opportunity to ensnare them there and devour them-that some were already being eaten.

A sober and troubled electronics expert stored his surveillance tapes in a fireproof box and turned a thoughtful frown to his friend, the Executioner.

”So now what?” he asked, sighing. ”So now the siege is ended,” Bolan replied quietly.

”You mean we pack up and walk away,” Blanca.n.a.les said.

”No. We storm the city.”

”Oh, well....” The Politician scratched his nose, glanced at Schwarz, and said, ”What's the first target?”

”The tar pits,” Bolan told them.

”The tar pits?”

”Yeah.” Bolan was buckling into his AutoMag.

”You mean like the LaBrea tar pits, up in L.A.?”

”Something like that,” Bolan said. ”Only these are invisible.''

Schwarz and Blanca.n.a.les exchanged puzzled glances. They were accustomed to Bolan's sometimes cryptic utterances, but this one left them blank.

”They've dug bones of woolly mammoths and I think dinosaurs out of LaBrea,” Schwarz commented.

”We're after bigger game than that,” the Executioner a.s.sured his crew.

”It's still a rescue mission?” Blanca.n.a.les wanted to know.

”That,” Bolan replied, ”is exactly what it is.”

13:

THE LINK.

She was young, beautiful, married to one of San Diego's most ill.u.s.trious citizens, and-according to her own immodest claim in a telephone conversation with Lisa Winters-she had ”balled every hood in this town ... and a few over in Mexico.”

Her hair was shades of red and hung in a full drop to a point just below her shoulders. The eyes were emerald-hued, but lacked sparkle. The body was long and shapely with soft curves that flowed one into the other beneath velvet-textured skin. A true redhead, the sun apparently was not kind to her; she was glistening and greasy with protective oils and lotions. She wore a micro-bikini which did not quite conceal the fringes of the silky growth of hair at the base of her soft little tummy.

She was topless-one of those who could get away with it admirably.

With all that, if Bolan had ever seen a truly turned-off young woman, then this was the one.

She was sprawled upon her back on a large beach towel, head and shoulders supported by a plastic pillow, staring at him with something less than curiosity. A large Doberman, identical to the dogs at the Winters place, sat faithfully at her feet and regarded Bolan with that same detachment.

Needlessly, it seemed, she commanded the dog, ”Thunder, stay.” Then she told the intruder, ”This is a private beach.”

Bolan replied, ”I know.”

Except for the hat, he was dressed in the seagoing togs he'd acquired for the hit on Danger's Folly. Folly. The AutoMag was snugged into a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. The big piece made a The AutoMag was snugged into a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. The big piece made a noticeable bulge in his jacket, but this was the desired effect. noticeable bulge in his jacket, but this was the desired effect.

She was looking him over with a shade of interest now.

”You can be prosecuted for trespa.s.sing,” Maxwell Thornton's wife informed the Executioner.

He said, ”I'll risk it.”

She sat up, sending the undraped chest a'jiggling, and leaned forward to grab a handful of the dog's coat. ”Thunder is my bodyguard,” she declared in that same listless tone. ”A word from me and he'll be at your throat.”

Beneath that turned-off exterior, the girl was frightened. Bolan knew this by the way the dog was beginning to tense and strain. A good dog could sense its owner's concealed emotions.

He told her, ”Thunder must be a real comfort. Too bad.”

The dog was off his f.a.n.n.y now, legs beneath him in a low crouch, lips curling upward to show this intruder how impressive his fangs were.

After a brief silence, the girl asked, ”What's too bad?”

”Too bad that Howlie couldn't get the same sense of security from Thunder's brothers.”

That one penetrated, immediately.

She let go of the Doberman and cried, ”Thunder, hit!” hit!”

The big fellow's trained reaction was instantaneous and dramatic. The soft sand gave him a little trouble, but just a little, and he left the ground with all four feet airborne, snarling into the conditioned-response attack, the great mouth fully open and grinding into that contact with human flesh.

It is impossible to depict a true guard-dog attack in one of those staged presentations for movies or television. The Hollywood dogs are trained to simulate an attack and there is no way to fake the actual fury and viciousness of a true guard-dog response to a kill kill command. command.

These impressive fellows do not pa.s.sively wrestle about with their jaws clamped lightly around a guy's forearm. They explode explode into a writhing juggernaut of fury unleashed, slas.h.i.+ng and ripping with fang and claw, and it is a rare man who can bare-handedly stand up to such an a.s.sault. into a writhing juggernaut of fury unleashed, slas.h.i.+ng and ripping with fang and claw, and it is a rare man who can bare-handedly stand up to such an a.s.sault.

Mack Bolan was a rare man. He had read the attack, and he'd been waiting for it. His jump-off was synchronized with that of the dog as he pivoted inside and under the scrambling leap. He popped him in the throat with everything he could put behind a balled fist and rammed a knee into the belly as the Doberman fell back onto his hind legs.

It was a matter of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, with the immovable object getting the best shots in.

The Doberman's legs buckled. The big head drooped toward the sand as he alternately coughed and retched, struggling to draw air with his temporarily paralyzed respiratory system.

He was all out of fight, for the moment.

Bolan sprung the AutoMag and aimed it at the Doberman's head. ”Call him off,” he warned the woman.

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