Part 11 (1/2)

It had all occurred so quickly that the woman's hand was still poised in the air where she had released the dog. Those emerald eyes did not so much as flicker as she issued the soft command. ”Thunder, break.”

The monster-dog seemed grateful to be relieved of his responsibilities. He crawled toward the woman, whining and still fighting for breath, Bolan sheathed the AutoMag and knelt beside the dog to rub his throat and ma.s.sage the quivering ribcage.

Something was coming alive in Marsha Thornton's dead eyes as she watched the tall man with the impa.s.sive face stroke the suffering animal. She murmured, ”I wouldn't believe that if I hadn't seen it. I was a.s.sured that Thunder would protect me from a grizzly bear.”

Bolan said, ”He would.”

His jacket was ripped and he was bleeding slightly from a fang-graze on his hand.

The woman rolled onto her knees and stood up. ”Come on up to the house,” she suggested. ”I'll put something on that cut.”

The Doberman was licking the fingers which had defeated him, and Bolan was thinking what a shame it was to misuse a dog this way. Man's oldest friend in the animal world, converted to a living robot, programmed to kill upon command.

The dog and Mack Bolan had a great deal in common-Bolan realized that. He'd pondered the question after a run-in with a couple of German Shepherds during the New York battle. And he'd decided then that there was was a difference-subtle but important-between himself and the killer dog. a difference-subtle but important-between himself and the killer dog.

The dogs killed because they were conditioned to accept a command to do so. In a dog's world it was a sort of a morality morality to be obedient to his master's desires. Actually, Bolan knew, guard-dogs killed because to be obedient to his master's desires. Actually, Bolan knew, guard-dogs killed because they had to kill. they had to kill. There was no mental or moral alternative. There was no mental or moral alternative.

Bolan did not have have to kill. to kill.

He killed because he could because he could-and because, like the dogs, there was no mental or moral alternative.

So, yeah, he had a lot in common with the Doberman-but with a difference. A very important difference.

He pushed the thing from his mind and followed Marsha Thornton to her beach house, the Doberman huffing along at his side.

It seemed that he had made a conquest.

If all went well, he would very soon make another.

While Bolan cultivated the distaff side of the House of Thornton, Schwarz and Blanca.n.a.les invaded an impressively modern skysc.r.a.per in downtown San Diego for a call upon the master himself.

The solid oak door was marked GOLDEN WEST DIVERSITIES, INC. and the suite of offices on the other side of it were strictly gilt-edged, redolent with the sweet smell of success.

Among the diversified interests of Maxwell Thornton was petroleum, real estate, electronics, agriculture, and transportation. He had also been very active in politics, as a behind-the-scenes power in local, state, and national campaigns.

Blanca.n.a.les had donned a pale blue nylon suit with coordinated accessories-the collar of the s.h.i.+rt with exaggerated dimensions, the tie immaculately knotted, powder-blue hat low over the eyes-altogether a splendiferous image, and altogether the perfect picture of a Mafioso Mafioso in full dress. in full dress.

Schwarz wore old-fas.h.i.+oned pleated slacks, sport s.h.i.+rt with loose tie, checkered sports coat, no hat. He looked like a cross between a Tijuana pimp and an Agua Caliente racetrack tout.

Both images had been meticulously contrived.

The receptionist stared at them for a moment, then announced, ”I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton is in conference.”

”You'd better get him outta there, honey,” Blanca.n.a.les growled in his best Brooklynese.

Schwarz had spun the woman's appointments book around and was studying it.

Blanca.n.a.les nudged the fl.u.s.tered receptionist again with, ”Hop, now! now!-go tell the man we're here.”

”I-I'll see if he's back in his office,” the girl replied, thoroughly intimidated now. She depressed a b.u.t.ton on her desk intercom and said, ”Mr. Thornton-two gentlemen to see you. It appears urgent. They-I think you should.”

A tired voice sighed back, ”Do the gentlemen have names, Janie?”

Schwarz brushed the receptionist's hand aside and held the intercom b.u.t.ton himself as he replied, ”Yeh, but you wouldn't want 'em shouted around this joint, Thornton.”

”Come on in,” was the quick response. The girl showed them the way. Blanca.n.a.les patted her shoulder as he brushed past her and into the private office of Maxwell Thornton.

The entire outside wall was gla.s.s, and there was a fair-sized balcony beyond that with potted trees and other growing things. The city was spread out there for inspection in a most impressive view.

The man sat at a kidney-shaped desk with probably fifty to sixty square feet of surface on top which supported nothing except a telephone, an intercom box, and an open fifth of Haig & Haig. The guy was drinking the Scotch from a water gla.s.s, undiluted.

He didn't look the part of millionaire, civic light, city father. He looked like a guy who'd just stepped down from a hot bulldozer to hurry into a hand-tailored suit which still somehow didn't quite fit. A tall man, lanky, sort of gangly and rawboned, well past fifty.

The voice fit the rest of him as he waved his visitors to chairs and told them, ”Well, I guess the s.h.i.+t has. .h.i.t the fan, hasn't it?”

Schwarz picked up the bottle of Scotch and sat down. Blanca.n.a.les remained standing. He said, ”Bolan's in town.”

Thornton sighed, sipped at his drink, then said, ”I know it.”

”Gettin' loaded ain't gonna help.”

”Get f.u.c.ked,” Thornton growled. ”Bennie send you? What's he want me to do, lead a vigilante army?”

”Bennie don't send us,” Schwarz informed him.

The gray steel eyes came up in a quick flash. ”New York? You're from New York?”

Blanca.n.a.les jerked his head in a nod and ambled to the window.

”Who are you?”

Schwarz replied. ”The boss is Harry DiCavoli. I'm Jack Santo. You're in trouble, Thornton.”

The millionaire grunted and said, ”I was born in trouble. I suppose you heard about Howlie Winters.”

”We heard,” Blanca.n.a.les spoke up, from the window. ”We wanta talk to you about that, Thornton.”

”You people squeezed him too d.a.m.n hard!” the man declared angrily. ”I told you he wouldn't hold still for that.”

”You told me me nothing,” Blanca.n.a.les/DiCavoli replied. nothing,” Blanca.n.a.les/DiCavoli replied.

”I told Bennie, and I urged him to relay the advice to New York. Look ... Winters was a square. A guy like that will dabble in the s.h.i.+t pile, but he won't take a bath in it. I told you this whole thing was too much for him to swill.”

”I guess you better speak for yourself, man,” Blanca.n.a.les said.

”What do you mean? Look....” The guy was getting hotter by the minute. He pushed back his chair and lifted himself to his full height, and it was an impressive one. He was waving his arms as he spoke. ”I had to swim in s.h.i.+t to get where I am. I'll never deny that, except in a court of law. I've had the course, course, buddy. I've been there and back, several times. You G.o.ddam ghetto street-corner lawyers didn't invent the game, and you don't play it very well. The only edge you've got is that you play it buddy. I've been there and back, several times. You G.o.ddam ghetto street-corner lawyers didn't invent the game, and you don't play it very well. The only edge you've got is that you play it rougher rougher than most. Well, get f.u.c.ked, will you please? I've had it up to the throat with you, than most. Well, get f.u.c.ked, will you please? I've had it up to the throat with you, all all of you.” of you.”