Part 7 (1/2)

The Red Baron was still bent into the engine compartment, delicately feeling about with both hands and giving off disappointed grunts.

Bolan had taken Frank the Kid's place beside him.

He said, quietly, ”Maybe you wound her up too high too soon.”

The guy replied, ”I'm going to wind her around someone's neck if what I think-I don't believe this gasket is. . .”

Bolan said, ”Let me see,” and reached in over the guy with both hands, behind him now, pressing against and leaning into his back, pinning him to the fender with his body.

The guy let out a m.u.f.fled, ”Hey, don't-”

The goggles squeezed up onto the curly hair and the silk scarf descended to shoulder level as Bolan's forearm found the soft flesh at the throat, to clamp off the dying protest.

The guy was strong.

The grimly silent struggle lasted perhaps five seconds before the fingers of Bolan's other hand twisted into the curly locks and the expertly applied ”Vinh Ha torque” demonstrated its mastery over human anatomy. The victim's spinal column separated itself from the base of the skull with a grinding pop and the fight was over, the head lolling, body sagging into the ultimate relaxation.

Bolan let it drape itself across the fender while he checked the positions of those outside; then he found the keys and opened the luggage compartment, stripped off his weapons and black suit and dropped them into there, undressed the guy and dropped him into there, and hastily pulled himself into the appropriated clothing.

The s.h.i.+rt fit okay but the trousers presented a small problem. The legs were too short, the waist too large. He fixed that by tugging the waist down into his hips.

The shoes were fancy ankle-high boots; he got into those all right, also, but at the expense of cramped toes.

The wallet was s.h.i.+ny new and so was everything in it. A driver's license identified one John J. Cavaretta, with a Manhattan address; as did private investigator's credentials issued by the State of New York, and a gun permit.

There were a dozen or more credit cards, a money clip containing five crackling fifties and a sheaf of twenties, plus a letter of credit from an Atlanta bank in the amount of fifty thousand dollars.

Half payment on Bolan's head? Maybe.

There was also a smaller leather case which folded into the wallet, displaying a single item in a swing-out transparent pocket. It was the size of a playing card. One side was made up like a business card, with a telephone number in the upper left corner plus a cable address. Gold-embossed letters at the center spelled in fancy Old English script the same name as on the other identification, John J. Cavaretta. Beneath the name were the words Security Consultant.

The other side was a playing card-the Ace of Spades.

This was the ID that counted-Commissione credentials.

Bolan pocketed the wallet and threw the car-coat into the seat to try on a double-breasted blazer Cavaretta had lying there. It fit fine and even featured an extra-wide cut on the left side to take care of the concealed weapon problem.

The guy had not been packing hardware, though.

Bolan found it in a small attache case behind the seat. Soft grain leather with a shoulder strap held a Browning standard automatic with a full thirteen- round clip, nine-millimeter, in the weapon plus a stack of spare clips-loaded. A special little pocket on the leather held a silencer.

So, good enough.

He closed the case and put it back, then rounded up the goggles and the scarf which had fallen to the ground during the struggle. He tucked the goggles in with the car-coat and draped the scarf about his neck.

Then he went back to the luggage compartment to study the ”Security Consultant”.

They didn't look much alike, except in generalities.

The guy had a strip of flesh-colored adhesive tape applied to each side of the lower jaw. Bolan pulled them off and found hair-width incisions, almost healed, running the full length of each jaw.

Cavaretta, or whatever his actual name, had recently undergone plastic surgery. The finding fit the legend of the guy.

It was said that he changed ident.i.ties after each big job, getting a new face and everything that went with it.

A ”wild card”-yeah.

Bolan transferred the adhesive strips to his own flesh and searched closely for other anomalies.

He found blue-tinted contact lenses riding the drying irises of the lifeless eyes, and left them there -he didn't need them.

Some sort of transparent ”living skin” adhesive covered each of the guy's finger tips.

Pretty cute, thought Bolan; it saved wearing conspicuous gloves and served the same purpose-no fingerprints left in awkward places.

He peeled off the finger patches and applied them to his own finger tips; tried them, found no appreciable loss of tactile perception.

Other perceptions, though, told him that he needed to hurry-movements out across the grounds and out beyond the grounds.

He was busy with the body when footsteps sounded near the front of the carport and someone called in to ask, ”What's the trouble?”

It was time to try the voice. Bolan straightened up with an angry scowl and replied, ”The trouble's going to be in New York when I get this bucket of bolts back there. I- never saw such a disgraceful d.a.m.n-”

”The old man's getting fidgety. Come on.”

”Be right there,” Bolan /Cavaretta a.s.sured the guy. ”Give me a hand. Get that stuff off the seat and take it in. Oh, and pick up that case behind the seat, eh?”

Bolan had never set eyes on the guy before. He was probably one of the inside ”boys”. He came in and took the things from the car. Bolan was again ”busy” in the luggage compartment.

”F' Christ sakes, sir, that old man is turning purple.”

Bolan looked up with a grin. ”Go hold his hand for a minute. I'll be right there.”

The guy looked like he'd rather take a beating than return to the house without the guest in tow but he wheeled about and retreated, grumbling something beneath his breath as he trudged away.

Bolan was indeed very busy.

He was stuffing a dead, limp body into the black suit and rigging it for combat. He studied the final effect, adjusted the pants legs, then sighed and banged the trunk lid shut.

Those movements out across the grounds were becoming more p.r.o.nounced, louder, and much more visible.

They were beyond the grounds and they were cops, droves of cops with flashlights forming an unbroken chain of manpower all along that wall over there.

The yard chief was rounding the corner of the house when Bolan stepped out of the carport. He gave Bolan a friendly wave and called over, ”Maybe you got here just in time, Mr. Cavaretta. The cops are out front now with their f.u.c.kin' search warrant.”