Part 7 (1/2)

”It isn't right to kill, Mack,” she persisted.

”Even if you defeat them, if you exterminate them completely, you're the one who will end up the big loser. Violence is not the answer to evil.” Bolan returned her solemn stare. ”You think we, uh, should live in a world of brotherly love--and turn the other cheek and that kind of stuff, eh?” he asked quietly.

His fingers were tracing the line of her spine. She s.h.i.+vered and wriggled against him. ”Don't do that,” she breathed. ”I'm trying to talk seriously.” ”What could a fragile flower like you know about violence, and of the evil men do to one another?” he asked, smiling faintly.

”Evil is not received, Mack. Evil can only be given, and it can finally hurt only the giver.” ”That's an interesting theory,” Bolan replied.

”Would you say that the Jews received no evil from Hitler?” ”Hitler was the ultimate receiver of all the evil he created.” ”Yeah, but what if the whole world had just gone on turning the other cheek to Adolf? He would have just sliced that one open, too, and where would the world be now?” ”What has become of the world now?” Valentina asked sorrowfully. ”We answered evil with evil.

And in our end result we have inherited evil.” He slapped her gently on the bottom.

”Where'd you get such screwy ideas?” he asked her. ”Look--there are two forces, two basic forces, loose in this world. Good and evil. h.e.l.l, I'm no crusader, Val, but I believe that good is more than just a lazy state of do-nothingness. Good has to be more energetic and more-more moving than the opposing force if it-if it's going to overcome.” They were silent for a long moment. Valentina lowered her face to his and nibbled his lower lip, dodged back with a tiny gasp and scrunched away from his questing hands. ”How many people,” she asked thoughtfully, ”do you think set out to deliberately do evil? Even your own example, Adolf Hitler--don't you suppose he was acting in a movement toward what he regarded as ultimate good?” ”Sure,” Bolan said agreeably. ”But other people had other ideas about what was good, for them, and what was not--so they opposed him. Goodness, Val, it's a very personal and individual thing. The way I see it, I'm an instinctive creature, see.

Now take this Vietnam war. A lot of people think it is an evil war. Well--of course it is. But h.e.l.l we didn't start that evil, see, our side has simply chosen to oppose it, to oppose the evil. I personally go along with that idea, therefore I feel that I am on the side of good when I'm over there fighting that war. I would feel very evil myself if I hung back and didn't throw myself in there with the good guys. See? With me, it's a personal and instinctive thing. And I'm in the same sort of situation here, with this private little war I'm in now.

I didn't start this mess, see. The Mafia has been having their own way in this country for a h.e.l.l of a lot of years. Well, I finally saw the evil of the Mafia. I saw what they were doing and I felt the need to oppose them. It's as simple as that. You can take all the d.a.m.n philosophies and beauty religions and peace movements and put them in a pile and they still won't mean as much as my individual, instinctive reaction to the Mafia.

These people are a dripping, oozing, ma.s.s of evil draped about the throat of this country. I'm going to pry them loose if I can. Even if, in the end, the devil picks up all the marbles.” ”It must be nice to have such a simple and uncomplicated view of the world,” Valentina commented.

”Aw, come off it, Val,” Bolan said half-irritably. ”People like to play philosophic games with themselves, and they get all tangled up in the loose ends. Look at all these mixed up nuts parading around this country squalling about our ”immoral” war. If they feel all that strongly about it, why don't they go over and join the other side and fight for their idea of good.” ”You are totally committed to the idea of violence and bloodshed, aren't you,” she observed solemnly.

”No, I'm not. I'm committed to action. As long as I'm sitting around just yapping about good and evil, then I'm merely debating the question. And while I'm debating, evil might get the upper hand.

No, Val. If I thought that I could march through the underworld tooting on a pipe and have all the hoods and goons and rats follow me to jail, then that's the way I'd go about it. What the h.e.l.l are we arguing about? I didn't start this mess. The Mafia started it by just being. Being what they are. The mere fact that they are what they are has challenged me. I've answered the challenge, that's all. And yes, in this instance, I am committed to violence and bloodshed.” ”War without end,” she sighed.

”Yes, war without end.” He ran both hands along her back and onto the tight little b.u.t.tocks.

”There's no way to break off now, anyway. It's Bolan against the world now, Val. Surely you recognize that. I'll never be a free man again, not ever again. The law of the land feels bound to call me into an accounting for my ”crimes.” You see, my private little war is an immoral war, also. So, the law is after me. The Army is after me, and pretty soon I'll be declared a deserter. The underworld is after me. And now, now my dear little idealist, you are after me. I guess it's Bolan against the world.” ”Is your recruiting station open?” she whispered.

”Huh?” Her arms snaked around his neck and she squeezed against him with an almost desperate intensity. Her face, on his, was moist with tears. ”I'd like to join Bolan's side,” she whispered. ”Are enlistments open?” He rolled to his side, carrying her with him.

She groaned deliciously and looped both legs high about him. ”You're joining a sure loser, he warned her.

”I don't know about that,” she replied, smiling through tears. ”You seem rather capable to me.” ”Your confidence is overwhelming,” he said, joining her smoothly and thoroughly.

Her eyes were wide pools of essential truth.

”So's yours,” she sighed happily.

Forecast: Warmer Tonight and Tomorrow It had been dark for several hours. The Executioner was in battle dress and ready for combat. His woman was clinging to him in a farewell kiss. One of her hands dropped onto the holstered .45 at his waist and bounced hastily away. ”Be careful,” she whispered. ”Come back to me.” ”I'll be back,” he a.s.sured her. ”Maybe not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But I'll be back.” ”It's been a glorious honeymoon,” she sighed.

”But too short,” he said, grinning.

She nodded, smiling bravely. ”Entirely too short.” She ran a finger lightly along his left temple. ”Your hair will grow back there.” ”I'm just glad I didn't lose an ear,” he told her.

Her hand fell to his left shoulder. ”Sure your shoulder is all right?” ”I'm just glad it wasn't the right one,” he replied.

”You're just glad about everything aren't you?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

”If you'd ever had the b.u.t.t of a heavy rifle bucking into your shoulder you'd be glad, too,” he told her, his face soberly reflective.

”Mack Bolan, I believe you are bloodthirsty. You're just itching to get back into the fray, aren't you.” ”To tell the truth, no,” he replied, grinning again. ”It's always just a little harder after a wounding.” She pounced quickly. ”Then why don't you just...” He'd draped a hand across her lips. ”Don't start that again,” he commanded gently. ”Look--if something goes wrong and I get pinned down somewhere, I'll at least try to get a call to you. But don't get shook if you don't hear from me.

Silence, in warfare, is often no more than the better part of valor. Understand? Stay cool.” ”I'll stay cool,” she a.s.sured him.

He turned out the lights, went to the door and opened it, looked back at her briefly, then he was gone. She ran to the door to gaze after him, but already he was swallowed into the night. She closed the door, shoulders slumping wearily, and cried quietly for several minutes. Such a dramatic change her life had undergone. She snapped the lights back on and gazed about the small apartment, looking for evidence of the change. There was no evidence, she decided. All the evidence had walked out the door moments earlier. She squared her shoulders, went to the television set and turned it on, and settled into the long vigil. He would be back. He would. He would.

Bolan stopped at the first secluded public telephone on his route and made a call to Lieutenant Also Weatherbee. ”It's funny,” he told him, ”every time I call I find you there, no matter when. What are you--married to that job?” ”Bolan?” Weatherbee asked, his voice rising on the last syllable.

”Yeah. I just got back from my holiday on the Riviera, wondered if you'd missed me.” ”Aw s.h.i.+t,” Weatherbee fumed, just when I was beginning to hope I'd gotten you outta my hair for good. Bolan, why aren't you in Mexico?” ”No action down there,” Bolan replied.

”I've been watching the TV, by the way, so I've heard all the rumors. I haven't been in Mexico, or in South America, I've been right here all along. What have our little friends been up to?” ”This's no private detective agency, Bolan,” Weatherbee groused. ”You've got a h.e.l.l of a nerve calling here, anyway. You're wanted on eleven counts of murder, among other things.” ”Yeah, I feel terrible about all that,” Bolan replied, chuckling. ”But don't worry about it, Lieutenant, I believe the count will be upped somewhat before the next dawn.” ”Bolan, for G.o.d's sake, let it rest where it is. Listen, there's a lot of unofficial and public sympathy for you now. If you've been watching the TV you must realize that. Come on in now.

Or tell me where you are and I'll pick you up personally. Two of the best lawyers in the country have already expressed an interest in your case, and I can almost-was ”Save it, Lieutenant,” Bolan clipped in. ”Nothing is resting, and especially the Mafia--right?” ”You d.a.m.n better know right,” the policeman clipped back. ”You can bet they've been making full use of this breather you've given them. They're ready and waiting for you now.” ”Yeah, I figured that. That's why I called.

Wondering if you had any useful information to pa.s.s along.” The policeman's heavy breathing filled the wire for several seconds, then he said: ”Why should I tell you a d.a.m.n thing!” ”Because you know I'm on your side, that's why.” ”The h.e.l.l you are!” ”Sure I am and I don't have all your restrictions. I've shaken these people like they've never been shook before, and you know it. Now just who's side are you on, Weatherbee?” ”It isn't a matter of sides!” the cop roared. ”It's a-a...” ”Yeah, a technicality. Okay, play the technicalities if you want to. But I'd sure like to know what they've been up to.” They think you're working for us,” Weatherbee said, nearly choking.

”There, you see? They don't deal in technicalities, do they.” was... They've got commando teams of their own now.

The first time you open up on them again, you're going to get hit with everything short of the atom bomb.” ”Is that right?” ”That's right. It's hopeless, Bolan. You had them reeling once, but they've consolidated now. The first offensive action that gives away your position will be your last one. You're just lousing things up, like all amateurs are bound to do. You've come very close to destroying a five-year undercover operation we've had going against this bunch.” There was a momentary silence, then: ”You've got an undercover operation going?” ”Of course we have. Where do you think we've been getting all this information I'm pa.s.sing to you?” ”Five years, eh? How many more years had you planned on staying undercover?” ”Forever if necessary. We're interested in nailing these people good, Bolan. We've just been waiting for the proper moment.” ”For five years? You have any idea how much h.e.l.l these people have brought to earth during those five years?” The policeman's voice was growing heavy with exasperation. ”We know what we're doing.” ”I know what I'm doing, too,” Bolan told him. ”And I'm not taking any five d.a.m.n years to do it, either. Keep your cops away from me, Weatherbee. I'm hitting them again tonight.” ”We'll stop you if we can!” ”You can't. All you can do is provide aid and comfort to the mutual enemy. Keep your cops away.

I'm hitting tonight.” Bolan broke the connection, returned to his car, and sat quietly pondering the conversation with Weatherbee. The cop had been right, of course. The campaign had moved into a dimension which seemed impossibly weighted against him.

Mack Bolan was a military realist. In the traditional stratagems of warfare, a superior force spelled victory over an inferior one; superiority, however, had never been an item of mere numbers. An elite platoon could easily take on a green company; one lone tank could devastate a field of foot soldiers. In Vietnam, firepower and mobility had become the catchwords of military superiority. Bolan had learned well the lessons of military survival.

He was not an idle dreamer, and he had never had much respect for banzai warfare. He needed an equalizer. His strategy had thus far paid off; it had accomplished his aims. He had forced the enemy to reveal its position. He had smoked them out of their bunkers of social respectability and made it necessary that they regroup and reform and expose themselves even further. But--as Bolan well knew-- he had accomplished this initial objective at the cost of a vital military necessity: he had lost the edge of superiority which had carried his campaign this far.

Weatherbee's a.s.sessment of the situation had been an accurate one. The Mafiosi would be alert and ready this time, and undoubtedly with some tricky defensive tactics of their own. Bolan's next offensive action would undoubtedly be little more than a hopeless banzai attack--unless... A lone rifleman could not hope to successfully take on an entire enemy company--unless... Bolan grinned suddenly, started the engine, and moved out into no-man's land. Superiority, he reminded himself, was not an item of mere numbers.

He drove directly to the industrial district on the south edge of the city, then turned into a warehouse complex, vague memories stirring and fighting to the surface of his mind. Several years earlier, Bolan had spent several weeks on special a.s.signment at one of these warehouses.

If he could just find the right one.

He located it easily, a low-slung, corrugated steel structure with a peculiarly flat roof, the now-weathered sign--SURPLUS EXPORTS, INC.--AND THE smaller decal: MDT --which, Bolan recalled, were the initials for Munitions Distributors International.

He had been a.s.signed temporarily to a.s.sist in the cataloguing and storing of a large s.h.i.+pment of surplused weapons and ammunition which had been sold to the firm by the Government. Many of the items Bolan had handled during that a.s.signment had never been used, though there had also been genuine surpluses dating back to the Second World War. The stuff could not be sold to private citizens in the U.s., but the export business in these materials had been quite active at the time of Bolan's involvement. He was hoping that the Vietnam escalations had not shut off the source of supply. In the back of his mind had long lurked the suspicion that many of the so-called war surpluses were not, in fact, surpluses at all, but Government goofs of overproduction and oversupply. Still--the s.h.i.+pment which Bolan had been a.s.signed to catalogue had been bonafide surpluses of obsolete weaponry. He would be quite content to get his hands on three or four of these ”obsolete” weapons.

Bolan left the car in the shadows of the freight dock and circled the building on foot in a cautious reconnoiter, simultaneously searching his memory for the security details. Then he returned to the car, buckled on a tool kit, and fished a packet of U.s. currency from the spare-tire well. He had decided upon his mode of entry.

Ten minutes later he was scooting along the interior of a ventilation shaft; soon thereafter he had located the ”special weapons” area and was shopping grimly and methodically for the advantages of military superiority, jotting down the nomenclature and estimated dollar value of each item on a sheet of paper.

He double-checked the completed list, totaled the dollar value, added a ten percent ”error factor,” and left the list and the money in a conspicuous place. A thief, Bolan reminded himself, he was not. Besides, he ruminated darkly, it was especially fitting that the enemy's money was paying for this purchase.

He disabled the alarm system, boldly rolled open the door to the freight dock, loaded the hardware into his car, then went back inside and resecured the building, exiting the same way he had gained entry. As he was driving away, Bolan spotted the patrol car of the private security guard a.s.signed to the protection of the complex, cruising slowly in the opposite direction.

Bolan grinned and gunned up onto the highway.

Step One, equalization, had gone off without a hitch. A ”smoke-out” mission was next on tap.

Prelude Bolan left the car at the rear entrance to the apartment building and went up the service elevator to the fifth floor, padded softly down the hall to a door marked ”511” and leaned on the doorbell.