San Diego Siege Part 13

"It tells me plenty. But what the h.e.l.l can I prove?"

Lyons shrugged. The Captain finished signing-out and they went on along the corridor toward the vehicle area.

A tall patrolman in an immaculate uniform, sporting a thinline mustache, swung in from a side corridor, nodded his head cordially at Lyons, and went on by.

The sergeant from L.A. grunted and asked the San Diego homicide chief, "You allowing face hair down here now?"

"Had to," Tatum said grumpily. "They got a const.i.tutional right ... and they also got a d.a.m.n good union. What the h.e.l.l. So long as it's not too far out, what's the harm? You gotta sway with the times, I guess. We're not still running around in Toonerville Cop uniforms, are we."

Lyons grinned. "No, but the Toonervilles wore face hair."

"So, change is sometimes a healthy thing ... even in a town like San Diego."

"That's right," Lyons agreed. He stepped outside and took a deep breath. "You've got a sweet town here, Cap'n."

"Thanks."

They walked to the Captain's personal vehicle. Lyons slid in beside Tatum and told him, "Maybe you shouldn't feel so bad about a Bolan visit. The guy has a way of clearing the air, making things even sweeter."

"I'll pretend you didn't say that," Tatum replied gruffly.

Lyons chuckled. "I told you I owed the guy my life. I didn't tell you I owe him twice. twice. You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess." You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess."

"Rotten apple," the Captain rasped.

"Sure, but we may have never known if it hadn't been for Bolan. He tipped us about the guy. I couldn't believe it at first. You know what they called Rickert ... the twenty-four-hour cop. He was a twelve-hour-cop and a twenty-four-hour Mafioso. Mafioso. This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did." This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did."

"And here you are," Tatum remarked quietly.

"Then there was Las Vegas. I was up there on special a.s.signment with a federal strike force. Undercover job. I dummied it, and the boys tumbled to me. Beat the living s.h.i.+t out of me. They were hauling me to the desert to bury me alive when Bolan turned up. The guy challenged a motor convoy. Single handed. Blasted them to kingdom-come, right in the shadow of their fortress, then slipped me out of there with half of the Nevada mob on his a.s.s. And I couldn't even walk." walk."

Tatum sighed heavily and said, "Hey, cut it out. I've heard all the songs about the guy. I still have a job to do."

"Sure, that's the way I feel," Lyons said. "Bolan knows it, too. Any other way and I don't think he'd respect me. He's that kind of guy. Hard-nosed as h.e.l.l when it comes to duty and ethics. Ill tell you one thing, Cap'n. I'm sure glad he doesn't shoot at cops."

"I've heard that one, too," Tatum growled.

"Believe it."

The Captain relented, grinning, and declared, "Some cops I've seen, maybe he should should go after them." go after them."

Lyons sat bolt upright in the seat and smacked a hand against his forehead. "That cop!" he yelled.

"What cop?" cop?"

"The dude with the mustache. h.e.l.l oh h.e.l.l, John, it was him!" him!"

"Him what? What's the matter with you?"

"It was Bolan! Bolan! Walking around your station in a Walking around your station in a uniform!" uniform!"

"Aw bulls.h.i.+t," Tatum snarled. "What would Bolan be doing ... ?"

He pulled the car to the curb with a screech of tires and lunged toward his radio microphone.

"I thought you knew the f.u.c.king guy so personally," he yelled at Lyons.

"Aw h.e.l.l, you never get that much of a look at the clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d, John. He's a genius genius at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you he's in your station house!" he's in your station house!"

"For what?" what?"

"What the h.e.l.l do you think for what? Where are all the boys tonight, John?"

Tatum's hand was frozen around the microphone. He squawked, "Well Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Well be the laughing stock of ... !" Well be the laughing stock of ... !"

He flung the microphone down and doubled back in a screeching U-turn, burning rubber toward the possibly most disgraceful discovery in twenty-six years of hard-nosed police work.

The Executioner, for G.o.d's sake! Making a hit on the San Diego jail!

Bolan had been required to hang around the locker room for only about ten minutes before spotting the size and type of guy he was waiting for-a young patrolman going off duty and changing into civvies.

And it had been a simple task, after the cop departed, to pick the lock and borrow the uniform. It was a good fit. He even took the time to use the guy's brush to get rid of a bit of lint here and there. He wanted to look sharp.

He left a marksman's medal and three fifty-dollar bills on a shelf in the locker, quickly applied a false mustache to his upper lip, and went out of there.

He was only a few steps out of the locker room when he rounded a corner, practically colliding with Carl Lyons and another detective.

And that was a bad moment for the Executioner.

Of all the cops in the world he didn't need to b.u.mp into at a time like this, Lyons was first. He was one of the few men living who'd had intimate opportunities to get to know Bolan's new face.

The bogus cop smiled faintly at his old friend of past campaigns, tucked his chin down in what he hoped would pa.s.s as a friendly nod and brazened on past.

He kept expecting a cry of alarm-was mentally preparing himself for it and looking for a way out-but when he reached the duty desk and risked a glance over his shoulder, Lyons and the other cop were nowhere in view.

The building was crowded and confused, lots of in-and-out traffic, standing-around traffic, and just plain officious bustling-noise level about equal to a concert by the Rolling Stones.

Bolan stepped up to the desk and told the sergeant, "Jail pa.s.s."

The guy glanced at the badge on Bolan's chest and reached for a paper form. "Courts?" he asked disinterestedly.

Bolan replied, "Prosecutor's office."

The cop grunted and shoved the pa.s.s at him.

Cold, yeah.

Siberian s.h.i.+very cold.

But ... so far, so good.

He wandered around from there until he found the detention section. The jail warden's desk was flanked by a group of irritable-looking and noisy men carrying briefcases.

Bolan had an idea who they were.

He pushed through them and leaned across the desk to speak in low tones to the cop on duty there. He showed him the pa.s.s and told him, "D.A. wants one of your VIPs over in interrogation." He flicked his eyes significantly toward the group of civilians. "Let's not mention any names."

He was going through the booking records as he spoke. He found the card he wanted and pushed it at the duty warden. "This one. We won't want to bring him through here."

The cop nodded his head, understanding. He jotted something on Bolan's pa.s.s and told him, "Take him out the back. I'll call down and clear it for you."

The man from blood nodded and went on, into the cell block, showing his pa.s.s and picking up an escort there, past the tank and along a musty row of cells.

The escort pulled up at a door about halfway along, turned a key in the lock, and told the Executioner, "Here's your man."

It sure was.

Tony Danger sauntered out, a nasty smile straining at his face. 'Told you peasants I wouldn't be here for supper," he gloated.

Bolan wordlessly signed a receipt for the prisoner, then spun him around and shoved him toward the rear of the building.

"Watch that!" Tony Danger snarled. "I'll have your f.u.c.kin' badge!"

Bolan winked at the escort and left him standing there at the cell door as he hustled the prisoner toward the rear exit. He signed another receipt there and took his man along a short corridor and outside to the vehicle area.

"What is this?" the Mafioso Mafioso asked suspiciously, his head jerking about in an awareness of the unusual procedure as Bolan dragged him to a car and opened the door. asked suspiciously, his head jerking about in an awareness of the unusual procedure as Bolan dragged him to a car and opened the door.

Bolan spoke for the first time since the initial encounter. "Don't argue, Mr. Danger. Just get in the d.a.m.n car, please sir."

"What? Are you nuts? A jailbreak? Hey-my lawyers will-"

"You can't stop Bolan with a writ, Mr. Danger." The tall man in the police uniform shoved the protesting caporegime caporegime into the seat and slammed the door, then went quickly around to the driver's side and climbed in. into the seat and slammed the door, then went quickly around to the driver's side and climbed in.

"What are you saying?" Tony Danger demanded, all but frothing at the mouth in a mixture of bewilderment and indignant anger. "The guy wouldn't have the nerve to bust in there after anybody!"

Bolan had the car moving. He nearly collided with another vehicle that came screeching into the parking lot, horn blaring. The other car whipped away just in time to avoid the collision.

Bolan caught a glimpse of a tortured face behind the wheel of that vehicle and-beside it-a flas.h.i.+ng impression of the amused yet somber features of the all-cop from L.A., Carl Lyons.

Then he was into the street, accelerating with everything the Ferrari had. It became obvious quickly that there was no pursuit so he eased off and angled a glance toward his unhappy pa.s.senger.

"What did you say, Tony?" he asked frigidly.

"I said the guy wouldn't have the nerve to...."

The sounds just gurgled away and the little Mafioso Mafioso was turning to stone, his mouth agape, staring with a horrifying awakening at the freeze-dried face of the big guy behind the wheel. was turning to stone, his mouth agape, staring with a horrifying awakening at the freeze-dried face of the big guy behind the wheel.

"Don't lose your voice now, Tony," Bolan advised him. "It's the only thing you've got between life and death."

At that, it was a h.e.l.l of a lot more than the Executioner could have had going for him, back at San Diego jail.

Cold, yeah.

It was what his game was made of.

Cold blood.

16:

OFF THE NUMBERS.

They had cleared the area of all but official personnel and the morgue-like silence in that big hall was being well-resonated by the quivering-with-rage voice of Captain John Tatum.

He was leaning forward with both big hands splayed out across the jail warden's desk, his face thrust to within an inch of the other poor guy's as he shouted, "Yes, I said kidnap! kidnap! You let Mack Bolan stroll in here and You let Mack Bolan stroll in here and kidnap kidnap one of your prisoners!" one of your prisoners!"

The officer was desperately trying to get the homicide chief to consider two slips of paper which he was holding between trembling fingers. He spluttered, "h.e.l.l, Cap'n, he signed the receipts."

Tatum leaned back with a defeated sigh. There was nothing to be gained by badgering the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, the sigh seemed to say. In a voice subdued and embittered, he told the duty warden, "Okay, Tom. You go tell the watch captain not to worry, that you've got signed receipts for the missing prisoner. You can paste them to his forehead when they bring him back...to the morgue."

The desk cop muttered, "h.e.l.l, it was just cut and dried routine. How was I to know? I can't personally recognize every officer on this force. h.e.l.l, we got-"

"I know the strength of our force," Tatum rasped. "Now you listen. You're on duty until the chief himself says otherwise. Got that? You don't go home, you don't even go to the pot. You see n.o.body and you talk to n.o.body who isn't toting a badge, and even then it'd better be somebody you know by sight. Got that?"

The guy nodded his head in miserable understanding.

Carl Lyons had been watching the performance from the safe background. Tatum turned to him and growled, "What were you telling me about Bolan playing the odds? Some odds. This is the G.o.dd.a.m.nedest most outrageous grandstand play I ever heard of."

Lyons shrugged and dropped his eyes in commiseration for the other man's torment. Oftentimes, he realized, the flesh beneath those tough old police hides was painfully sensitive. He said, "I forgot to tell you. The guy sometimes makes his own odds. I don't know what to say, John. I just don't know."

"Well I've got to keep the wraps on this bulls.h.i.+t as long as I can. Maybe something will ... h.e.l.l, this is a nightmare. I don't believe it. How can I tell them-those lawyers, the D.A., the court- how do I tell them a public good public good prisoner has been kidnapped by a probable a.s.sa.s.sin?" prisoner has been kidnapped by a probable a.s.sa.s.sin?"

"You're doing the right thing, if my opinion's worth anything," Lyons declared quietly. "Stall it all you can. Maybe...."

"Maybe what?" the Captain asked, ready to accept any gleam of hope.

"I don't know. Just maybe."

"If Tony Danger turns up dead, I don't know ... either. The only prayer I know, Lyons, is the 23rd Psalm. And somehow it just doesn't seem to fit this problem."

The old boy was really taking it hard.

Carl Lyons understood. Perfectly. You put your life into a job-you worked it and sweated it with every d.a.m.ned thing you had-and the only time anybody ever noticed you was when you stubbed your toe and fell, face-first. Yeah, he understood.