"You haven't figured it out?"

A moment of silence, then, "I still hate your fucking town."

Bolan chuckled without humor. "Me too yours."

He flipped the spent clip from the AutoMag at the window. A shotgun boomed in there and the whole window dissolved.

A moment later: "You still there, Omega?" "Oh sure."

"Why're you doing this?"

"You called me, guy."

"The hell I did. I'm just trying to make a living."

"You try too hard, Gordy. You should have known."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right?" "Maybe so. You feel up to one more venture?" The guy even sounded like Lou Costello as he asked, "Do I got a choice?"

"Guess not. I came for your head, Gordy."

"Hell you think I didn't know that right from the start? Well okay. You'll have to come and get it, hot ass."

"Is that your final word?"

"It sure is."

The guy had not changed position during that conversation. Bolan had a pretty decent fix on the location of his voice. He just hoped to God there was only one.

He tried for a final fix. "Nick said I should kiss you first. I told him you're too damned ugly."

"Nick is a-"

Bolan would never know Crazy Gordy's final thoughts on Nick Copa. He'd launched himself with the first syllable of the reply, diving in through the shattered window with a twisting plunge to land belly up.

The shotgun baloomed almost in the muzzle of the thundering.44, the flash lighting that interior like the single pulse of a strobe, Gordy's contorted face frozen there in a mask of death as a heavy bullet blasted through clenched teeth and exploding flesh.

Bolan lay panting, knowing that he also had taken some heat, loathe to explore the extent of the damage.

But then a weak voice from the rear came like a candle in the gloom. "That you, Sarge?" "Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Oh they've been treating me pretty well here. Exercises in the yard twice a day and-where's Smiley?"

"She's okay, Carl."

"Thank God. Well are you going to lay there and breathe or are you going to get me out of this mess?"

"I'm going to lay here and breathe. How about you?"

"I got no choice."

"Uh huh."

"I'm tied up, dammit."

"Do tell." Yeah, he'd taken some heat. The blacksuit was shredded at the left thigh. And there was some raw meat down there. Nothing big. But another silly millimeter to center and..

He got to his feet and tried it.

"Sure you're okay?" Lyons asked in that enfeebled voice.

"Guess I'm as good as you," Bolan replied, sighing. "You ready to go?"

"Hell yes I'm ready to go. But I'm not walking so well, Sarge."

"Think you've earned a ride?"

"For what? Rest camp? It's been a breeze."

Bolan doubted that. Gordy's plans were too ambitious to risk killing his golden goose before he got what he wanted from him. But there were lots of ways to hurt a man without killing him.

He snapped on the penlight. Mazzarelli was a mess. So was the cabin. A one-room affair-kitchen, bedroom, all in one.

Lyons was lashed to an old iron bedstead, hand and foot.

Bolan found the light switch and turned it on.

The poor guy was black and blue all over. And there were fresh hurts over old agonies. But he was all there. Thank God, all of him was there.

CHAPTER 18

Grimaldi elevated a thumb and said, "This is getting like an unhealthy habit. Watch yourself."

Bolan released the seat belt as he told his pilot, "You can relax this time, Jack. It's all our way, now."

"I'll believe that," Grimaldi growled, "when I'm seeing this joint for the last time."

"Soon," Bolan promised, smiling grimly.

He stepped onto the pad at Franklin Place, paused halfway to the house to put down his package and light a cigarillo, and waited for the reception committee.

He sensed people all around him though he could see none. All the lights were on, inside and out. The grounds were lit up like a shopping center parking lot.

But apparently there was to be no formal reception.

He picked up his parcel and went on. The house boss met him just outside the door. Bolan said, "How's it swinging, Lenny?"

The guy was in a pout. He replied, "Just barely, sir. Mr. Copa ain't feeling so well, either. He wants you should get comfortable in the garden. He'll be with you in just a second. Uh, pardon me, sir. What's in the sack?"

"It's for your boss, Lenny."

"Oh, right-right, sir. Uh, can you find your own way? I'm a little short-handed."

Like hell he was.

But Bolan found his own way to paradise. And this time there were no prop cuties in the pool. No white-jacketed housemen were on hand to fuss over his comfort, either. The whole place was ominously quiet.

He placed the paper bag on the floor of the patio. Then he dragged a chair to poolside and straddled it, arms on the backrest, the cigarillo clamped between his teeth-in plain view from everywhere.

Someone turned on the underwater lights in the pool.

He chuckled and flipped the cigarillo into the illuminated water.

Copa came out a moment later. A large bandage completely covered the crown of his head. He'd lost some hair there, yeah. The face was pained, sour.

"I took a hit," he explained.

The guy was just standing there, about ten paces out, almost on top of the sack.

Bolan said, "I heard. I'd say you took a lucky one. Hurt much?"

"That's what the doc said. And, yes, it hurts like hell."

"All wounds heal quick in paradise, Nick."

"Don't talk to me about paradise," Copa growled. "Right now I got twenty evil demons kicking inside my head."

Bolan gave a philosophical shrug. No sympathy. "You'll get over it. And it'll make a nice chapter for your autobiography." The guy scowled and asked,

"Is that supposed to be some kind of dig?"

"No. I meant it. You should write that book some day. Change the names, of course."

"Of course."

The Lord of Nashville lit a cigar.

"Lenny tells me you brought something with you. What's in the sack?"

Mack Bolan had always been a man who could command himself. But what was in that sack had taken the strongest command he could muster. "Special gift," he said coldly. "A token of my esteem."

Copa bent cautiously over the paper bag and delicately opened it. He stared at the contents for a long moment then straightened up with a, twisted smile.

"I like your style, Omega," he said quietly.

Sure. Bolan had known that he would. And if a guy wanted in the game then he had to be prepared to participate in the rituals. All of the rituals.

Still…He reminded his host, "You snapped your fingers."

"Damn right I did," Copa gloated.

He gave the sack a vicious kick.

Crazy Gordy's bloodied head fell out of it on the first bounce and rolled into the pool. A new decorative touch to paradise.

Bolan lit another cigarillo.

Copa paced around for a moment, glaring at the thing in the pool, then he pulled up a chair close to the bearer of gifts and sat down.

"How many times you been here today?" he asked coldly.

Bolan replied evenly, "This is the third trip"

The guy chewed his cigar for a moment. "Uh huh. It figures. Never mind how you did it. Just tell me why you did it."

Bolan smiled soberly. "Call it an inspired act."

"What inspired it?"

"She did. Said she wanted to help. I believed her."

Copa snarled, "I want her back here! You hear me? I want her back!"

"The honeymoon is over, Nick. The lady doesn't want to come back."

"I want to hear her say it!"

Bolan shook his head. "Too late. We made a deal."

"What d'ya mean, we made a deal! Our deal was-"