20

Roger Smalley stood on the shore of Lake Phalen, looking out across the calm, unruffled water. As far as he could see in each direction, north and south, there was no sign of life. The strollers and boaters would not appear until later in the morning, and by then he would be gone, his business finished.

He turned his back on the water to face the five persons arrayed before him. To his left, Jack Fawcett stood close beside a nervous-looking Courtney Gilman. On the right, hulking Vince Cella kept a tight grip and wary eye on his two female captives.

"We don't have much time," Smalley said, breaking the silence. "Let's get this over with."

In one smooth motion, he drew the snub-nosed .38 revolver from under his jacket and took two quick steps toward Fawcett and his prisoner. Before the detective could grasp what was happening, Smalley raised his weapon and fired a single shot into Courtney Gilman's scrawny chest. The dying boy sprawled on the grass, twitching briefly, and then lay still.

Jack Fawcett was visibly stunned. His jaw worked silently for an instant before he found his voice.

"What the hell?" It was the best he could manage.

"It's simple," the commissioner told him. "You finally got a hot tip on that sex killer you've been tracking, and you rushed right over to make the collar. Unfortunately, you were too late to save his latest victims, but you were able to settle the score."

Smalley smiled coldly at Fawcett's vacant expression.

"You're a hero, Lieutenant," he finished happily.

The detective shook his head as if to clear it, forcing his words out one at a time.

"This is crazy... I mean, you can't get away with something like this."

Smalley kept the frozen smile in place.

"I'm not even here, Jack. And I assure you, we will get away with it. We have to."

Fawcett looked from his superior to the female captives and back again, the full import of Smalley's words finally coining through to him.

"You mean to kill them, too," he said numbly. It didn't sound like a question.

"What would you suggest, Jack?" Smalley asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Perhaps a press conference, for them to tell their story nationwide?"

Fawcett looked bewildered, thinking fast but coming up empty.

"There has to be another way."

Smalley lost his smile then, and his answering voice cracked across the intervening distance like a whiplash.

"Let's hear it, Lieutenant," he snapped. "You've got thirty seconds."

Jack Fawcett looked angry and confused. Roger Smalley could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, and he knew from the man's expression that he had no alternative suggestions.

The lieutenant glanced down at the dead boy beside him and finally turned away, shaking his head disgustedly.

"I want no part of this," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Smalley's brusque laughter was a bitter rebuke.

"Too late to weasel out, Jack," he sneered. "But don't worry, you won't have to dirty your hands."

The commissioner turned toward Vince Cella and the women, his gun held steady on a level with his waist. When next he spoke, he was addressing himself to the leering gunman.

"What we need here is a crime of passion," he said simply. "Are you up to it?"

Vince Cella grinned wickedly, glancing from one of his prisoners to the other.

"Mister," he drawled, "I'm always up."

Toni and Fran chose that moment to make their break in opposite directions, but the hardman held them easily in place. Making a split-second decision, he cut Toni's legs from under her with one sweep of his ankle, cuffing her hard across the back of the head as she fell. She hit the ground and lay still, barely conscious.

Vince Cella turned his full attention toward the lady cop, releasing his grip on her arm to tangle his fingers in her hair, pulling her close to him. With her arms pinned securely, she could only twist and kick out ineffectually at his shins. The big man easily avoided the blows, his free hand pawing at the front of her blouse.

"C'mon, momma," he leered, "it's party time."

Roger Smalley looked on dispassionately, loosely covering all three of them with the .38 in his hand. A smile very much like a grimace was locked onto his face.

Mack Bolan and Pol Blancanales heard the shot that killed Courtney Gilman. They were in visual contact with their targets by the time Vinnie Cella slammed Toni to the ground and turned on Fran Traynor.

With one thrust of his powerful arms, the gunman hurled her to the ground. He stood over her, legs wide apart, hands busy with the buckle of his belt.

The warriors let him loosen it before they stepped out of concealment. Their silenced weapons scanned the killing ground, the sweeps including the hardman, Roger Smalley, and Jack Fawcett simultaneously.

Four faces turned to gape at the new, unexpected arrivals. The three men registered shock, but Fran Traynor's expression was tempered with heartfelt relief.

The Executioner addressed himself to Vinnie Cella.

"Careful, your pants could fall down."

"Funny man," the punk answered, trying to sneer and missing it by a mile.

Roger Smalley's voice demanded Bolan's attention.

"Ah, Mr. La Mancha, I presume?"

The commissioner held his gun leveled and ready to fire, the muzzle directed at some arbitrary midpoint between Bolan and the Politician.

Fawcett's voice answered for Bolan.

"That's La Mancha," the lieutenant said, pointing. "His partner's the brother."

Smalley wore a little quizzical smile.

"Of course, family loyalty," he said. "How touching. I must say I'm impressed. How did you get past..."

He left it unfinished, his .38 waggling in the general direction of the invisible Lincoln and its cargo of death.

"They're out of it, Smalley," the Executioner told him. "It's down to you."

And the assistant commissioner's face was going through some changes, yeah, screwing itself up all at once into a mask of fury. It pleased Mack Bolan to see the older man lose his self-confident smile.

Across from Smalley, the gunner was holding his loose slacks with one hand, clenching and opening the other convulsively. He was grinding his teeth in anger, his face livid.

"Danny, Lou, Solly..." he began, almost groaning. "You wasted 'em!"

Smalley saw his opening, tensing as he shouted, "Take them, dammit!"

Suddenly the scene erupted into frenzied action. Vince Cella was clawing for his holstered pistol with both hands, taking a backward step and stumbling as his suddenly unfettered slacks dropped down around his ankles. He started to fall, his weapon still hidden, and Bolan helped him get there with a single 9mm mangler through the bridge of his nose.

Roger Smalley was diving toward Toni's prostrate form. Pol saw the move and reacted, but a half-second too slowly. Before he could squeeze off a shot, the commissioner was into a crouch, clutching Toni in front of him in a sitting position, his .38 jammed against her temple.

"Easy, brother," he said, breathing heavily. "It's all over."

"Not yet, Commissioner."

Bolan's voice hit Smalley like a draft from the tomb, blanching the confidence from his face, but he made no move to lower the gun or release his hostage.

"I don't know who the hell you are," Smalley growled, "but you've blown it." He half turned to the detective, keeping his eyes firmly on Bolan and Pol. "Jack! Change of plans. We've got a gangland massacre on our hands. Use your weapon."

Behind Smalley, Jack Fawcett seemed to be moving in slow motion, drawing the .38 special from his belt and moving forward until he stood even with Smalley and the girl, perhaps ten feet to their right.

Mack Bolan read the hesitation on the lieutenant's face.