Walker nodded his understanding of the instructions, closed the door behind Pena's departure, and immediately began carrying out the orders. Upon Pena's return some minutes later, the store looked precisely as it was meant to look — like a hurriedly set up center of operations for a crew of itinerant book salesmen. A city map which Walker had purchased for $1.25 from the City Clerk's office was tacked to a wall, on which was being marked the assignment for each squad.

"How long's it gonna take us to cover this hick burg?" Pena inquired.

Willie Walker stared reflectively at the large map. "I'd say we can tap every house in about three to four hours, if we move fast. Five or six if want it real careful."

"I want it fast," Pena replied, "I just spotted something real interesting over in that parking lot."

"Yeah?" Walker said, his eyes shifting quickly from the map to his boss' face.

"Yeah." Pena was frowning in thoughtful concentration. "Julio's car. Bolan must have dumped it there. I walked past quick and casual. Keys are in it. Blood spots on the seat."

"What's on your mind, Lou?"

"I'm just wondering if the bulls have that car staked out. I saw something else interesting, Willie. Two L.A. cops just walked into the police station."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You sure you sold the hicks on our cover?"

"I'm pretty sure."

"You gotta do better than pretty sure, Willie."

"Okay, I'm sure. They're sold, Lou. All the guy was worried about was getting his fifty for this shack."

Pena rubbed his nose, glared at the city map, then sighed and said, "Let's get moving. I want Johnny Spiffy to stay with Julio's car, though. But tell 'im to not fall for no cops' tricks. Make sure he has a picture of this Bolan. Make sure everybody has one. And Willie . . ."

"Yeah, Lou?"

"Make sure everybody understands one thing. We're here to hit this guy Bolan. I don't want no sloppy fingers. Any soldier tells me he saw Bolan, and then can't tell me he saw him dead . . . well, he just better not come back at all, Willie. You know?"

"I know, Lou. Don't worry. We got the best crew in the country. We'll get this Blacksuit Bolan."

"We better, Willie. Mr. DiGeorge says we better."

"What if the cops get to him first, Lou?"

"Then there'll be some dead cops, too. We ain't backing down to no cops on this hit, Willie. You know?"

The rented store suddenly seemed much cooler to Willie Walker. The veteran Mafia triggerman solemnly nodded his head and replied, "I know, Lou."

Chapter Eight

The hit

Mack Bolan was seated comfortably on a leather recliner in Jim Brantzen's living quarters. His hair, which he had bleached on his departure from the East some weeks earlier, was now darkened again to a jet black and the temples lightened with glints of silver. Small plastic discs were affixed to the forehead above each eye and over each cheekbone. A narrow linear shell of the same substance and about one inch long covered each side of his lower jaw, meeting at the chin. An ordinary oversized Band-Aid covered the bridge of his nose.

"How goes it?" asked Brantzen, entering through the doorway from the clinic.

"Great, I guess," Bolan replied, speaking through barely parted lips. "Just don't ask me to get chatty."

"You want some more freeze?" the doctor asked solicitously.

Bolan carefully shook his head and raised a hand-mirror to inspect once again his rearranged features. "Can't believe it's me," he mumbled. "How long before I can get along without these doo-dads?"

"Those 'doo-dads' are a hell of an improvement over being wrapped up like a gift, Mack," the surgeon replied. "Just remember, they're the only thing holding you together."

"Yeah, but for how long?"

Brantzen shrugged his shoulders. "Depends on your recuperative powers. Maybe a week. Maybe two. It's a pressure principle for suturing, Mack. Beats hell out of stitching. You fool with them, though, and you'll have some damn messy scar tissue. Leave them alone to work their magic and you'll come out of it as pretty and pink as a baby's butt."

"Hard to believe it could be so simple," Bolan commented stiffly, his lips still numbed from the anaesthetic.

"Not so simple," Brantzen said, grinning. "You're going to start feeling like you'd been worked over with brass knucks when that freeze begins to wear off. I removed a bit of bone here and there, mostly from the nose, and added plastic in other areas. It's soft stuff, Mack, sort of like cartilage, and it just could start travelling on you. If it does, you beat it back here and let me take care of it. All in all, though, the techniques of today are far superior to anything we had just a few years ago. We could, you know, almost put you back just the way you were . . . if you ever feel the need of it."

"Or could you change me again?"

The surgeon nodded his head. "Sure. Of course, this sort of tampering with nature shouldn't be overdone." He smiled. "You should see what we can do with a skinny girl's bustline, or hipline, or whatever needs adjusting for that matter."

Bolan tried to smile back but found that his facial muscles would not cooperate. "Next you'll be telling me you've got help for certain male-type problems," he mummed.

"There's hardly any limit, Mack," Brantzen solemnly replied. "The sort of thing I've done on you is child's play compared to some of the restorative type work I get in here. I didn't have to rebuild tissues on you, you know . . . just altered an angle here and there. Still, you have to watch yourself. A bit of carelessness on your part and the whole thing could fall apart. You follow those instructions I gave you, and I mean to the letter."

"There won't be any telltale scars?"

"Not if you follow the instructions. At least, nothing that could be detected by anybody but another plastic surgeon."

Bolan was again staring into the mirror. "It's phenomenal," he said. "Even with the doo-dads, I look just like the sketch. It's just a mask, though, isn't it? A different kind, but still a mask. That isn't me in that mirror."

Brantzen nodded and said, "If you want to get technical, then it's a mask. But a mask you can live behind forever."

"Or fight behind," Bolan said softly.

The surgeon's eyes dropped and he twisted his hands together in some silent emotion. "I sort of thought you'd get that idea," he murmured.

"It's not just an idea, Jim." Bolan dropped the mirror onto his lap. "It's a commitment. I have no choice. I fight until I win or until I die."

"It's 'Nam all over again," Brantzen said sorrowfully.

"That's about what it is," Bolan agreed.

"The meek shall inherit the earth," The surgeon reminded his patient, smiling solemnly.

"Yeah," the Executioner said. "But not until the violent have tamed it." He winced and raised his hands to tenderly probe his cheeks with fingertips,

"You're starting to get the kick?" Brantzen asked him.

"Is that what it is?" Bolan grimaced. "I thought someone just hit me with a baseball bat."

"When it starts feeling like a jackhammer, let me know. I can help you over the rough period."

"Not with junk," Bolan protested.

"Nothing else will help, Mack."

"Then I'll go it alone." Bolan staggered to his feet, grabbing the chair to steady himself. "I've got to keep my mind clear."

"So it doesn't get too meek, eh." Brantzen didn't mean for the comment to sound sarcastic; it did, nevertheless.

"That's right." Bolan checked his machine pistol, ground his teeth against a sudden surge of pain, then slipped in a live clip of ammo. "I've been here too long already," he announced.

"You can't leave here in that shape, man!"

"Hell I can't. I've learned to smell them, Jim. They're around, take book on it."