Thirty minutes later, no one at the DiGeorge villa knew precisely what anyone wanted. The electrifying news that rattled the family group arrived by way of a breathless "runner" who was brought to the villa in a chartered helicopter. The messenger, a "soldier" in Tony Danger's crew, received an immediate audience with the Capo and excitedly told him, "They busted us wide open, Mr. DiGeorge. I mean everywhere. They knocked . . ."

"Waitaminnit, waitaminnit!" DiGeorge growled. "They who?"

"Federals, I guess. They knocked over our warehouse in Chula Vista and picked off all the stuff, even the stuff under the floors. Tony Danger wasn't a block away, he just got away in time. He says to tell you the Mexicans picked up Morales just after he got off the stockpile shipment. He's try'na get word to the boats, but he ain't so sure it ain't too late for that."

DiGeorge passed a weary hand over his eyes and muttered, "What about the boats? What about 'em?"

"I don't know what about 'em, Mr. DiGeorge. Neither does Tony. That's what I meant. Tony don't know . . ."

"Tony don't know if his ass is on or off," DiGeorge snapped. "I mean how much of the stuff is on the boats?"

"Oh, well the whole stockpile, Mr. DiGeorge. That's what I . . ."

"Where is Tony Danger now?"

"He went down to the port to . . ."

"Then he's a damn dumb bastard!" DiGeorge growled. "If they know everything else, then they know about the port, too. He probably walked right into 'em, Okay. So we got a rat somewhere in the woodpile. You get in that whirlybird and get on back down to San Diego. If you find Tony Danger you tell him Deej says to kill everything, I mean all of it, everything stops. And you tell him that Deej personally wants the rat, so don't go taking nothing on himself. Now you go on. On your way out, tell Willie Walker and Philip Honey I want 'em in here right now."

Some minutes later, while the villa seethed with excitement, DiGeorge confided to Walker and Marasco. "I've just had this feeling. Something has been wrong, and I knew it. Now I guess I know what. I'm thinking about two names right now. You know the names I'm thinkin' of?"

"Screwy Looey," Marasco quietly replied.

"Franky Lucky," said Walker.

"Okay, but let's not jump too fast," DiGeorge cautioned them. His gaze fell speculatively on Marasco. "See if you can raise Victor Poppy and see if he's got any news for us. Let's see how lucky Franky Lucky is."

Marasco nodded his head solemnly and went to the telephone.

"Start the juice going," DiGeorge told Willie Walker. "Any place Screwy Looey could have lit down. Get into our connections uptown, gather up whatever crumbs you can find about this rumble, and see what can be put together."

Walker curtly nodded his head and departed. Marasco was direct-dialing an area code in Florida, reading the number from a pocket-sized spiral notebook. He completed the dialing and turned about to gaze at DiGeorge as the connection was being made. The conversation was brief, with Marasco doing most of the listening. Then he hung up and released an almost sad sigh.

"Okay," DiGeorge said impatiently, "what's the bad news?"

"Victor Poppy says this guy hasn't seen Frank Lucky in over five years. The guy says the last he heard, Franky Lucky had got drafted and got it in Vietnam."

"Got what?" DiGeorge asked tensely.

"Killed, Deej."

The room became very quiet. After a moment, DiGeorge said, "The guy in Florida could have heard wrong."

"It's like hearsay evidence," Marasco agreed.

"We got to give this Franky Lucky a chance to clear it up for us."

"I hope he can, Deej."

DiGeorge released a long sigh. "So do I. You let me handle it. When is Victor getting back with this Florida boy?"

"He says he already oiled the wheels and they're turning pretty fast. He hopes maybe tomorrow. Maybe even sooner."

"Okay. You tell Franky Lucky I wanta talk to 'im, eh Phil?"

Marasco said, "Soon as he gets back."

"Where'd he go?"

Marasco shrugged his shoulders. "I told you, he's got his own ideas about things."

"Maybe his ideas are too big, Phil."

"Could be. He's been here just about all day though, Deej. Left about an hour ago. I can't hardly buy this boy as an informer, I just can't hardly believe it."

"Aaah hell, Phil," DiGeorge said miserably, "I've been making plans about sponsoring this boy. You know that. I like 'im, too. But I don't like any boy that well, and you know that too."

"I know that, Deej"

"You better get something ready, just in case."

"I'll have it ready, Deej. And I'll send him in as soon as he gets back."

"You do that." DiGeorge spun his chair about and stared glumly out the window. Several of his armed "soldiers" could be seen strolling the grounds. "Yeah, Phil, you do that."

Chapter Sixteen

The contract

Carl Lyons arrived in the city of Redlands, just east of Los Angeles, shortly after dark on the evening of October 21st. He proceeded directly to a drive-in theatre and parked in the second row behind the concession building. Following instructions received earlier, he left the vehicle immediately, went to the snack bar, and purchased a candy bar and a box of popcorn. Moments later he returned to his car, a rear door on the passenger side opened and a man slid into the seat behind him. Lyons continued staring toward the screen and said, "Mr. Pointer?"

"That's me," the man said. "How did it go?"

"You were right on target, Pointer," Lyons replied. "We netted 20 kilos of H and about a ton of pot."

"They've been bunching it up, scared to move it with all the attention at the border crossings," Bolan-Pointer commented, chuckling.

"The best part," Lyons added, "is that we took out their entire supply line, from the Mexican side all the way."

"That was just the acquisition route," Bolan told him. "I have details here of one of their distribution set-ups. I'm leaving it on the back seat."

"I'm going to turn around," Lyons announced casually.

Bolan lit a cigarette and said, "Okay. But you won't see anything."

The police sergeant swivelled about with one arm on the back rest and peered into the darkness of the rear corner. He made out only a lean figure in a lightweight suit, a felt hat pulled low over the forehead "We'd like to have your name," he said faintly.

"You'd better be satisfied with what you're getting," Bolan replied. "You know a town called Blythe?"

"Sure, it's just this side of the Arizona border." The policeman was still trying to make an identification. He noted that his informant wore tight-fitting suede gloves. The cigarette glowed faintly as the man took a heavy drag, allowing Lyons to see enough to produce a curious feeling of letdown. "I guess I've been halfway thinking that you were Bolan," he said.

"And now?"

"Well I know you're not Bolan. The voice is close enough, but not the face. Okay, Pointer. What about Blythe?"

"It's in the package I'm leaving you. There's an old B-17 base near there. It was closed down right after World War Two Being used now as a public airport, but very little traffic. A lieutenant by the name of Gagliano is running the operation there, in an old building that used to be a hangar. It's a powder plant."

"A what?"

"It's where they cut the H, dilute it down, and package it. Then they wholesale it out from that point. Deliveries are made in small, private airplanes. The wholesale end of it is all done by air. I don't have any poop on the retail lines, and I gather that the organization isn't even working that end of it."

"How's the market?"

"Frantic, since the border pressure. The stuff's been stockpiling on the Mexican side, retail outlets are flipping for buys."