The old cop was thinking about it. He sighed and came to his feet. "How many times," he asked ponderously, "have you damn near hung a man with a thin-air case like that one? You expect me to go to the skipper with a Swiss cheese hypothesis like this? There's more holes than facts. It probably was a cop you knew from somewhere. We got guys coming in here every five minutes. We got another planeload of feds due in most any minute. They swarm to this Bolan guy like bees to a honeycomb. It's like a police convention around here. We got — "

"Joe, damn it — Inspector — I went back and studied the composites. They're close. Damned close. And my hackles have been yelling at me ever since."

"Well, get out of here with your hackles," Daley said gruffly. He caught theagony in the young cop's eyes and added, "Look, you're a good cop. I wouldn't take that away from you, Holzer. But hell, we're all jumpy today. Instincts can be wrong as hell, especially when we're leaping at every shadow. Based on what you've told me, I'm not going to go to the skipper and tell him that the man who caused this massive mobilization of very expensive police manpower casually dropped in to hobnob and swap ideas while we labored on with the dragnet for the guy. I'm not going to do that, Holzer. So you get out of here, get back to your own detail, and take your shivers with you."

Someone in the background chuckled.

Holzer opened his mouth and closed it, then spun blindly away in angered defeat.

He bounced off another officer who had just hurried over for a piece of the watch commander's attention.

"Inspector," the guy announced worriedly, "we have something funny going on in Communications."

Holzer froze and cocked his ear.

"What now?" Daley asked disgustedly.

"The roving details start with the night watch — right? There's been no change in that?"

"No change," Daley growled. "You don't need those communications until — "

"That's just it. The strike dispatcher accidentally turned on the delta channel monitor, and he heard a roving leader talking to a stake-out detail up in Harper Woods. I got to checking. Two other disricts report radio contacts with roving leaders. That's in Strike 7, Strike 8, and Strike 9."

Holzer had moved back into position at Daley's desk, listening with interest to the report.

The watch commander was staring at the man from Communications with eyes narrowed to mere peep-slits.

Holzer coughed delicately and said, "Are your shivers talking to you now, Joe?"

17

Fated

"Glad you caught the coder," Leo Turrin's taut tones greeted the Executioner. "This is very hot."

"And getting hotter," Bolan said. "I've been wanting to spot you. Where's that phone booth, Leo?"

"Just down the street from Tommy Damio's place. That's our headquarters, please take note. You're a couple minutes late. I was about to go on."

"Sorry. I've been busy. Just got the message. What's so hot?"

"Brognola."

Bolan said, "Tell Hal — "

"No wait! Hear mine first. This is really hot, straight from the headshed. Hal says scratch all past favors, scratch everything. He's putting it right on the line this time. This is tough, so hear me out. He says, quote: 'Do not even breathe upon the person or the mere shadow of Butch Cassidy,'

unquote. It's an order. He wants you to understand that."

Bolan replied quietly, "Since when does the fed give me orders."

"Not your orders, buddy — his, straight from the oval office, I understand."

Bolan pondered that bit of information for a moment, then said, "It's that grave, eh?"

"Worse than grave, Sarge. Those guys in DC don't even breathe the name Cassiopea. They still use the code name, Butch Cassidy, in all references to the guy. The dirt they're digging up gets more frightening with every bite of the shovel. There are ramifications here so downright scary that they — "

Bolan interrupted with a terse, "Okay, Leo. Tell Brognola I'll try to not bruise the guy. But I am going to have a talk with him."

"No, Sarge — no. Not even that."

"Sorry, but I've got priorities too, Leo. I'm talking to the guy."

Turrin's voice was choked with defeat. "I know better than to argue with you. I trust your feel, Sarge. But for God's sake, the fed doesn't even want this guy to know that they know."

"They've got him on the make list here in Detroit."

"How do you know that?"

"He's staked out."

Turrin groaned.

Bolan said, "Don't worry about it. They're being very soft. Enough so that I believe I can slip through without a fuss."

"Watch yourself. Don't believe everything you may have read about cops in Detroit. They're tough cookies, and they crumble with great difficulty."

"Yeah," Bolan agreed. "I got that reading. Well, my numbers are falling. Be dark soon. You're staying at Damio's all night?"

"Right, and don't ring off yet. I've got some intel for you. Something's not exactly on key here in mobtown. Charley Fever is beating the drums and getting all the old guard out to that joint you hit last night. I get the feeling that he's taking over. That's quite a step for a guy like Charley. I mean — he's plenty tough, sure. Right now he's walking around with a hole in his shoulder you could fish through. But he's never been anything more than a reliable gun hand — I guess you know that. He's coming on as the strong man now, though, and the old bosses are listening to him."

"So they're mobbing up at the hardsite?"

"Yeah. But just the old guard. This could be the crack we've been looking for all these years. Detroit has always been a very solid town, you, know. I mean, no family intrigues. Well, here's the interesting part. I told you the old men back east were sending in head parties. That's about a dozen of them in town now, from almost any point you want to name. I get it now that there has been a fissure brewing here, just beneath the surface, for some time. Detroit never really stood close to the nationals, you know that. Apparently this has been due mainly to the influence of Crazy Sal. Well, now Sal is dead and — "

"He didn't make it, then?"

"Figured you knew. No. He died about noon today. Anyway, with Sal out of the picture, I believe the old men from the east hope to swing Detroit closer into the fold. Now Charley Fever, as I understand it, is rallying the old guard. The others have been very discreetly advised by La Commissione to stand clear of Charley Fever. Let him take the Bolan heat, they're saying. We're sending you guns to keep you insulated. Sit tight. And let Charley Fever worry about Mack Bolan."

Bolan grunted. "I could have written that script."

"Yeah. Well, it's a good one, from our point of view. You did some good work out there last night, Sarge, and Brognola wants you to know that he's well aware of it. It shook them good and embarrassed a lot of their traveling companions. Nobody got booked out there last night, but a hell of a lot of interesting names got added to the make lists. Now the whole Combination is jittery as hell. Hal would sure like it better, though, if you could just forget you ever heard of Butch Cassidy. I'm sorry I even mentioned the name."

"You didn't have to, Leo. And I can't forget it. It's a personal matter. I'll walk as softly as possible, but I have to make that guy."

Turrin sighed. "Then we'll consider him made. Talk to the guy if you feel like you must, but I got a personal message for you from myself."

"I'm listening."

"End it there. Talk to Butch Cassidy, find out whatever it is you think you have to know. Then fade. Quick. Go somewhere far and quiet, and lay for a while. This is between buddies. As you are standing there right now, Sarge, you're a dead man. You're dead. Unless you get out of this town quick. Now they're up for you. All of them. Both sides of the street. The cops are at full mobe, riot units and all. By sundown they'll have roving patrols — you could call them destroyer forces — just prowling the streets and poised for a quick response. They have armored vehicles, massive firepower, gas, gadgets, the whole bit. Besides that, a special force of U.S. marshals hit town about an hour ago — every one of them an expert marksman and they're packing big rifles."