Baltimore Trackdown (2 page)

She looked at him. Bolan remained silent.

“If you could wait for me just outside and tell this jerk to buzz off, I would appreciate it.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Elizabeth Hanover. Beth. And I feel much better already! I must start moving, before I get fired.” She hurried away.

When the lights blinked and closing time was announced, Bolan wandered outside. She said she would leave by the front door. A couple and a man, evidently alone, also waited. More patrons left, among them a girl Bolan recognized as a waitress. She hugged the couple waiting for her and they left.

Five minutes later Beth Hanover walked through the door. Her short blond hair was hidden under a little hat, and a scarf covered the lower part of her face. The lone man approached her and said something.

“No!” she said sharply.

Bolan hurried over and looked at the man who had touched Beth’s shoulder.

“She said no,” Bolan said softly.

The man snarled and swung. His fist grazed Bolan’s side. The Executioner solidly punched the shorter man’s midsection and then bounced a right off the side of his head.

The unwelcome suitor dropped to his knees. Then his right hand dug inside his jacket and came out with firepower.

When the gun appeared, Bolan’s kick sent it skidding along the pavement. The smaller man screamed.

The Executioner slammed his hand into the man’s throat softly, so as not to kill him. The guy went down with a cry of defeat and humiliation. The fight left him, and he sat on the sidewalk dazed.

Bolan crouched beside him, grabbed his left arm and smashed it across his knee, breaking the forearm like a dry twig.

The screech of pain sounded like a siren. A black Cadillac raced to the curb and skidded to a stop, and two men rushed to the fallen man. They helped him up, cradled his arm and put him into the big car, which raced away.

Beth had huddled by the front door. Now she came over, her eyes wide.

“I didn’t mean you should hurt him.”

“He pulled a gun. He might have killed us both.”

“Oh! I never thought of...”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yes, just down the block.”

They walked that way.

“Do you have any idea who that man was?” Bolan asked.

Beth shook her head. Her little cap had twisted to one side and her short blond hair showed.

“No. I’ve seen him at the club before, but he never bothered me.”

“And he said he was part of the management?”

“Yes. I thought he was joking.”

“Probably not.”

Her car was in the back of the lot. She stopped by the door.

“I better follow you home in case those men are waiting for you nearby.”

“I don’t think you need to. His arm looked broken to me. They’ll be at a hospital or doctor’s office somewhere.” Her eyes were suddenly angry. “You broke his arm! How could you?”

“Beth, that man was part of the Baltimore Mafia. You know what that means?”

Beth Hanover nodded and all at once she was shivering. She reached out and Bolan put his arms around her.

“Do you have somewhere else you could stay tonight? They could get your address and...”

“No. I’ll be fine. They wouldn’t dare hurt me, not now that you can identify them. I’ll be just fine.”

Mack Bolan unlocked Beth Hanover’s car and handed her the keys.

“You’ve got it right? First you follow me. I want to be sure those goons didn’t leave someone to tail us. Then when I’m sure no one else is back there, I’ll blink my lights and pull over and you take the lead and drive to your place. I’ll come behind you.”

Beth smiled and he saw the fright fading from her eyes. She could be no more than twenty-one, slender and attractive. Bolan jogged to his car, got in and drove back to the lot. She started the engine, turned on the lights and pulled into the street after him.

He made a series of turns and reversals and one U-turn; no cars seemed to be following. Ten minutes later she led him to her place and parked in a reserved spot in the apartment-complex lot.

She met him on the street where he was stopped.

She bit her nails and looked at him. Then she remembered and pulled her hand away. “I know it sounds a little strange, but when you said they might get my address out of the records...“ She shook her head and turned away.

“Beth, he really scared you, didn’t he? I don’t blame you. If it would be all right I’d like to sit outside your door for a while. I don’t think he’ll try anything, but with scum like him, you just can’t tell.”

“Oh, no! You don’t have to stay outside!” she said, suddenly aware he knew exactly what she was thinking. “It’s just that...” She sighed and touched his shoulder. “If you’re going to come and be my bodyguard for a while, at least I should know your name.”

“I’m Mack Scott,” he said, giving her an alias that he had used before.

“Hi, Mack,” she said, smiling brightly and extending her hand. They shook. “Now, that we’re officially friends, I can make you a cup of coffee.”

Bolan smiled, locked his rental and they went up to her apartment. It was a small studio apartment on the second floor — one big room with a kitchenette, a bathroom and a let-down bed. The place was neat and clean. “I go to school during the day and work nights to get my bills paid. I came here from Iowa to go to school. Don’t ask me why I chose the University of Baltimore. Maybe so I could get out of Iowa. I’d lived there all my life. Am I talking too much? I do when I get nervous.”

When the coffee was ready she found some grocery-store doughnuts that were two days old but still good. She said she was an only child and she was taking a course in television journalism, hoping to get into newscasting. She hoped the doughnut was okay. After ten minutes she ran out of small talk, excused herself and went to the bathroom. When she returned he saw that she had been crying.

She sat across the small coffee table from him, her eyes bright.

“So what kind of work are you in?”

“Insurance. I have clients all around the country.”

The phone rang.

She looked at him, fear radiating from her eyes.

He held up his hand, let it ring five times, then picked it up.

“Yeah, what the hell you want?”

The only sound from the wire was a gentle click.

“Wrong number,” Bolan said, and hung up. He watched her. “You feeling better?”

She nodded.

“Isn’t there someone you can call and go visit for a couple of days?”

“I’ve only been in town three weeks. I don’t know anyone here that well.”

“How about a motel? For you alone? Look, I’m the one who caused part of the problem. Let me pay for two nights at a hotel for you. I’d feel better.”

She shook her head. “No, I promised myself I wasn’t going to run away from anything else. A guy wanted to marry me in Iowa. He was a ‘fine catch,’ my parents said. I liked him, but everything was so dull! So I ran away from him and my folks. But now I’m through with running.”

Bolan checked his watch. It was slightly after 3:00 a.m. The goons should have been here by now if they were coming. He stood up. “Keep your door locked and bolted. If anyone knocks, dial the police emergency number. Promise?”

She nodded.

“I better go. Let me have your phone number so I can call you tomorrow and make sure you’re all right.” He memorized the number on the phone.

At the door she crooked her finger at him, hugged him, then kissed him softly on the cheek.

“Thank you very much, Mack. I don’t know what I’d have done without you tonight. Please call tomorrow about noon. I come home for lunch.” She smiled, tired but still animated. “Maybe... maybe the next time you come calling, I’ll be better company.”

Bolan smiled. “Lock the door.” He stepped into the hall and waited until he heard the bolt slide in place. He went downstairs and moved his car so he could watch her second-floor apartment and the closest steps leading up to it. He did not need any sleep for a few more hours.

By four-thirty there had been no problems. The lights in her room had gone out five minutes after he left, and nothing else stirred in the complex. He fired up his car’s engine and crept away from the curb and down the street. He had to remember to call her at noon the next day.

Bolan slept until ten a.m., then quickly showered and dressed. He snapped on the tv set to catch the news.

“...and said he would have no comment. Here at home, police have identified the victim of an early-morning murder that on-the-scene people describe as a torture killing. Elizabeth Hanover, a student at the University of Baltimore, was found dead in her apartment this morning by a friend. The coroner said she had been gang-raped and tortured. There are no suspects in the crime and no apparent motive. One resident reported a car leaving the front of the apartment about four-thirty this morning.”

Bolan turned off the set and stared out the window. Either they had come quietly while he was in the car, or they had arrived after he left. He slammed his hand against the wall and swore.

Another innocent victim dead because of him! Someone who merely brushed against him for a few hours! If he had done it differently...

He hurried from the hotel and walked for two miles, working off some of his fury. Then he stopped at a phone and called the business number Nino had left for him.

“Cousin Harley — same old voice,” Nino said on the phone. “Figured I’d hear from you.”

“Nino, anybody in your family get a broken arm last night?”

Nino laughed. “Yeah, I figured you’d know about that. A little enforcer named Wally ‘The Beast’ Franconi. A damn tough cookie.”

“Not tough enough when I find him. Where does he hang out?”

“Franconi runs a poolroom over on Grand.”

“Thanks, Nino,” Bolan said, and hung up, figuring how to deal with Franconi. This had to be a day The Beast would remember for the rest of his life — no matter how few hours he had left to live, or how unpleasant they would be.

Capt. Harley Davis swore at the phone, then picked it up. “Davis here.”

“What the hell is going on down there, Davis? You know who this is. A perfectly legitimate nightclub gets blasted to rubble. Where the hell is our police protection?”

“Hey, easy. I’ve been having some problems. My force is spread thin. No way all the cops in the world can stop something like that. The attacker always has the advantage — you know that. We’re doing what we can to find the bomber and take care of him.”

“We’re doing the same thing, Davis. I’m pissed at you and the department. Hell, we pay taxes. What good does it do? Now three more places have closed because some nut set off smoke bombs in them. No big damage but a lot of sick people and mad ones.”

“He’s trying to scare you.”

“Who?”

“Hell, you know. Mack Bolan, the guy who calls himself the Executioner. He’s always after... places like yours.”

“So find him and nail his hide to the closest flagpole.”

“I’d like to. He’s made my damn ulcer kick up again.”

“Fuck your ulcer. I’m losing money.”

“We had to take two of your boys in on gambling charges. No way we could avoid it. I’ll set it up so they can get released on their own recognizance.”

“Damn well better.”

“Send me anything you have on this Bolan. Isn’t there a picture of him? I’ll check the wires on him. FBI had something going a while back.”

“You get something going. You shut this joker down, and do it damn quick!”

“Yeah. Nothing I would like better.”

They hung up. Captain Davis slouched in his chair in the glass-enclosed office. At least the glass went to the ceiling to provide a little privacy, soundwise. He was forty-nine years old and awaiting his thirty-year retirement, due in three years. Before then his plan was to have a nest egg to keep him on easy street. Hell, he might have to stay on a few years more, if he could keep raking in a hundred thousand a year from his friends.

He laughed softly. Friends, yes, just as long as they knew that he had enough on them to send them to prison for life. He had and they knew it. It became a delicate matter of compromise and cooperation.

Now this damn Executioner guy storms into town. Not even he could get in the way of the timetable. Davis took off his shoe and rubbed his foot. It still hurt once in a while. He’d been in too many fights with drunks and dopers to get off without any injuries. Even been shot twice. Damn, the years had gone fast!

He brushed back what was left of his brown hair and pushed his reading glasses in his pocket. Still had perfect distance vision — that was what counted now.

Bolan the Bastard, Jo Jo used to call him. Yeah. He’d have someone check the BPD files, then call the FBI.

In the meantime he could have a bigger problem. He consulted his phone list, then called a number he seldom used, almost never from this office. The call went to the Alonzo Fruit Company. When an operator answered, his message was brief.

“I’d like to talk to the man. This is Keno.” He hung up and returned to work on a burglary case that two of his detectives had almost wrapped up.

His phone rang and he picked it up. “Yeah, Davis here.” When the other voice came on he sat up straight and smoothed down his hair.

“Yes, sir, good to talk to you, too. Sir, this Mack Bolan matter. Is this going to hurt our timetable?”

The voice on the other end was slow, relaxed, with a touch of Old World Italian.

“We don’t think it will affect us. We know about this small problem and our people are working on it. We will solve it perhaps today, and then nothing will be in our way. This Bolan is human — he bleeds. If you bleed you can die.”

“Yes, sir. I’m doing what I can here. He’s a lawbreaker and we’ll exert the full power of the police in tracking him down.”

“Good. Now one small insect is left in your garden. We would be happy if it could be taken care of as quickly as possible.”

Sweat beaded on Davis’s forehead. He wiped it with his hand. The phone showed wet spots.

“Yes, sir. That matter will be taken care of... today.”

“Good. I knew we could count on you.”

“Thank you for returning my call, sir.”

“Yes. And remember, be sure it’s done today.”

The wire went dead and Captain Davis hung up slowly. Damn! He had to do it today. He shook his head, breathed deeply, then dialed one of his plain-clothes men. The cop came in at once.

The two men in business suits huddled; two hundred dollars changed hands well below the glass line in the wall, and the cop left at once.

Captain Davis finished his coffee and made another call. “Need to see you for a minute, Paulson,” he said.

It was arranged.

Ten minutes later the captain’s assistant drove him down Johnson Street. They had set up an undercover burglary sting operation involving cops acting as fences to buy stolen goods; the transactions were videotaped. They were approaching the operation when the police radio in their unmarked unit came on.

“This is seventy-three Baker. I have a suspected robbery in progress in the 3400 block of Market Street. The big warehouse. Request a backup.”

Captain Davis grabbed the mike. “This is X-twenty-seven. I’ll take that backup by seventy-three Baker. We’re within two blocks of the location.”

Lieutenant Paulson hit the siren and swung into the next lane.

“No siren! We don’t want them to know we’re coming!”

Lieutenant Paulson shut it off, leaving the red light blinking. Paulson had spent five of his twenty-six years on the force. He was a go-getter and an absolutely honest cop. He wasn’t the captain’s choice as his second in command on burglary and gambling for nothing. Paulson was Mr. America, easygoing, fearless, bright and ambitious. He had earned his B.A. degree in three years, studying nights and weekends.

“We’ll check the sting later,” Davis said, his adrenaline pumping. He checked the service revolver in his snap-on belt holster. His .38 was there and ready. In his back pocket he felt his cold piece.

The unmarked police car stopped near the warehouse. A cruiser was nearby. The two cops in it grinned when they saw Davis. He nodded at them. They had each earned an envelope with fifty dollars in it.

“Captain, we saw some dude start out of the warehouse with a sack over his shoulder,” the first uniformed cop told him. “The guy saw us and ran back inside like a jackrabbit.”

“Right, Officer. You cover this door. Send your partner around to that side entrance down there. Paulson and I will go in and rout him out.”

They jumped on the nearest loading dock, and slid into shadows.

“We’ll work straight down the main aisle,” Captain Davis said. It was a general storage warehouse. “You check to the left, I’ll keep to the right.”

They worked slowly forward with their revolvers out. They were halfway when Davis motioned Paulson to follow him into the aisle on the right. No direct overhead light shone on the narrow alley between the tall stacks of boxes containing television sets.

“You watch at this corner,” Davis whispered to Paulson. “I heard something over there.” As Paulson looked around the boxes, Davis took from his pocket a .38 with the serial numbers filed off. He backed up six feet and shot Paulson in the temple.

He died instantly.

Davis drew his own service revolver and fired four times into the ceiling.

“Down here!” Davis screamed. “Down here! I think Paulson is hit!”