The automobile bearing Fran Traynor, blindfolded, to her unknown destination slid smoothly to a stop. Throughout the ride, of which she remembered very little, she had been primarily conscious of the throbbing pain in her skull where Smalley had struck her, and of the moist, threatening palm that rested heavily on her right thigh.
But now the car had stopped, and the hot hand was withdrawn. She felt cool air upon her face as the doors opened on both sides, and the seat lurched as her unseen companions exited. Immediately, a hand was groping for her, fingertips trailing deliberately across the curve of one breast before locking onto her arm in a painful grip. Fran tried to pull away from that imprisoning hand, but there was nowhere to go, no place to hide.
She let herself be pulled from the car and led along a concrete drive, then over grass to another walkway.
"This way, babe," a male voice prodded from her left. "Watch your step."
She felt gingerly ahead of her with one foot, locating steps and taking them carefully, one at a time. She both heard and felt a door open in front of her, and then she was propelled through it, into the cool interior of a building. From the sounds and smells of the place, and the carpeting beneath her feet, she knew she was inside a house.
There were hands on both her arms now, guiding her left and right through what felt like a maze of corridors. Fran was becoming disoriented, cursing silently to herself as she realized that in her present condition, a simple living room filled with furniture could be made to feel like a winding labyrinth.
She recognized the feeling of a corridor, and had begun to count her paces when the guiding hands suddenly brought her up short, turning her sharply to the left. Keys rattled in a lock, and another door was opened for her, another hand shoving her inside.
Behind her head, blunt fingers tugged at the knot of her blindfold, and suddenly it came free, whisking across her face and disappearing behind her.
"Sit tight, doll," the leering voice said. "Maybe we can have some laughs later."
Fran half turned toward that voice, but the plain wooden door was already snapping closed, keys grating in the lock outside.
She stood there for a long moment, blinking her eyes to regain her full sense of sight. The room was dimly lit by a bare bulb overhead and was apparently without windows or other access to the world outside.
"Fran? Is that you?"
The lady cop whirled around, shocked by the sound of a familiar female voice close behind her. She was surprised to see the face of Toni Blancanales regarding her from a corner of the room.
The girl crossed quickly to her, taking one of Fran's cold hands in both of hers.
"Toni!" the lady cop blurted. "What are you doing here?"
Toni was red-eyed from crying, her face pale, hair disheveled.
"Some men came to my apartment," she began haltingly. "They had guns, and... and..."
The girl broke off, trembling slightly, and Fran slid a comforting arm around her slender shoulders, leading her back to the small couch that was the room's only furniture.
"Did they hurt you?" Fran asked, dreading the answer.
Toni looked up at her through tear-filled eyes, reading the implicit meaning of the officer's words.
"No, not the way you mean," she said, watching the relief flood into Fran's face. "They roughed me up a little. I fought them."
Fran looked closer now, and yes, she could make out a purple bruise along the curve of Toni's left cheek.
"Good," she said through gritted teeth.
"What's this all about, Fran?"
Fran Traynor hardly knew where to begin.
"It's a long story," she said at last, "and I don't have all of it yet. It's hard to believe."
"We're in danger, Fran," Toni said somberly. "I can feel it."
The lady cop nodded grimly. "I think we can expect the worst. If we get a chance to run, I say we take it."
Toni Blancanales seemed less frightened and shaky now that she was no longer alone.
"I have an idea why I'm here, Fran," she said softly. "But how did they get you? Why?"
Fran took a deep breath, and began relating the story of the morning's events, up through the disastrous meeting with Assistant Commissioner Smalley outside Calvary Cemetery. She left nothing out. For an instant she thought Toni brightened at the mention of the big fed, La Mancha, but the moment passed instantly, and Fran wrote it off as imagination resulting from stress.
"It was Smalley running interference all along," she said, summing up. "Probably with Jack Fawcett. I owe you one hell of an apology for being so blind, Toni."
Toni took her hand, no longer cold, and squeezed it tightly.
"Don't be silly," she said. "It isn't your fault at all. We're in this together."
And so they were.
The two women sat quietly together for several moments, discussing tentative escape plans in hushed tones, rejecting each in turn as too risky or too impractical. The interior of the room, as Fran had first thought, was windowless, with only the single door for entrance and exit. Aside from the moth-eaten sofa, the bare bulb overhead, and a few dated magazines scattered in one corner, the room and its adjoining bathroom had been expertly stripped of anything that might be converted for use as a weapon.
They were alone and unarmed, yes, and apparently defenseless.
While they were talking, a telephone jangled somewhere, several rooms away by the sound, and was quickly answered. Moments later, the women fell silent as heavy footsteps approached along the corridor outside.
The door swung inward to admit a hulking man in dark suit and sunglasses, a black .45 automatic held casually in his massive right hand. Behind him, other bodies blocked out the light from the corridor.
When the gunman spoke, Fran instantly recognized the voice of the gorilla who had fondled her thigh in the car.
"Time to go for a ride, ladies," he said, leering, and pausing for a wink at Fran. "Looks like we won't have time for laughs after all."
Fran took a look at the barrel of the .45, then glanced at Toni and back again at the gunman's eyes, invisible behind his shades.
And suddenly she wondered if there was any time left at all.
Mack Bolan pulled his sedan up beside Pol Blancanales's car in the shopping center parking lot. Pol left his car quickly and climbed in on the passenger side of Bolan's.
The Executioner saw in his old friend's face the same tautness, the same reckless, uncaring anger that he had seen so often on other faces on the eve of battle.
"Let's roll, buddy," the Politician snapped, rubbing his hands nervously together.
Bolan's voice was low, cautious as he answered.
"Easy, Pol. We can't afford to blunder in and mess things up for Toni."
Pol thought about that for a moment, then nodded grimly.
"You're right. As usual."
"What can you tell me about Phalen Park?" the Executioner asked his friend, putting the car in motion as he spoke.
Pol was quiet, thinking. Then he began speaking in the tone of a lecturer.
"It's on the north side of town," he began. "Part of it runs over into Maplewood there. It's got a lake... Phalen Lake, naturally. I guess the park gets its name from the lake, or vice versa."
"What about the terrain?" Bolan prodded.
Pol shrugged.
"Most of the southern half is a golf course, I think. North of the line and all along the water you've got trees and things. You know... a park."
Bolan could sympathize with Pol's obvious impatience, sure, but grim experience had taught him that a knowledge of apparent trivia could decide the outcome of a battle. And a battle could very well decide the outcome of a war, damned right.
Bolan was trying to visualize the layout of the park when Pol's voice intruded.
"Listen, what's the action, Sarge? How do we get Toni back in one piece?"
"Well, Smalley chose the meeting place," Bolan said at last, "and given his track record, we've got to anticipate a suck play. We go in ready for anything and see what develops. Play the ear."
"I still can't believe it," Pol said, sounding slightly shell-shocked. "The goddamned commissioner."
His voice was heavy with a mixture of anger and disgust.
"It happens," Bolan told him softly. "We can let someone else sort out the details when Toni's safe and sound."
Pol's answer was a snarl coming at him through clenched teeth.
"If he's hurt her, Mack... I swear, if anyone's hurt her again..."
He bit the sentence off, leaving it unfinished.
"Easy, Pol. Don't borrow grief."
Blancanales shook his head grimly.
"I've had it, that's all. If she's not all right... just don't try to get in my way, buddy."
Bolan was disturbed by his friend's anger, even though he understood it perfectly. The Executioner had always lived by a set of simple, self-imposed rules. And one of those, carved in granite, was that he would never — repeat, never — fire upon a cop.
Good, bad, or indifferent, no matter how venal or vicious a particular officer might prove to be upon examination, all of them were — or at least once had been — soldiers on the same side of the endless war against rampaging Animal Men. The cops stood for something, yeah, and Bolan hated the thought of drawing a bead on that symbol of law and order.
Still, he told himself, there was Toni... and Pol. If they were entering a trap, and Toni was injured or worse, how would he himself react?
Would he have the strength to stay his wrath and let slower justice take its winding course?
Would he try to hold back the angry, grieving man at his side?
And how far do you go to protect a tarnished soldier of the same side when he's proven guilty of murder, and worse? Do you turn a weapon on your friend to save a traitor?
Mack Bolan cursed silently to himself, knowing there was no way in the world to answer any of these crucial questions in advance.
They crossed St. Paul in good time, heading northeast on East Seventh to Arcade Avenue, then north to the intersection of Maryland Avenue. That took them west to meet West Shore Drive at the foot of Phalen Park, and there Bolan slid his rental car to a halt beneath acopse of roadside trees.
He checked his watch and found that they were slightly more than five minutes ahead of Roger Smalley's timetable.
So much the better. They would have time to lay some tentative plans.
Bolan reached into the back seat and pulled forward his flight bag filled with clanking armament.
"Let's suit up," he said simply, his eyes locking briefly with Pol's.
Blancanales nodded agreement, reaching into the flight bag to check through the arms sequestered there, selecting a portable assortment of lethal hardware for himself.
"Even when you travel light, you come prepared," he said to Bolan, forcing a grin that he obviously didn't feel.
Bolan answered with a cold smile of his own.
"Name of the game, buddy."
And as they sorted out their arms and ammunition, Mack Bolan began to speak rapidly, outlining a plan of action with alternate contingencies, knowing all the while that the lives of Toni, Pol, and himself were resting on his words.
They would, all of them, be tested in fire soon enough.