War Against The Mafia Part 1

THE EXECUTIONER: WAR AGAINST THE MAFIA.

By: Don Pendleton.

PROLOGUE.

Mack Bolan was not born to kill, as many of his comrades and superiors secretly believed. He was not a mechanically functioning killer-robot, as his sniper-team partners openly proclaimed. He was not even a cold-blooded and ruthless exterminator, as one leftist news correspondent tagged him. Mack was simply a man who could command himself. He was the personification of that ideal advanced by the army psychologist who screened and evaluated sniper-team candidates: "A good sniper has to be a man who can kill methodically, unemotionally, and personally.

Personally because it's an entirely different ball game when you can see even the color of your victim's eyes through the magnification of a sniper-scope, when you can see the look of surprise and fear when he realizes he's been shot. Most any good soldier can be a successful sniper once--it's the second or third time around, when the memories of personal killing are edged into the conscience, that the 'soldiers" are separated from the "executioners." Killing in this manner is closely akin to "murder" in the conscience of many men. Of course, we do not want mad dogs in this program, either. What we want, quite simply, is a man who can distinguish between murder and duty, and who can realize that a duty killing is not an act of murder. A man who is also cool and calm when he himself is in jeopardy completes the picture of our "sniper ideal." Sergeant Mack Bolan was obviously such a man. A weapons specialist and skilled armorer, he also held marksman awards in every personal-weapon category. The sarge did not keep a personal record of his "kills," but the official accounting shows a verified total of 32 high-ranking officers of the North Vietnamese Regulars, including General Ngo An; 46 Viet Cong guerrilla leaders, and 17 VC village officials. This account of a typical sniping mission was recorded in a report filed by Sergeant Bolan's spotter, Corporal T.

L. Minnegas, covering their mission together.

Team arrived vicinity of Station B at 0435 hours.

Thomas and Pvt. Yancey reconned and reported back "all-clear" at 0450 hours. Station B manned at 0500 hours and equipment set up.

At 0630 hours village began to stir. VC recon party arrived at 0642 and checked out the village. At 0650 Tra Huong and escort arrived outside chief's house. Chief and unknown male came out to greet Huong party. Targets confirmed with Sgt. Bolan and RVNM guide.

Sgt. Bolan's first round got Tra Huong (through the neck). Round two was through right temple of village chief, round three through back of Col. Huong's aide (unidentified).

Departed Station B at approx. 0652 hours, all objectives accomplished. Arrived Base Camp at 0940 hours. No casualties Sniper Team Able.

Vietnam represented a new type of warfare for the American soldier. Many grim "specialties" were developed there by American youth. And perhaps none more grim nor more specialized than the one personified in Sergeant Mack Bolan.

Bolan had been a career soldier. At age 30 he was a 12-year veteran and on his second Vietnam tour. He had never married. His mother, Elsa, a Youthful 47-year-old second-generation Polish-American, wrote him faithfully on Tuesdays and Fridays of each week and sent him a Sears package twice monthly, each one filled with tangy Polish sausages, cookies, and a small cake or two. Her letters were always cheerful and uncomplaining, and she often enclosed snapshots of Cindy, Mack's pretty 17-year-old sister, and of Johnny, the kid brother just turned 14.

Sam Bolan, Mack's father, had been a steel-worker since the age of 16. Mack always thought of Sam Bolan as being as dependable and as indestructible as the steel he made, and though Mack and Sam never corresponded directly, the letters between mother and son bore frequent messages between the Bolan men.

From one of Elsa's letters, for example: "Pop wants to know if it's true what they say about Asian women." And the reply from Mack: "Tell Pop there are a lot of truths about Asian women and I'm diligently seeking the full story. A-ha!" Cindy Bolan, at the time of the tragedy, had only recently graduated from high school. Her big brother represented her ideal of masculine perfection. She wrote him each night, continuing the letter diary-fas.h.i.+on and mailing it weekly, often confiding her secret fears and problems in the rambling letters. Example: "Mary Ann keeps trying to talk me into going to a pot party with her. Have you ever smoked pot? I hear it is used widely over there." Counselor Mack's reply from across the sea was: "With friends like Mary Ann, you don't have much need of enemies, do you. As for myself, I have plenty enemies enough over here without adding pot to the list." In another exchange, Cindy remarked: "It's always a problem. I mean, you know, how much is too much? I never had that problem with Steve, but Chuck keeps me shook up all the time, I mean, he has a problem, Know what I mean? I'm crazy about him but I don't know just how to handle this problem of his." The responding counsel from her brother was typical. "Chuck doesn't have the problem, honey," he wrote. "You have it. You know how to handle it if you really want to handle it. Right?" Cindy's reply to that also typified these personal exchanges between brother and sister: "Oh, by the way, no more Chuck problem. How did I handle it? No more Chuck!" In a letter from Mrs. Bolan dated in late spring, she told her son: "Now that the worst is past I suppose I should tell you that Pop has been having a bit of a rough time. He had a light heart attack in January, and the doctor would not let him work for a while. We pinched pennies and got through okay on the sickness benefits and Pop is back to work now and everything looks bright. Of course a few bills piled up but we'll catch up okay. Cindy had already decided to work a year before starting college, and I guess that's what bothered Pop the most--Cindy's education. He has always felt bad about not seeing you through college, you know. But--all is well now so there's nothing for you to worry about. And you are not to send any money home.

Pop would have a fit!" On the following August 12th, Sergeant Bolan was summoned to his base camp chaplan's office, where he learned of his father's death. And of his mother's. And of his sister's. The official communique also advised that young Johnny Bolan was in critical condition but was expected to survive.

Bolan was airlifted home on emergency leave to handle funeral arrangements and to see to the care of his orphaned brother.

It was a sad and traumatic home-coming for this professional soldier. The trauma was deepened when Sergeant Bolan learned the circ.u.mstances of the deaths from the homicide detective who met him at the airport. The elder Bolan had evidently "gone berserk" and, without apparent provocation, had shot his wife, son, and daughter, finally turning the gun on himself. Only the son survived.

It was another 48 hours before young Johnny Bolan was removed from the hospital's critical list and the grieving soldier could fully piece together the events leading to the tragedy. Johnny's statement to a police stenographer, delivered from a hospital bed, reads as follows: Pop had been sick and couldn't work for a while.

He got behind in some bills and he was worried about some money he borrowed about a year ago. Then he went back to work and he could not do the job he had been doing, because of his heart, and the job they gave him did not pay as much. He was worried about that, because of the bills and being behind, and then these guys were starting to bother him at work. These guys he owed some money to. I heard him tell Mama one night that they were blood-suckers, that they didn't even want to leave him enough every week to take care of his family. He said they could all go to h.e.l.l. Then one night he came home with his arm pulled out of the socket. His shoulder, I mean. These goons had worked him over. Mama got all tore up over that. She was scared he would have another heart attack. She was going to call the cops but Pop wouldn't let her. He said they'd just start taking it out on her and the kids. I heard Mama telling Cindy about it. Then things got okay again, a few weeks ago. Pop couldn't understand, but he was telling Mama these goons had been leaving him alone, and he sure wasn't going to go ask them why. Then the other night something happened.

I don't know what. I just know Pop started yelling and blowing his stack. Mama and Cindy were trying to quiet him down, they were afraid he'd have another attack. Then next thing I knew he had this old gun of his and he was blasting away with it. One of the shots got me. Then Pop went back in his bedroom and I heard one more shot just before I pa.s.sed out. That's all I know.

It was air, Johnny knew for the official police record, and the statement was sufficient to close the case as murder-suicide." For Sergeant Mack Bolan, however, the case was anything but closed. Johnny had no desire to withhold anything from his brother, and in a private conversation with Mack, he confided that Cindy had become involved with the "goons" who had been pressuring their father.

"She went to see these guys," Johnny said, "and told them about Pop's heart and asked them to lay offa him. She told me about that. What she didn't tell me was about this later deal she let them talk her into. At first she was just turning her paycheck over to them every week. She was only getting thirty-five a week, and that was supposed to be going in the bank for her college, you know. Then I found out what she'd started doing for them. She started working for those guys, Mack. She was sellin' her a.s.s.

Don't look at me like that, she was. I followed her one night and I found out for myself. I knew something was bothering her. I wasn't trying to spy on her, I just wanted to know what was wrong. Well, I caught her. I followed her to this motel and I hung around outside. I saw this guy go in. After he left, I busted in. The door wasn't even locked. Cindy was on the bed, bare-a.s.sed and crying.

She about died when she saw me. She said she had to get that money paid back quick, or they'd go to work on Pop again. She said they gave her a month, just one month, to cough up five hundred bucks, and they told her how she could earn the money. They set the whole thing up, and sent this guy she called Leo around to talk to her. Leo set up dates for her.

He'd call her and tell her the time and the place. She had just finished her third "date" when I caught her. I told her it was no good, that Pop wouldn't want it that way. She said it wasn't a matter of what Pop wanted or didn't want, it was just a matter of what had to be done. Well, I couldn't get anywhere with her. So I did a dumb thing. All I could think of was telling Pop.

I knew he'd straighten Cindy out. I mean, I knew he wouldn't hold still for what she was doing.

G.o.d, Mack, I didn't think he'd go nuts.

And he did. He went completely ape. Right off the bat he busted me in the mouth. Knocked me flat. I saw stars. I was layin' there on the floor and he was yelling and jumping around like something gone crazy. You know what I think? I think he must've had some idea that something funny had been going on. I mean, the look in his eyes when I told him. Like the light dawning, you know. Just the same, I never saw him like that before. He reached down and got ahold of me again and he was slapping me with his open hand and yelling, "Tell me yore lying, tell me you're lying!" "Then Cindy came running in. She was trying to pull Pop offa me, and both of them were yelling and screaming. Pop let go of me finally and I don't really know what they were saying to each other except Pop kept muttering, "It's a lie, it's a lie"--and Cindy was trying to explain that it didn't matter, that it wasn't that important.

Oh yeah--she told him she'd sell her soul if that's what it took, that he meant more to her than any lousy phoney money--and I think that's what really touched him off. He got real quiet then, and then Mama came running in. That's how fast all this happened. Mama had been in the bedroom asleep, and you know how light she sleeps. By the time she got awake and could get in there, all the shouting had ended.

"She and Cindy started trying to fix my mouth, trying to stop the bleeding. Pop was standing in a corner, his arms folded across his chest, and he was just looking at us. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face, Mack. I remember he said something silly, real silly, in that quiet way he had of talking sometimes, you remember? The sort of meditating voice? He said, "Cindy, I want you to get an education, honey." I don't think Cindy heard him. She was trying to get some ice out of a tray, to put on my lip, I guess.

Anyhow she didn't say anything back to him. He walked out of the room, back toward his bedroom. Next thing I knew, Pop was back, standing in the doorway. He had that old pistol in his hand, that old Smith and Wesson Uncle Billy gave him. I tried to yell something, but I didn't get a chance. Mama and Cindy were both mother-henning me, hovering over me. He shot me first. I actually saw him pull the trigger, I mean I saw his finger moving. Then it was like the world coming to an end. He just kept on pulling that trigger. I saw Mama and Cindy go down and still he kept shooting.

He stood there staring at me after the gun was empty, just staring at me. Mama and Cindy were laying across me and one of Mama's arms was on my head. I was peeping at him around Mama's body. It was like he didn't even know Mama and Cindy were there like it was just me 'n" him. He looked me right in the eye and said, "I'm sorry I busted your lip, John.

Then he just turned around and went back out, back toward the bedroom. Coupla minutes later I heard another shot. Then somebody started banging on the front door and I pa.s.sed out." Mack Bolan's only comment to his brother's emotional story was a bushed, "Son of a b.i.t.c.h." This entry from the diary, however, dated August 16th, is more revelatory of his reaction to the triple tragedy: "Cindy did only what she thought had to be done. In his own mixed-up way, I guess Pop did the same. Can I do any less?" And on August 17th, Bolan wrote: "It looks like I have been fighting the wrong enemy. Why defend a front line 8,000 miles away when the real enemy is chewing up everything you love back home? I have talked to the police about this situation and they seem to be helpless to do anything. The problem, as I see it, is that the rules of warfare are all rigged against the cops. Just knowing the enemy isn't enough. They have to prove he's the enemy, and even then sometimes he slips away from them. What is needed here is a bit of direct action, strategically planned, and to h.e.l.l with the rules. Over in "Nam we called it a "war of attrition." Seek out and destroy. Exterminate the enemy. I guess it's time a war was declared on the home front. The same kind of war we've been fighting in Nam. The very same kind." On August 18th, a sportsmans' shop in Pittsfield was burglarized. The owner reported that a high-powered hunting rifle, a deluxe scope, some targets, and several boxes of ammunition had been taken. An envelope of money sufficient to cover the loss had been left on the cash register. "it was just a midnight sale with no salesman present," the shopkeeper told police. "Evidently nothing else was disturbed and, from my standpoint, no crime has been committed." On August 19th the watchman at a deserted stone quarry several miles from Pittsfield investigated the sounds of gunfire in one of the back canyons of the quarry. "I didn't go all the way down in there to talk to the guy," the watchman later recalled. "He wasn't hurting anything or anybody. He'd set up this target range and he was plunkin' shots into the target from about a hundred yards out. Some sort of high-power rifle, sounded stronger'n a.30-06 but you know those rock walls build up sound, so I couldn't really say. I watched him for a little while. It looked like he was doing something to the gun every now and then, you know, adjusting it or something. He'd fire five rounds, then fiddle with the gun, five more rounds, then fiddle some more. Must've been out there a couple hours, but I didn't go down in there to say anything to him. It's a perfect place for target practice. He wasn't hurting nothing.

I get in some pistol practice around here myself. What's there to hurt?" Another entry from Bolan's diary, dated August 1, reads: "The Marlin really surprised me. I had never used a.444 before. I'd guess the muzzle energy at about a ton and a half. Enough there, anyhow, to bring down a grizzly. I should not have any trouble with the rats I have in mind. I sighted it in at a hundred, a hundred and ten, and a hundred and twenty yards, and the corrections are calibrated onto the scope. No sweat. I softened the lever action some, little too much tension there for the rapid-fire I need.

I am going up to the drop tomorrow and verify the range, though, using the scope. I want no error." On August 21/, Bolan wrote: "Okay, I have located and identified the first bunch and I am ready. The police lieutenant told me all about TIF. That is Triangle Industrial Finance.

They're a licensed loan outfit okay, but they use loan shark tactics and they've found a way to gimmick the law and get their rates up sky-high. The law can't touch them--but The Executioner can. My recon is complete and target identification is positive. Lauren is the wheel, the OIC of the local setup. Every night at 1750 hours his car is parked at the curb in front by the man called mister Erwin. The other Mister is a troop called Ja.n.u.s--Mister Ja.n.u.s. Must be some kind of a joke. The only ones they call "Mister' are the ones with side-arms. They wear them in shoulder holsters.

The one who looks like a salesman is named Brokaw. I believe he runs the office details. The College-boy type is Pete Rodriguez. He's an accountant, and as big a louse as any of them. The five of them leave the office at 1800 hours every night, give or take a minute or two, and go out to their substations to Pick up collections from their legmen. Later they make personal visits on slow accounts. But not tomorrow night! The Executioner has a little collection substation of his own all set up, on the fourth floor of the Delsey building. It's a perfect drop. I ran my triangulations last night and again tonight. It will be like picking rats out of a barrel.

The setup sort of reminds me of the site at Nha Tran. The targets will not have any place to go but down--to the ground. And that's just where I want them.

I'll take the two "Misters' first. That will plug the possibility of return fire and cut down on wild lead flying around. No problems I can see. I will have plenty of time for Laurenti. I timed out at six seconds on the dry run tonight and that was figuring them to scatter in all directions after the first round. I think I will better that time tomorrow because I do not believe these troops have been under fire before. I will probably be half done before the reaction even begins. Well we will see. We will see, Pop." On August 22nd, eight days following the interment of Bolan's dead relatives, five officials of a loan company were gunned down on the street outside the company office in Pittsfield, Bolan's home town. The following is an account of the incident by an eyewitness, a news vendor whose stand is located on the corner near where the shooting occurred: "These five guys come outta the loan company.

It's about closing time. Two is kinda arguing about something. One is carrying this satchel. They're standing beside this car, parked there at the curb in front of the office. One walks out inna street. Going around to the driver's side, I guess, Then he stops right in his tracks and kinda jerks around. His head snaps back toward me. I see his eyes, he's that close, and they're wide and surprised.

I see blood spurting outta his neck. I see all this before I even hear the first shot. It comes from up high, up the street some place. It booms, sort of rolls down between the buildings, you know, like a echo, like a big elephant gun or something. I can't tell where it came from, not exactly, just some place up the street. It's all happening so fast.

I mean, faster'n I can tell it. These guys on the sidewalk are standing there, just froze and gawking at this guy while he falls in the street. Then another one, his hands jerk up to his head just as his head starts flying off in all directions. My G.o.d, it just explodes, and I can see pieces flying every which way. The other guys are starting to scramble. One dives for the car. The other two are trying to get back inside the building. And these shots just keep rolling off, like a string of firecrackers, that fast, I mean just bing bing bing, like that. Only there's five bings. I've thought real careful about that, I know there was just five shots, like a rhythm, pow pow pow pow pow, see, just like that. And there's five dead guys strewn about there, and I mean just dead as h.e.l.l. They all got it some place above the shoulders, every one of them. Gory, man, gory." A plain-clothes policeman, in an off-the-record remark to a newsman, said of the killings, "I just can't get very excited about a gang killing. And, of course, that's what this is. We've known for a long time that this outfit (the loan company) had ties with the Mafia. We just never could get anything to take into court. As long as they keep it this clean, I mean with no innocent bystanders being involved, they can knock each other off all they want to and you'll see d.a.m.n few tears in my eyes. Yeah, it's just the underworld purging itself. It smells like gang war to me." The officer was correct in one respect--but quite wrong in another. The attack did indeed signal the beginning of a war, but one side was strictly a one-man campaign. Mack Bolan had found a new battleground for an age-old cause, and had declared unconditional war on the best-organized crime syndicate in the history of the world. Note this brief entry in Bolan's diary, dated August 22nd: "Scratch five. Results positive. Identification confirmed by unofficial police report. The Mafia, for G.o.d's sake.

So what? They can't be any more dangerous or any smarter than the Cong. Scratch five, and how many are left? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? So--I've got another unwinnable war on my hands. So it isn't the winning that counts. It's the fighting it that goes down in the big book. The big book will say that Mack Bolan fought the good fight.

That's the only kind that counts. Now to find Leo." Executioner Bolan was taking on The Mafia.

BOOK ONE.

The Smiling Fates The gold lettering on the frosted gla.s.s door read: "Plasky Enterprises." A tall man in a military uniform paused momentarily with one hand on the door, then pushed on inside and closed the door softly behind him. It was a large office, divided into small pens by a network of wrought-iron railings.

Each "pen" contained a modern desk and a small table set at a right angle to the desk. Two simply upholstered metal chairs were stationed at each table. At the moment, each of the pen-style offices was vacant.

A pretty brunette occupied a reception desk outside the network of wrought iron. She was doodling on a scratch pad, the secretarial chair swivelled so that it faced the front door, her body twisted at the waist with the upper torso leaning over the desk, a silken expanse of long legs crossed at the knees and attractively displayed from a tight-fitting dress that reached only to about midthigh. She looked up with a bored smile, not bothering to rearrange her position at the desk.

"Good morning," the visitor said. The voice was deeply pleasant and suggestive of an accustomed authority.

"Everybody's out," the girl told him, flas.h.i.+ng her eyes toward the empty desks as though to confirm the truth of her statement."... if you'd like to wait ..." He showed frank interest in her legs, from the hem of the skirt on down, and said, "I'm Mack Bolan. Mr. Plasky said he'd see me at nine." He glanced at his watch. "It's nine now." "Oh, well I think maybe Mr. Plasky is in," the girlsd, gazing at the visitor with a new-found respect. She picked up a telephone and punched a b.u.t.ton at the base of the instrument, all the while viewing Bolan with cool appraisal. "There's a Mr. Bolan here," she whispered into the mouthpiece; then, still holding the receiver to an ear, told Bolan: "Go on in." The tall man angled a glance toward a door at the far end of the room and raised his eyebrows quizzically. The girl merely nodded, then giggled into the mouthpiece of the telephone and gasped, "Oh, Mr. Plasky!" Bolan grinned as he pushed through a swinging gate in the wrought iron. He walked past the row of office-pens and opened the wooden door to the private office, glancing back at the brunette as he went in. She was still giggling delightedly into the telephone. He closed the door and turned his attention to the man behind the desk. The chair was swivelled so that Plasky's back was toward the door. His feet were crossed atop a low window-ledge and he was half-lying in the chair, the telephone clasped loosely to his head. He was telling the receptionist an off-color story, and vastly enjoying the telling.

Bolan dropped into a leather chair and lit a cigarette. Plasky ended the story with an explosive laugh, then launched immediately into another, swivelling about and raising his voice to share it with his visitor. Despite the big-humored jocularity of the moment, Bolan was aware that he was being sized up, and he did some sizing himself.

Plasky was a heavy man, but not soft, thick of chest and shoulders. The hand clasping the telephone was a powerful one with stubby, squared-off fingers--well manicured. Bolan aged the man at about forty. The hair was light brown, nearly blonde, and carefully barbered. A chiselled, ruddy face completed the not-unhandsome picture.

Bolan grinned with the punch line of the story and could hear the delighted shrieking of the brunette rattling the diaphragm of the telephone receiver. Plasky dropped the instrument, the genial lines of his face instantly reforming into a cool composure as his eyes locked onto his visitor's.

"The day's contribution to employee relations," he explained in a suddenly businesslike voice.

"You're Bolan, eh?" he asked, with hardly a pause.

The visitor nodded. "Mack Bolan. I won't be in town long. Figured I better get this business settled." Plasky fussed with a manila folder that lay unopened on his desk. "It was good of you to contact us," he said. "Course--you understand our circ.u.mstances. We're an auditing firm. You understand that. The unfortunate uh-circ.u.mstances-over at Triangle Industrial..." "I won't be in town long," Bolan repeated.

"I was told that you are temporarily in charge of the Triangle accounts." "Wasn't that a terrible thing?" Plasky muttered. "Five good men--imagine that--some nut, some lunatic, and five good men--wiped out--just like that." He snapped thick fingers in emphasis.

"I-uh-we got your father's book here, Mr.

Bolan," he went on, in subdued tones. He flipped up the front cover of the manila folder, stared briefly at something inside, then closed it again. "Frankly, this account is in a mess. Your father is in serious arrears.

Bolan produced a small spiral notebook and tossed it onto the desk. "Not according to this, he said.

"That's my father's record. He borrowed four hundred dollars eleven months ago. He has repaid five hundred and fifty. And I have reason to believe that other payments, not recorded in his book, have been made by other members of the family.

Obviously your books are in error." Plasky smiled blandly and spread his hands, palms up, on the desktop, ignoring Bolan's notebook. "Loan companies are not charitable inst.i.tutions, Mr. Bolan, and let me a.s.sure you--we do not make errors in our books. Each account is double-audited, and-was "He borrowed four, he repaid five-and-a-half. The debt should be paid." Plasky was working diligently at the smile.

"Your confusion is understandable, soldier." He was reminding Bolan of his lower place in the order of intelligence. "Like I said, financiers are not charity-minded. They rent out their money. It's a simple rental arrangement. If you rent a house or a car, you expect to pay your rent each month and also to return the property--all of the property--when your rental period has expired. Right?" Bolan merely nodded.

"We rented your father a sum of money. The rental period specified was ninety days. If your father had returned our property at the expiration of that period, and if his rent was all paid up at that time, the debt would have been settled. But he did not.

Naturally, in any business arrangement, there are certain penalty agreements to be invoked when one of the parties defaults. So many people fail to understand the financial structure of the business world. Now all your father has managed to do is to barely keep up the rent payments and to pay some of the penalties.

He still has all of the property he rented--in this case, our money. We want it back. Are we so unreasonable?" "Five hundred and fifty bucks is pretty high rent on four hundred bucks, isn't it?" Bolan observed softly.

"You're forgetting the penalties," Plasky shot back. He smiled. "All right, you're an intelligent man, Mr. Bolan. Sure, our interest rates are high. We provide a service at a risk that few financiers would be interested in.

Why didn't your father borrow this money from a bank?

Huh?

You know the answer to that. No bank would have risked a nickel on your father. We did. We risked four hundred dollars on him. Frankly, soldier, your old man was a bad risk.

Naturally our interest rates have to take that cruel fact into account. And, of course, we don't force anyone to do business with us. We-was "You keep saying "we,"" Bolan interrupted. "I thought-was "Plasky Enterprises is a.s.sociated with Triangle, of course," Plasky said. "Shall we get down to business now? Are you prepared to settle your father's account?" "As far as I'm concerned its already settled," Bolan replied mildly. "I just came in to tell you that." "Our business is with your father, Mr. Bolan," Plasky said, coloring furiously. "He'll have to talk for himself." "That'd be a pretty good trick, Mr.

Plasky. He was buried ten days ago." There was a moment of silence as Plasky whipped the cover of the Bolan account open and closed several times. Finally he said, "We'll just refer the matter to our legal department. We can tie up the estate, you know." "There's no estate and you know it," Bolan told him. The debt is paid, Plasky. He got four, he returned five and a half. The debt is paid." He rose to leave.

"You don't know what you're saying, fella," Plasky sneered, rising with him.

"Is your legal department going to pack up their bra.s.s knucks and follow me to Vietnam?" Bolan asked, his tone faintly mocking.

"Vietnam?" the other man echoed.

"I got emergency leave to bury the old man.

I'll be going back in a couple of days. By the way..." Bolan sat back down.

"Yeah?" The ruddy face was further flushed with suppressed anger.

"I saw those guys get it." "What? What guys?" "The guys down at Triangle. I saw them die." "So?" Plasky's hands were clenched together on the desk.

"I think I saw the guy that did it." An electric silence settled into the atmosphere of the sumptuous office. Plasky's knuckles cracked, emphasizing the silence.

"Did you go to the police?" he asked presently.

"And get involved in a mess like that?" Bolan's tone clearly implied that such an action was unthinkable.

"My-uh-a.s.sociates would be interested in your-uh-observations." "Like I said, I'm going to Vietnam in a couple of days," Bolan replied.

"I-uh-could set up a quick meeting." "I want some fun and frolic before I go back to the jungle," the tall man mused. "I don't want to get tied up." "I guarantee you all the fun and frolic you can handle," Plasky replied quickly, reaching for the telephone.

Bolan's hand stopped him. "Then there's this other thing," he said.

"What other thing?" "This strained customer relation thing. I say the Bolan debt is settled." "Of course! Of course it's settled!" "I want the note." Plasky dug into the folder, produced an imposingly legal-appearing paper, and slid it into Bolan's hand. The tall man glanced at it, then settled back in his chair with a grunt, folding the paper and placing it in a pocket. Plasky's stubby forefinger stabbed into the telephone dial.

"Do you believe in fate, Bolan?" Plasky asked, obviously highly pleased with the turn of the morning's events.

"Yeah. You'd never believe how much I believe in fate, Mr. Plasky," the tall man replied. And The Executioner smiled.

The Plan Mack Bolan had no illusions regarding his self-appointed task. He was no starry-eyed crusader. Neither was he a vengeance-ridden zealot.

"No monkeys on my back," was his realistic motto. He did not necessarily believe in dying for just causes; he simply felt that a man would do his duty as he saw it. Perhaps this was a family trait, and perhaps it was just as subject to erroneous application as the recent actions of his sister, his brother, and his father. But Mack Bolan's duty seemed rather clear-cut to him at the present.

He saw a cancerous leech at the throat of America, and he saw the inability or the indisposition of American inst.i.tutions to deal with it.

He saw, also, that he was both equipped and positioned to strike a telling blow to at least one small tentacle of the monster growth. To a man like Mack Bolan this was a clear call to duty. But there were no illusions. He was aware of the hazards, of the odds against his success. He was in violation of the law himself, of course. Already, in the eyes of his society, he was a five-time murderer.

If apprehended he could expect little sympathy from the courts of law. Already the police might be sniffing hotly along his trail. He had proved to himself, through the visit to Plasky's office, that "the organization" also was strongly interested in the Triangle Industrial killings. He was satisfied in his own mind that they had their contacts, both in and out of society, and a strong intelligence capability that would soon lead them inevitably to Mack Bolan.

But his visit to Plasky Enterprises was not an act of foolish bravado nor of amateurish humbling. He knew precisely what he was doing, or what he was attempting. He was moving against the enemy in a coolly careful battle plan. Seek and destroy. This was the plan. Find, identify, then execute--before they can regroup and counterattack.

At the moment he had the advantage. He had to press that advantage. He had found the link beyond Triangle Industrial. The battle plan now called for an infiltration through that Infiltration!

Target Identification! Confirmation!