Don Pendleton - Save the Children

Bolan flitted from shadow to shadow through the collection of studio mock-ups.

He was drawn by the music and lights emanating from one of the sets at the front of this ground-level section of the warehouse.

As he neared it, he saw that the main piece of furniture on this otherwise almost empty set was a massive water bed.

The set was lit by two big banks of klieg lights that cast bright, glaring illumination down upon the scene.

On the water bed romped a man and two women, all three of them totally naked.

They were trying to look as if they were enjoying themselves, but instead they just looked sweaty and tired.

Off to one side was a cameraman, perched behind his camera.

Next to him stood Randy Owens, who occasionally called out commands to his actors, usually telling them to move a certain way so that the camera angle wouldn't be blocked.

The setting stank of poor ventilation, stale sweat and sex.

The music came from a small stereo unit just out of camera range. Obviously, it was playing just to set the mood. The soundtrack for the film would be dubbed in later.

The soundtrack wasn't very important in this kind of movie, anyway.

Randy Owens looked not too much the worse for wear after being kneed in the crotch by Denise Parelli and knocked on the head by Mack Bolan a few hours ago. He looked haggard but with all his attention focused on his cast cavorting on the water bed as he directed them.

What interested Bolan the most were the four men standing with Owens.

Three of them were strictly Mafia soldiers, big and brawny but none too bright, watching the action on the water bed, their coarse faces intent, their attention seemingly absorbed by the fanciful contortions of grinding flesh.

The fourth guy was watching with a more objective eye.

An accountant's eye.

Griff had called it, all right. Parelli's Mob had more than a finger in the distribution setup for Owens's porn films, and more than likely the sandy-haired man in sunglasses and expensive suit was here to keep check on Owens's operation and protect the family investment.

Bolan was here to pump Owens for a direct lead to Parelli, but it looked as if he would have to wade through some slime first.

"All right, all right," Owens called out tiredly to the three on the water bed. "That's enough of this shit for now. Thanks for those academy-award performances," he added sarcastically.

The naked man on the water bed, a muscled hunk with a stupid face, swung his legs off and stood up, seemingly oblivious of his nude state, disgust evident on his face.

"You think it's easy getting turned on with these harpies, you're welcome to try, Owens," he whined.

Both young women bounced angrily off the bed after him.

"Harpies?" one of them shrieked.

"Your problem is you don't know what to do with a real woman, you goddamned faggot!"

The hunk took a step toward her, his hand coming up as if he intended to slap her, but he stopped abruptly and glanced at the three goons standing with Owens and the other man.

"Smart thinking, Rudy," Owens said wearily. "I could replace you a lot easier than I could Tess and Babs here."

"You slobs just don't understand the creative process," the hunk muttered.

He stalked over to a chair and snagged one of the robes that was draped over it, shrugging into the garment.

The two actresses crossed over to Owens.

The one who had spoken before put her hand on Owens's arm.

"Can't you do something, Randy? It's bad enough that we have to work with that creep, but then you let these goons come in here and ogle us!"

She gestured at the three hardmen, all of whom were still leering.

Owens flicked a glance at the man in the sunglasses and looked embarrassed, the fact that two nude young women stood right in front of him obviously disturbing him less than what one of them was saying.

"Uh, look, Tess, I'll straighten it all out, okay? Just don't get yourself in an uproar, huh?"

The girl sniffed in derision and turned away to get her own robe, the other actress accompanying her.

As the two women walked away, one of the thugs muttered something lewd.

"That's enough of that," the accountant in the sunglasses snapped. "Owens, I want to talk to you in your office."

"Sure thing, Mr. Carson," Owens replied a little too quickly.

Rudy, Tess and Babs had gone off to some makeshift dressing rooms fashioned by arranging the pieces of sets to give a little privacy.

The three goons stayed where they were, no doubt hoping to catch another glimpse of the actresses' bodies.

Owens and the man called Carson crossed to a small, glassed-in office tucked into a front corner of the ground floor of the warehouse.

Unknown to them, they had a shadow.

Bolan navigated soundlessly after them through the cluttered warehouse, keeping pace behind the stacked set backdrops, carefully avoiding obstacles that could cause noise.

He held his position a moment longer, then peered into the office.

He watched as Owens and Carson shut the door behind them.

Carson went to a desk and sat down.

Owens made no objection to the Mafia money man taking what had to be Owens's accustomed place.

The office was blocked from view of the movie set where the three hoods had remained behind.

Bolan was not close enough yet to hear what they were saying inside that cubicle.

It looked as if Carson was doing most of the talking, leaning back in Owens's chair, giving the filmmaker a good, heated dressing-down about something.

Owens stood in front of the desk, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, making an occasional, hesitant reply but not saying much.

Bolan glided around what was supposed to be the wall of a bedroom and stepped over a pile of woundup cables only a few feet from the office.

The office, small as it was, was luxuriously appointed, especially compared to the rest of the dingy warehouse studio. The carpet and the upholstery of the chair behind the desk were plush, and there was a well-stocked wet bar on the wall to one side.

Owens might cut a few corners in his moviemaking costs but he evidently liked his own comforts, thought Bolan.

Comforts that were, at the moment, maybe in danger of being taken away from him.

"Protect our investment, Owens," Bolan heard Carson saying, confirming Bolan's earlier guess that the man was some sort of accountant. "We cannot afford to have these constant, continual delays. The distribution arm must have new product."

"You know how actors are," Owens replied haltingly, his voice muffled by the glass. "You've got to baby them, coddle them along."

"I don't care what you do or how you do it, just as long as you turn out plenty of product." Carson reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small plastic bag containing white powder. He tossed it onto the desktop. "There. That ought to keep them happy for a while."

Owens reached out and picked up the bag, tossing it lightly into the air and catching it.

"This will be a big help, all right." He grinned. "Tell Mr. Parelli I said thanks."

"Mr. Parelli isn't interested in gratitude. Just results. See that you deliver."

Bolan had heard enough.

Results, the man had said.

The Executioner was ready to deliver.

He stepped up to the door of that office, ready to ease in and confront Owens and the accountant.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" a female voice squealed behind him.

Bolan spun and saw one of the actresses, the one called Babs, standing there in a robe that barely came to her thighs.

She look shocked and surprised, ready to whirl and run.

She did just that with a high-pitched scream thrown in for good measure when she saw the big blacksuited guy holding the huge AutoMag.