Don Pendleton - Save the Children

There had been intangibles about this mission from the beginning, but Bolan had vowed to take on the odds and deliver a strike against the Parelli empire in spite of those intangibles.

Parelli was worth Bolan's attention, damn right. The mobster had to be located and terminated.

Intangibles, yeah.

Bolan was convinced that there was more to this Chicago strike than he had first suspected. The warrior could sense a foul, evil undercurrent pulsing just beneath the surface, but time was running out too fast, and time was something Bolan had not had much of to begin with.

Bolan had never expected to survive his first assault on the Mafia those years ago when he had come home from Nam to avenge his family.

Vengeance, then, had quickly given way to duty, determination, when he fully understood the bigger picture. The Mafia was evil, sure, but it was only part of the problem.

And yet Bolan had lived his life since with the full expectation that every day could well be his last.

Thus far fate, luck, whatever, had seen him through mile after bloody mile, but Bolan understood that it could not last forever.

One day his luck would change and there'd be a bullet with his name on it. No matter.

Chicago was due for some cleansing fire.

He'd play Fate's game. He, too, had some aces up his sleeve.

He would not go to his death knowing that the truth had eluded him in Chicago.

Cold fury gripped his insides each time he thought of the sickness he had seen on Parelli's TV screen. He had to nail Parelli more than ever now, and he had to clear up this tangle before one more child came to harm.

There had to be something big, that was the only way it played, what with Parelli being so impossible to find. The Chicago boss had gone to ground and taken his terrible secrets and plans with him, but Bolan would find him, hell yeah, and Bolan would bust the thing apart so they'd never put it together again, no matter what it was.

And the best lead he had now was a creep he'd let slip through his fingers twice.

He would find Randy Owens.

He would learn the truth about Parelli and Griff and Senator Dutton and, he hoped, about a woman named Lana Garner.

If hesurvived.

Chicago seemed wired for the Executioner; there had been too many close calls already from the Mob and the cops, but Bolan would do it, yes.

He spotted his target.

Both the bar and the massage parlor had distinctive signs bearing their names and both had a steady flow of customers, Bolan saw as he cruised by.

The closest parking spot he could find on the busy street was two blocks away. He did not like being that far from his wheels, but there was little he could do about it.

He locked the car and strode back down the bustling sidewalk toward Jimmy Kidd's.

Owens almost fainted on the spot.

Heart pounding, he flung himself around, half expecting to find himself staring down the barrel of that goddamn cannon the Executioner carried.

Instead, he found himself looking up into a strong but attractive female face framed by a wild mane of fiery red hair.

"My God, Sheba!" Owens exploded. "You just about scared the shit out of me!"

The towering redheaded beauty cracked a coarse chuckle and jerked a thumb at the door of the men's room, a few steps away.

"Well, we're in the right place for that, aren't we, hon?"

She was taller than Owens by a couple of inches. The leotard she wore revealed the impressive musculature of her body, reminding Owens of the fact that she was a bodybuilder who spent every minute she could spare away from the running of the massage parlor, pumping iron, developing muscles that came in handy for dealing with customers who got a little too carried away in the parlor. The stamina she gained from her workouts made her a tireless sexual performer. Owens had used her in several movies.

"What's the matter with you anyway?" she asked, studying Owens more closely, noticing his somewhat disheveled appearance. "I've never seen you this scared."

"I've never had Mack Bolan after me, either," Owens snapped.

"Bolan?" The name burst out of her. "What's the Executioner want with you? No offense, Randy, it's just that... you don't seem the type he usually goes after."

"Don't I wish," Owens muttered, making a sour face. "Look, Sheba, can you and Jimmy hide me out for a little while? I'll get in touch with..."

He broke off abruptly, unsure of how much to tell Sheba. It suddenly occurred to Owens that perhaps he could not trust the woman.

"I'll work it out," he finished limply.

She nodded.

"Sure, you can hang out around here, Randy boy. Go on in the club and tell Phoebe I said to take you upstairs to my office. Use the phone there if you need it. I'll go and get Jimmy."

"Thanks, Sheba. I really appreciate this."

She gave him a friendly slap on the back, the heavy thump only staggering him a little bit.

"Don't mention it. What are friends for? I'll see you in a few minutes."

She moved on down the corridor toward the bar, not the least bit self-conscious in the body-hugging leotard.

Owens went through a curtain of beads at the far end of the hall, similar to the doorway that led into Jimmy Kidd's.

Sheba's place was strictly functional on the first floor; massage rooms opened off the hall where the whores plied their trade.

The lighting was dim, the atmosphere smoky, stifling.

The walls pulsated like an eerie heartbeat from the jukebox and voices from Jimmy Kidd's on the other side of the partition, but in here was a closeness that Owens found to be spooky and uncomfortable.

The rooms on the second floor were fancier, better furnished, Owens knew. The clients with more money to spend were steered up to the second floor. The variety of services available up there was wider, too.

The third floor included the offices, Sheba's own personal quarters and a few very special rooms where anything could be had for a price.

Not many people made it to the third floor.

Owens had been up there a couple of times, but only as a guest. David Parelli threw parties for the employees from time to time on Sheba's third floor.

Now Owens went to the front of the parlor, where blackened windows provided privacy from the street.

Phoebe was on duty there, wearing a diaphanous, togalike garment that revealed more than it covered.

Owens passed on the message from Sheba.

The hooker led him to the elevator and accompanied him on the ride up to Sheba's office. She stood against him in the close confines of the elevator.

"Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Owens?"

He felt a warmth in his groin but knew he could not relax, not tonight.

Not with Bolan after him.

"Uh, no thanks," he told the whore. "I appreciate it, really, but right now I, uh, just want to take it easy."

"Suit yourself."

She led the way impersonally from the elevator to the door of the office across the ratty-smelling hallway. She carried a key with which she unlocked the door to Sheba's office, then stepped aside for him to enter.

He did, and she left him alone, closing the door after her.

The place was a combination office and gym, he saw as he looked around. One side of the big room had a desk and several comfortable chairs along with some filing cabinets, the other side was occupied by weight benches and Nautilus machines.

Sheba wasn't interested in anything as trendy as aerobics. Her workouts were serious business for her, not just a new way to pick up men.

There were several posed photographs of her on the walls, showing off her figure in skimpy bathing suits.

He crossed to the desk, on the side of the big room that was carpeted with a deep pile rug, where his footfalls made no sound.