Don Pendleton - Save the Children

"Right," growled Bolan. "Just a rumor. Now tell me where Parelli is."

"I have no idea! We've never met. I only received phone calls from the man."

That was the only way it would be handled, thought Bolan, turning this provocative tidbit over in his mind even as he decided what to do about Dutton.

The senator sounded sincere enough and he was sure still scared enough. He was either telling the truth or he was a consummate liar, which, considering his line of work, was altogether probable.

It was not often Bolan heard something new from the underworld grapevine, but Senator Mark Dutton was close enough to the source that there just might be something to it, which put an interesting new twist on things.

Sleek, attractive Denise Parelli, the actual boss of a ruthless Mafia family, ruling things from behind the scenes with an iron hand?

Yeah.

Bolan could see it, all right.

The revelation didn't really change things that much, though.

There were still too many loose ends, too many dangling questions.

When the time came for the all-out blitz that would write a fiery end to the Parelli family... son, soldiers and maybe mama, too...

Bolan wanted no loose ends, no questions.

Dutton's eyes were darting left and right frantically, looking for the first opening so he could bolt from the man who had him cornered here, but no one had showed yet from either end of the passageway.

"W-well?" he asked Bolan. "You won't kill me, will you, Bolan?"

Bolan made up his mind. "Not this time, Senator. You just bought your life back."

Dutton sighed all the way from his shoelaces.

"Because of what I told you?"

"Because of the things you said to the crowd in that ballroom," Bolan corrected. "Because of a check for forty thousand dollars to a ghetto playground. That bought you your life, Senator. Clean up your act. You won't get another chance."

"I... I..." Dutton was too shaken up, then he found the words. "Thank you," he said fervently.

"And don't raise a ruckus while I'm on my way out of here, and maybe you'll be lucky enough never to see me again."

"W-whatever you say," Dutton replied, pale and trembling.

Bolan left the politician standing there and elbowed his way through the swing door, back into the ballroom.

For what seemed like a long time, Mark Dutton stood there, his ears ringing, his throat dry, his heart pounding, but it could not have been more than a couple of seconds before he forced himself to raise his eyes and look up and down the passageway.

The Executioner was gone.

Dutton did not care where, but that was all right. Just as long as Bolan wasn't here with that hard voice and those cold eyes.

The politician wondered what to do next. He pulled out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his sweaty brow.

Dread made him almost nauseated.

The door from the ballroom suddenly opened.

Dutton practically jumped out of his skin, jerking around to see who was there.

"Oh, there you are, Senator. I wondered where you had gone off to."

The mild voice belonged to Floyd Wallace, who ambled into the passageway to peer more closely at the visibly shaken Dutton.

"My God, Mark, what's wrong?" he asked. "You look like something's just scared you out of your wits."

Dutton held out his closed hand, then opened it, revealing to Wallace the marksman's medal clutched in his fingers.

"Bolan was here," he croaked hoarsely.

Wallace's eyes widened behind his thick glasses.

"He... knows?" he asked in a quiet voice that dripped menace. "About you?"

Dutton nodded.

"About us," he said.

Wallace pursed his lips.

"Hm, that's not good. What did you tell him?"

"N-nothing," Dutton lied, inwardly damning the stutter that fear had produced. "He didn't say a thing about you, actually, Floyd. He's incredible. He just... gave the impression of knowing."

Dutton saw no reason to mention the ideas he had voiced to Bolan about Denise Parelli.

The senator could see Wallace's brain clicking into high gear.

"Bolan is very clever. We know this. He could be bluffing, to learn more."

Wallace's tone was brisk and businesslike now. "We shall have to attend to Mr. Bolan. It's that simple."

"What do we do?" Dutton asked anxiously, eager to turn over the responsibility.

"How long has it been since he was here?"

"Just a few moments. You may have passed him on your way back here. He was pretending to be a reporter."

Wallace didn't give that a second thought.

"You notify the hotel security force that there is an intruder in the building, that he tried to rob you. I'll get word to my own people that Bolan is here."

"We... have people in the hotel?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd have come here otherwise, do you? A man of my position can't afford to take chances, Senator."

"What about Parelli?"

"I'll take care of that, as we've agreed upon. Satisfactory?"

Dutton nodded uneasily. He half expected to see Bolan come bursting back in there to pump him and Wallace full of holes.

"I... guess so."

Wallace smiled then, again transforming himself into the kindly figure the crowd in the ballroom had listened to a short while ago.

"Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll get things started. And I really have to get back to the orphanage. We're having a basketball tournament tomorrow. All the dormitories have teams and I can't disappoint the children by not being up bright and early for the finals."

He didn't wait for Dutton to respond, but turned and hurried back into the emptying ballroom.

Dutton watched Wallace go through the door.

It was hard to believe the mousy little man was as deeply involved in the whole operation as he was, thought Dutton, who wondered with more anxiety than ever what his own fate would be.

He cursed his weakness, and his needs.

If Bolan found out, there would really be hell to pay.

And Senator Mark Dutton would be burning right along with all the other lost souls.

Bolan went out through the big main doors of the ballroom and started down a wide corridor toward the lobby.

Smaller meeting rooms opened off the corridor.

The hotel lobby was huge, ornate, its ceiling three balconied stories high. Glass-enclosed elevators ran up and down one whole wall. In the center of the large open space was a fountain. On the opposite wall from the bank of elevators was the long counter where the hotel's guests checked in and out.

The security office was at the end of the counter.

Bolan was halfway across the lobby, almost to the gurgling fountain, when three men came hurrying out of the security office.

One wore a suit while the other two had on rent-a-cop uniforms, their heads swiveling from side to side as they anxiously cased the lobby.

Bolan knew they were looking for him.

The lobby was busy with guests checking in or leaving for the evening, plus the mass exodus of those who had attended the fund-raising dinner.

Bolan's pace never faltered as he moved to his right, circling the fountain, heading for a door marked Stairs.

In a high-rise hotel like this the stairs would not be heavily traveled. He could make it down to the basement garage and out onto the street that way.

Maybe giving the senator the white flag hadn't been such a bright idea, he told himself. Ditto, Randy Owens.

He wondered if he was going soft; or maybe, when it came to granting absolutes like life and death, some men deserved the benefit of a doubt.

Bolan reached the door to the stairwell and shouldered through it, casting a glance over his shoulder as he did so.

The security men back there hadn't seen him.

He let the door swing shut behind him and headed toward the steps to the garage... and came face-to-face with two security men, their uniforms identical to those in the lobby. The pair reached the top of the stairs, hurrying on their way from the garage to the lobby.