Don Pendleton: California Hit

Bolan checked his impulse to follow the fleeing Mafioso into the pagoda and instead whirled about and returned to the parking lot. He paused there long enough to press a marksman's medal into the limp hand of a fallen gunner, then he fell back along the flagstoned walkway.

A secondary explosion occurred somewhere inside the joint. A portion of the roof fell in and the flames leapt higher.

More sirens now... coming in from every direction... and Bolan mentally tipped his hat to the quick reaction by the city — but his numbers had never been more critical, and he knew that a successful retreat was becoming less likely with every step he took.

A line of automobiles had come to a halt just up-range from the disaster area and a collection of people were standing around in tight little groups and gawking at the spectacular fire.

One of the onlookers spotted the armed man in black, and he reacted visibly. Bolan stepped back and went the other way.

A police cruiser flashed across the street down range, and the deep rumbling of fire trucks had now joined the sounds of the night.

Yeah... he had overplayed his numbers, all right.

The enemy had regrouped outside the flaming building, and a lot of arm-waving and signal-calling was happening down there now. They would be organized into a hot pursuit, very soon now.

Sirens were flying all around the area — and Bolan had known what to expect if he dallied too long at the scene of combat. The entire neighborhood would be sealed off — by police and fire equipment — and the Executioner would be contained within a painfully small hunting preserve, with irate Mafiosi turning every rock in a search for their most hated enemy.

Yeah. So what the hell. It was what a guy could expect when he opened with a wild card.

But it was the China doll who'd made the difference. Except for her, he would have been free and clear before anyone had realized exactly what happened.

Bolan was poised there, at the edge of hell, his senses flaring out through the night in an intuitive search for the best road back.

And then she was there again, moving out of the darkness precisely as she had done before, except that this time she seemed to be targeting directly on the man in black and she was showing him a tiny automatic which somehow managed to look large and menacing in that petite hand.

He allowed her to gaze into the bore of the greasegun for a second before he told her, "You're not the enemy."

"Worse than that," she replied in a voice that almost smiled. "I could be a friend."

He shrugged and said, "You've got about a second to decide which."

"That's your decision," she told him. "Will you follow me?"

Bolan hesitated for only an instant — to sample the atmospheric developments about him — and it was all there, all the elements that could spell entrapment, defeat, and the end of a highly important war.

It had been a good opener, sure. But only if the war remained open.

"Why not?" he said, in response to the girl's question. "Let's go."

She spun about and glided gracefully back through the synthetic gardens, keeping to the shadows and moving surely along an arcing path toward the far side.

Bolan kept her in sight, his weapon at the ready, and his instincts in quivering alertness.

Whatever and whomever the China doll was, she was at least an unknown factor, a variable. It was more than Bolan could say for anything else awaiting him in that mist-shrouded night.

Sure, he'd follow her. To his grave, maybe.

But, then, all of Bolan's roads led inevitably to that same point, anyway. Maybe this one would be a bit longer, a bit more scenic, than any of the others presently available.

A guy had to follow his stars.

And somehow, for openers, this one seemed right. A China doll leading him out of a synthetic Chinese hell.

But into where?

Bolan scowled, hugged his weapon, and followed his guide into the unknown.

At least one thing was certain. He had drawn blood at San Francisco, and soon it would be flowing in buckets — his own very probably included.

For good or for bad, another Executioner war was underway.

Half of the firefighting equipment in the city seemed to be spotted around the China Gardens. Fire hoses were strung out in precise patterns and firemen swarmed everywhere, many of them wearing asbestos gear and equipped with oxygen masks.

It was a real scorcher. It was a damned lucky thing that this joint was sitting out by itself this way, or half of North Beach would have gone up with it.

Detective Sergeant Bill Phillips of the Brushfire Squad paced restlessly about the Life Emergency command post, trying to put the pieces together in his mind and impatiently waiting to get down onto the scene.

The Life Emergency — LE — people had found very little of life to worry about. Six victims were dead of gunshot wounds, another four had been killed instantly in the blast, and God only knew how many they'd find cremated inside — if they could ever get in there for a look-see.

Another police cruiser eased through the confusion and came to a halt inside the emergency perimeter. The heavy man in blue who descended from it was the Harbor Precinct boss, Captain Barney Gibson, a tough old cop with many ups and downs in his spotted career.

Gibson did not like black people — and Sgt. Phillips had a personal radar that detected such feelings, since Phillips himself was a black man — but he joined the Captain immediately and gave him a limp salute, not acknowledged.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in a brooding silence for a long moment, then the sergeant commented, "You've got a messy one here, Cap'n."

"Figure it's a Brushfire?" Gibson sourly inquired.

The Sergeant cocked his head and scratched absently at his neck. "Don't know," he admitted. "Right now it's just a damn mess. I happened to be in the neighborhood when the call came down... so I dropped in. It might be a Brushfire. What do you think?"

Gibson shrugged his beefy shoulders. "This is a mob joint. Or it was."

"Yes sir. That's one reason for all the heat, I guess. Fire Department says the basement of that east wing was a regular liquor warehouse. And I'll bet every drop of it was contraband."

"How many gunshot victims?" Gibson asked, ignoring the other information.

Phillips sighed. "Six."

The Captain whistled through his teeth. "That many."

"Life Emergency says another four died in the initial blast. They think it was caused by an explosives charge."

"It figures." Gibson sniffed and swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "Fog's bad tonight," he commented.

"It's bad every night," Phillips said.

"Who's in charge?"

"Lt. Warnicke. He's inside, looking over the victims."

Captain Gibson grunted and ambled off toward the LE van. Phillips hesitated momentarily, then followed the veteran cop into the rolling medical center.

Warnicke was at the far end, in the DOA section, drinking coffee and talking with two white-clad medics. He was a tall, graceful man with a touch of silver at his temples and a deceptively mild set to his facial features.

The Lieutenant looked up with an expectant grimace as the new arrivals joined the clutch at DOA. "Don't you ever sleep, Barney?" he greeted the Captain.

"When I can," Gibson growled. He elbowed his way forward and helped himself to the coffee as Warnicke and Phillips exchanged grim smiles, then the Harbor boss demanded, "Okay, give me the score."

Warnicke stared thoughtfully into his cup and quietly replied, "Joe Fasco, Johnny Liano, Pete Trazini — all very dead, plus seven minor..."

The Captain interrupted the report with, "I had a talk with Fasco just last week. Told him I couldn't tolerate much more of this. Told him to clean his joint up or I'd close him down."