Don Pendleton - Baltimore Trackdown

The Executioner came over a small rise in the wheat field and looked for his target. The man was not in sight. Bolan stopped running and scanned the general area where he had last seen Carboni. The wheat came nearly to Bolan’s waist. Carboni could be down somewhere in the eighty-acre field, out of sight and crawling toward a ditch.

The wind blew stronger in Bolan’s face and he wished he could smell out his enemy. Ahead he saw the grain waver and tremble in one spot. He sent two rounds from the Uzi there and waited.

Nothing.

He scanned the northern part of the field again.

Lightning flashed a dozen miles away, and the roll of thunder came faintly.

Momentarily standing above the wheat, Carboni saw Bolan and dived again. Bolan saw him and surged toward him through the high wheat until he felt as if he were running through water.

He was close now to Carboni, and had out the big .44 AutoMag, watching and waiting.

The wisp of smoke rose to his left, then another rose in front of him, and in five seconds a solid wall of flame was consuming the stalks. The wind whipped the fire into a frenzy. Almost at once the flames were eight feet high and roaring toward Bolan.

The Executioner turned, but suddenly flames appeared ahead of him. He turned again — more fire.

He was surrounded by fire.

He heard a weird, wild laugh from Carboni, who stood on the already burned and blackened stalks, screaming in delight.

Bolan wanted to run, to leap through the flames. He could pull his shirt over his face and hair. The flames roared closer. His small island of unburned wheat was shrinking drastically.

The Executioner heard the crazed laugh again as he prepared for his dash. There was no guarantee that he would make it. The ravaging fire would suck up all of the oxygen in the air. He must try to hold his breath until he was out of the flames.

The wild laugh came once more and Bolan unleashed two shots from the .44 AutoMag in that direction, then held the big gun and backed up six feet to make his dash.

He was ready. Was this the way he was going to buy the farm? If it happened, it happened. He began to run.

As he moved the wind shifted, and he stopped, unsure what effect it would have on the flames. The fickle wind changed again, now blowing in the opposite direction.

Lightning split the cloudy sky, hitting a tree about half a mile away.

The flames ahead of him died down for lack of fuel, blowing back on the blackened wasteland. The fire behind him raced forward, but all he had to do now was jump over the crawling, low flames to the smoking ashes of the ruined wheat field.

Carboni’s wild laughter had turned to screams of terror. Bolan saw him ahead, charging around in the middle of a circle of fire. Carboni was trapped.

Lightning struck the ground a hundred yards away and the smell of raw sulfur blended with the smoke. Bolan jolted into action. He ran through the burned area, getting safely away from the flames.

When he looked back at the spot where he had last seen Carboni, he could see only the flames whipping forward, consuming the entire circle that had protected the Mafia hit man. It had developed into a searing, boiling fire storm.

Bolan knew he should wait for the fire to burn out and check for a body to be sure that Vince Carboni was dead. But an inner voice drew him away.

He figured Carboni had had only a small chance of escaping the flames.

Now Bolan had to return to his contacts in the police department and talk to Nino Tattaglia in the Mafia snakepit to find out if the schedule was holding. He had to know for sure if the “changes” in the police department were still set for tomorrow night.

For a moment he wondered if he could trust Assistant Chief Jansen. He could have set up that “blackmail” situation for Bolan’s benefit. For now Bolan would trust only his own instincts and make everyone else prove himself.

Immediately he had the problem of getting back to town. He discarded the Uzi in the wheat field. It had been a gift from the Mafia. He threw away his combat webbing and web belt. He had extras in his hotel.

He hid his two handguns in his shirt as he jogged to the closest highway, then hitchhiked into the nearest town where he could find a taxi.

The thought still plagued him — could he entirely trust Chief Jansen, or did Jansen have his eye on the top spot as chief of police working with the Mafia?

The phone rang five times before Assistant Chief Jansen picked it up. He had been sleeping soundly.

“Yeah, I’m here. What time is it?” He looked at the clock on his nightstand. “Two-thirty! Who the hell is this?”

“I’m your blood brother, Jansen. You remember the motel. I’ve been busy today. Anything new going down on the new police policies?”

“Not that I could see. There was a fire in Gwynns Falls Park. Looks like Captain Davis met hell a little early. I figured you might have made the introduction. That’s been put down as an accident. Any comment?”

“He must have deserved it. Anything doing with the other two assistant chiefs?”

“Not a thing. They’re sitting tight, doing what they have to do but really marking time. One of them took the day off today.”

“Has Chief Smith showed up yet?”

“No. You said he wasn’t hurt? There’s a lot of speculation downtown about him. The police commissioner is furious.”

“Smith must be lying low for a day or two. Anybody else bother you?”

“No. Not a problem. I heard there was a shootout north of town today. You involved in that one?”

“For a while. Personal matter. Will you be at the mayor’s State of the City talk tomorrow night?”

“Plan to be. I’m part of the official delegation from the department.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a nice sleep.”

Bolan hung up and considered calling Tattaglia, but decided to wait. He could use a few hours of sleep himself. His left arm began to throb again. He put an antiseptic, antibiotic salve and a bandage on the wound. It would heal but leave a scar. He really did not need another one.

Ten minutes later he was asleep.

The next morning at seven, Bolan called Tattaglia.

“Who the hell is calling in the middle of the night?”

“Morning, Nino. Greetings from Leo. Any developments?”

“Oh, it’s you. Quiet yesterday. Probably before some kind of a storm. They don’t tell me much yet. But it’s tonight.”

“Right, at the mayor’s bash. I’ll be there. Heard anything about the chief?”

“Heard something about a chief once or twice, but I’m not high enough up the totem pole.”

“Get up there. We need you.”

“Working on it.”

“Leo will encourage you. Remember, he can yank you back to that cell anytime he wants.”

“I know it. I’m cooperating.”

“Keep your eyes open, and be sure you’re packing tonight. You have a legal concealed-weapons permit, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Stay hard.”

Bolan hung up and checked the name of a lawyer he had to see. The man should be in his office by nine.

The Executioner was sitting in the lawyer’s big swivel chair when the barrister came in that morning. No one else was in the office.

“Good morning, Payne Sanders. Sit down and let’s talk.”

“Who the hell are you? Get out of my chair and out of my office or I’ll call the security guard.”

Bolan stood over the five-foot-ten lawyer. Icy blue eyes bored into Payne’s. The smaller man stepped back.

“You touch me and I’ll sue you for assault and battery.” Sanders said it evenly, but the punch had gone out of his voice. He retreated another step.