It had all occurred so quickly that the woman's hand was still poised in the air where she had released the dog. Those emerald eyes did not so much as flicker as she issued the soft command. "Thunder, break."

The monster-dog seemed grateful to be relieved of his responsibilities. He crawled toward the woman, whining and still fighting for breath, Bolan sheathed the AutoMag and knelt beside the dog to rub his throat and ma.s.sage the quivering ribcage.

Something was coming alive in Marsha Thornton's dead eyes as she watched the tall man with the impa.s.sive face stroke the suffering animal. She murmured, "I wouldn't believe that if I hadn't seen it. I was a.s.sured that Thunder would protect me from a grizzly bear."

Bolan said, "He would."

His jacket was ripped and he was bleeding slightly from a fang-graze on his hand.

The woman rolled onto her knees and stood up. "Come on up to the house," she suggested. "I'll put something on that cut."

The Doberman was licking the fingers which had defeated him, and Bolan was thinking what a shame it was to misuse a dog this way. Man's oldest friend in the animal world, converted to a living robot, programmed to kill upon command.

The dog and Mack Bolan had a great deal in common-Bolan realized that. He'd pondered the question after a run-in with a couple of German Shepherds during the New York battle. And he'd decided then that there was was a difference-subtle but important-between himself and the killer dog. a difference-subtle but important-between himself and the killer dog.

The dogs killed because they were conditioned to accept a command to do so. In a dog's world it was a sort of a morality morality to be obedient to his master's desires. Actually, Bolan knew, guard-dogs killed because to be obedient to his master's desires. Actually, Bolan knew, guard-dogs killed because they had to kill. they had to kill. There was no mental or moral alternative. There was no mental or moral alternative.

Bolan did not have have to kill. to kill.

He killed because he could because he could-and because, like the dogs, there was no mental or moral alternative.

So, yeah, he had a lot in common with the Doberman-but with a difference. A very important difference.

He pushed the thing from his mind and followed Marsha Thornton to her beach house, the Doberman huffing along at his side.

It seemed that he had made a conquest.

If all went well, he would very soon make another.

While Bolan cultivated the distaff side of the House of Thornton, Schwarz and Blanca.n.a.les invaded an impressively modern skysc.r.a.per in downtown San Diego for a call upon the master himself.

The solid oak door was marked GOLDEN WEST DIVERSITIES, INC. and the suite of offices on the other side of it were strictly gilt-edged, redolent with the sweet smell of success.

Among the diversified interests of Maxwell Thornton was petroleum, real estate, electronics, agriculture, and transportation. He had also been very active in politics, as a behind-the-scenes power in local, state, and national campaigns.

Blanca.n.a.les had donned a pale blue nylon suit with coordinated accessories-the collar of the shirt with exaggerated dimensions, the tie immaculately knotted, powder-blue hat low over the eyes-altogether a splendiferous image, and altogether the perfect picture of a Mafioso Mafioso in full dress. in full dress.

Schwarz wore old-fashioned pleated slacks, sport shirt with loose tie, checkered sports coat, no hat. He looked like a cross between a Tijuana pimp and an Agua Caliente racetrack tout.

Both images had been meticulously contrived.

The receptionist stared at them for a moment, then announced, "I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton is in conference."

"You'd better get him outta there, honey," Blanca.n.a.les growled in his best Brooklynese.

Schwarz had spun the woman's appointments book around and was studying it.

Blanca.n.a.les nudged the fl.u.s.tered receptionist again with, "Hop, now! now!-go tell the man we're here."

"I-I'll see if he's back in his office," the girl replied, thoroughly intimidated now. She depressed a b.u.t.ton on her desk intercom and said, "Mr. Thornton-two gentlemen to see you. It appears urgent. They-I think you should."

A tired voice sighed back, "Do the gentlemen have names, Janie?"

Schwarz brushed the receptionist's hand aside and held the intercom b.u.t.ton himself as he replied, "Yeh, but you wouldn't want 'em shouted around this joint, Thornton."

"Come on in," was the quick response. The girl showed them the way. Blanca.n.a.les patted her shoulder as he brushed past her and into the private office of Maxwell Thornton.

The entire outside wall was gla.s.s, and there was a fair-sized balcony beyond that with potted trees and other growing things. The city was spread out there for inspection in a most impressive view.

The man sat at a kidney-shaped desk with probably fifty to sixty square feet of surface on top which supported nothing except a telephone, an intercom box, and an open fifth of Haig & Haig. The guy was drinking the Scotch from a water gla.s.s, undiluted.

He didn't look the part of millionaire, civic light, city father. He looked like a guy who'd just stepped down from a hot bulldozer to hurry into a hand-tailored suit which still somehow didn't quite fit. A tall man, lanky, sort of gangly and rawboned, well past fifty.

The voice fit the rest of him as he waved his visitors to chairs and told them, "Well, I guess the s.h.i.t has. .h.i.t the fan, hasn't it?"

Schwarz picked up the bottle of Scotch and sat down. Blanca.n.a.les remained standing. He said, "Bolan's in town."

Thornton sighed, sipped at his drink, then said, "I know it."

"Gettin' loaded ain't gonna help."

"Get f.u.c.ked," Thornton growled. "Bennie send you? What's he want me to do, lead a vigilante army?"

"Bennie don't send us," Schwarz informed him.

The gray steel eyes came up in a quick flash. "New York? You're from New York?"

Blanca.n.a.les jerked his head in a nod and ambled to the window.

"Who are you?"

Schwarz replied. "The boss is Harry DiCavoli. I'm Jack Santo. You're in trouble, Thornton."

The millionaire grunted and said, "I was born in trouble. I suppose you heard about Howlie Winters."

"We heard," Blanca.n.a.les spoke up, from the window. "We wanta talk to you about that, Thornton."

"You people squeezed him too d.a.m.n hard!" the man declared angrily. "I told you he wouldn't hold still for that."

"You told me me nothing," Blanca.n.a.les/DiCavoli replied. nothing," Blanca.n.a.les/DiCavoli replied.

"I told Bennie, and I urged him to relay the advice to New York. Look ... Winters was a square. A guy like that will dabble in the s.h.i.t pile, but he won't take a bath in it. I told you this whole thing was too much for him to swill."

"I guess you better speak for yourself, man," Blanca.n.a.les said.

"What do you mean? Look...." The guy was getting hotter by the minute. He pushed back his chair and lifted himself to his full height, and it was an impressive one. He was waving his arms as he spoke. "I had to swim in s.h.i.t to get where I am. I'll never deny that, except in a court of law. I've had the course, course, buddy. I've been there and back, several times. You G.o.ddam ghetto street-corner lawyers didn't invent the game, and you don't play it very well. The only edge you've got is that you play it buddy. I've been there and back, several times. You G.o.ddam ghetto street-corner lawyers didn't invent the game, and you don't play it very well. The only edge you've got is that you play it rougher rougher than most. Well, get f.u.c.ked, will you please? I've had it up to the throat with you, than most. Well, get f.u.c.ked, will you please? I've had it up to the throat with you, all all of you." of you."

Blanca.n.a.les muttered, "You want me to go back East and tell 'em that?"

The guy had moved away from the desk. He was standing spread-legged, coat gaping open, hands thrust into hip pockets, glowering at the man at the window. His eyes dropped, slowly, and his voice was dying away as he replied, "No ... I guess I don't want you to do that."

"That's just what we come to find out."

"I can take the heat, if that's what's worrying you."

Schwarz had risen from his chair and edged his backside onto the desk. With Thornton engrossed in the confrontation with eastern authority, he was quietly and swiftly taking the telephone apart.

"That ain't all," Blanca.n.a.les was saying. "We been waiting long enough for this deal. Now with Winters out of the picture, we have to wonder...."

"Don't worry, you'll get your stuff. With or without Winters. But listen-what's the name- DiCavoli?-listen, DiCavoli, this is no dime-store radio, you know. We're into defense security violation when we start messing around with this kind of gear."

Schwarz's ears perked up at that. His work at the telephone was finished. He moved toward the other men and joined the conversation. "That's right, Harry. It's not dime-store stuff."

Blanca.n.a.les quickly picked up the play. "A radio's a radio," he sniffed. "What's such a big deal?"

Thornton coldly returned Schwarz's gaze as he replied to the other "Mafioso." "Mafioso." "An L-band feeder horn is a "An L-band feeder horn is a h.e.l.l h.e.l.l of a big deal when you start stealing them from the military." of a big deal when you start stealing them from the military."

"Well we gotta know," Blanca.n.a.les pushed on. "Are you going to deliver or aren't you?"

"Of course I'm going to deliver! But, my G.o.d, you don't just muscle your way into-"

"It's heavy stuff, Harry," Schwarz helpfully b.u.t.ted in. He was probing, now-feeling his way. At the same time, he was establishing a sympathetic relationship with the harried millionaire who'd lingered too long near the tar pit. "You can't pick up a feeder horn at the supermarket, y'know. This stuff is heavy, I mean heavy. heavy. What is it, Max -about six hundred megs?" What is it, Max -about six hundred megs?"

Thornton inclined his head in a deliberate nod. He was giving Schwarz a respectful examination now, wondering, pondering the enigma of a Tijuana pimp who spoke with an understanding of sophisticated communications gear.

Schwarz was "explaining" to Blanca.n.a.les/DiCavoli. "Y'see, these data links, you pencil-beam into a dish antenna up in the L-band, around six hundred megacycles. It's like a beam of light, only you don't see see it. You don't get no side lobes off the pulse envelopes, so there ain't much danger of the FCC or somebody latching onto you. Right, Max?" it. You don't get no side lobes off the pulse envelopes, so there ain't much danger of the FCC or somebody latching onto you. Right, Max?"

Thornton again nodded his head. "It's foolproof," he murmured.

"And the stuff is hard to come by," Schwarz went on explaining. "You don't just walk up and ask a government contractor to make you one. You'd have the FCC all over your a.s.s the second you tried to put it on the air-and in no time you'd have feds swarming all over your operation. What Max is saying is simply this: we gotta be patient while he carves one out of a contract. Right, Max?"

Thornton quietly replied, "Yes. Just like the last one."

"I guess I wasn't in on that one," Blanca.n.a.les declared innocently.

"Just who are you people?" Thornton asked, his voice barely audible.

"We came with the man," Blanca.n.a.les replied, dropping the street accent.

"What man?" Thornton asked wearily.

"Bolan," Schwarz said, soberly studying their victim.

The guy walked jerkily back to his desk and sat down. He poured several fingers of Haig & & Haig into his gla.s.s and belted it, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Haig into his gla.s.s and belted it, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"I've been there and back," he declared quietly.

"But I sure talked myself into this one, didn't I?"

"Keep trying," Blanca.n.a.les suggested. "Maybe you'll talk your way out out of something." of something."

"You're in deep s.h.i.t, Max," Schwarz said gently.

The guy was trapped, and he knew it. He studied his empty gla.s.s for a moment, then raised resigned eyes to Gadgets Schwarz. "I was born in s.h.i.t," he murmured.

"So now you got a chance to wipe yourself," Schwarz told him. "How about it?"

"Full redemption, huh?"

"We can't promise that."

"All right," the self-made millionaire muttered. "Pa.s.s the toilet paper."

14:

TAR.

Bolan's interrogation of Marsha Thornton was revealing very little in the nature of direct intelligence, but she was filling in quite a bit of background insight into the San Diego situation.

"Max is quite a bit older than I am, you know," she told Bolan in that curious turned-off voice. "I wouldn't mind that. I mean, I guess I love him. He's a perfect husband ... in every way but one. Gives me everything I want. Except himself. He... can't. So I have to go find that somewhere else."

"And Max just turns his head, eh."

"Yes. He understands. He just asks that I be ... discreet. I guess I've caused him a lot of embarra.s.sment, just the same."

"It figures," Bolan told her.

"Yes. Well, you'd have to know my husband to understand how gross gross all this could be for him. I mean, a man like him. Well... I have no apologies to make to anyone, except to Max I guess, and he won't let me. He simply understands. I've had a hunger ever since my b.o.o.bs started budding, Mr. Bolan. I can't turn it off. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm no nympho. But when I'm hungry, I'm hungry." all this could be for him. I mean, a man like him. Well... I have no apologies to make to anyone, except to Max I guess, and he won't let me. He simply understands. I've had a hunger ever since my b.o.o.bs started budding, Mr. Bolan. I can't turn it off. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm no nympho. But when I'm hungry, I'm hungry."

Bolan murmured, "I can understand that." He was getting a bit of an itch, himself.

"You probably think I'm a nympho," she said, deadpanning a sidewise gaze in his direction. He got very few direct looks from this one. "It's okay, you may as well think it. Everybody else does. I've been in a.n.a.lysis. My a.n.a.lyst says I am definitely not not a nympho." a nympho."

Bolan said, "Okay."

"I hated those hoods. They just kept hanging around Max. Oh, they never came through the front door ... don't worry. But they were always around, always popping up, always underfoot. We'd go out to dinner, and there they'd be. We'd go to a club, and there they'd be." She sighed, a long painful effort. "I guess I figured they may as well be in the bedroom, too. Instant manpower."

Bolan told her, "You don't have to get into this if you'd rather not. I had the Winters telephone tapped. I heard your conversation with Lisa this morning."

That revelation drew not so much as a blink of the eyes. "Lisa's a good kid. We're about the same age, you know. Body age, not soul age. G.o.d, my soul must be a million years old."

Bolan could almost believe it.