government" which saw to their protection at every level of American life. Except for one.
They had no immunity from the Executioner.
Mack Bolan was no zealot — nor was he a romantic idealist. He was a military realist. He had pledged to defend his country against all enemies, external and internal.
The mob was an internal enemy.
He could draw no realistic line of distinction between this enemy and that one.
The Mafia stood as the most visible and dangerous enemy in his area of perception. He would, until he drowned in his own blood or theirs, fight that enemy with every resource at his command.
The threat at San Diego was shaping into one of those confrontations which Bolan had hoped to avoid.
The problem was similar to the routine dilemma of the war in Vietnam: in order to get at the enemy, you often had to destroy an entire friendly town.
Bolan had managed to keep the major thrust of his homefront wars directed into the hardcore operations of the enemy — into their clout routes, the overtly criminal activities, into pitched battles with their armed forces and execution missions against their leaders.
At San Diego, it was beginning to look like the civilian community might be unavoidably involved in the resolution of the problem.
The intelligence probes had paid off handsomely, but the yield was also very troubling to this dedicated warrior.
Tendrils of the Mafia cancer were woven throughout the fabric of this great little city's business and social communities. The in-growth was still tenuous, however, and the encroachment had not yet reached the cannibalistic stage. But Mack Bolan knew his enemy. And he had learned quite a bit, in a relatively short time, about the city of San Diego.
And, yeah, this was one city he could not avoid. Some of the area's most solid citizens had been trekking to the tar pits of licensed greed — in many cases, perhaps, unaware that a band of cannibals were lurking there in the shadows, patiently awaiting the opportunity to ensnare them there and devour them — that some were already being eaten.
A sober and troubled electronics expert stored his surveillance tapes in a fireproof box and turned a thoughtful frown to his friend, the Executioner.
"So now what?" he asked, sighing. "So now the siege is ended," Bolan replied quietly.
"You mean we pack up and walk away," Blancanales said.
"No. We storm the city."
"Oh, well...." The Politician scratched his nose, glanced at Schwarz, and said, "What's the first target?"
"The tar pits," Bolan told them.
"The tar pits?"
"Yeah." Bolan was buckling into his AutoMag.
"You mean like the LaBrea tar pits, up in L.A.?"
"Something like that," Bolan said. "Only these are invisible.''
Schwarz and Blancanales exchanged puzzled glances. They were accustomed to Bolan's sometimes cryptic utterances, but this one left them blank.
"They've dug bones of woolly mammoths and I think dinosaurs out of LaBrea," Schwarz commented.
"We're after bigger game than that," the Executioner assured his crew.
"It's still a rescue mission?" Blancanales wanted to know.
"That," Bolan replied, "is exactly what it is."
13
The link
She was young, beautiful, married to one of San Diego's most illustrious citizens, and — according to her own immodest claim in a telephone conversation with Lisa Winters — she had "balled every hood in this town ... and a few over in Mexico."
Her hair was shades of red and hung in a full drop to a point just below her shoulders. The eyes were emerald-hued, but lacked sparkle. The body was long and shapely with soft curves that flowed one into the other beneath velvet-textured skin. A true redhead, the sun apparently was not kind to her; she was glistening and greasy with protective oils and lotions. She wore a micro-bikini which did not quite conceal the fringes of the silky growth of hair at the base of her soft little tummy.
She was topless — one of those who could get away with it admirably.
With all that, if Bolan
They had no immunity from the Executioner.
Mack Bolan was no zealot — nor was he a romantic idealist. He was a military realist. He had pledged to defend his country against all enemies, external and internal.
The mob was an internal enemy.
He could draw no realistic line of distinction between this enemy and that one.
The Mafia stood as the most visible and dangerous enemy in his area of perception. He would, until he drowned in his own blood or theirs, fight that enemy with every resource at his command.
The threat at San Diego was shaping into one of those confrontations which Bolan had hoped to avoid.
The problem was similar to the routine dilemma of the war in Vietnam: in order to get at the enemy, you often had to destroy an entire friendly town.
Bolan had managed to keep the major thrust of his homefront wars directed into the hardcore operations of the enemy — into their clout routes, the overtly criminal activities, into pitched battles with their armed forces and execution missions against their leaders.
At San Diego, it was beginning to look like the civilian community might be unavoidably involved in the resolution of the problem.
The intelligence probes had paid off handsomely, but the yield was also very troubling to this dedicated warrior.
Tendrils of the Mafia cancer were woven throughout the fabric of this great little city's business and social communities. The in-growth was still tenuous, however, and the encroachment had not yet reached the cannibalistic stage. But Mack Bolan knew his enemy. And he had learned quite a bit, in a relatively short time, about the city of San Diego.
And, yeah, this was one city he could not avoid. Some of the area's most solid citizens had been trekking to the tar pits of licensed greed — in many cases, perhaps, unaware that a band of cannibals were lurking there in the shadows, patiently awaiting the opportunity to ensnare them there and devour them — that some were already being eaten.
A sober and troubled electronics expert stored his surveillance tapes in a fireproof box and turned a thoughtful frown to his friend, the Executioner.
"So now what?" he asked, sighing. "So now the siege is ended," Bolan replied quietly.
"You mean we pack up and walk away," Blancanales said.
"No. We storm the city."
"Oh, well...." The Politician scratched his nose, glanced at Schwarz, and said, "What's the first target?"
"The tar pits," Bolan told them.
"The tar pits?"
"Yeah." Bolan was buckling into his AutoMag.
"You mean like the LaBrea tar pits, up in L.A.?"
"Something like that," Bolan said. "Only these are invisible.''
Schwarz and Blancanales exchanged puzzled glances. They were accustomed to Bolan's sometimes cryptic utterances, but this one left them blank.
"They've dug bones of woolly mammoths and I think dinosaurs out of LaBrea," Schwarz commented.
"We're after bigger game than that," the Executioner assured his crew.
"It's still a rescue mission?" Blancanales wanted to know.
"That," Bolan replied, "is exactly what it is."
13
The link
She was young, beautiful, married to one of San Diego's most illustrious citizens, and — according to her own immodest claim in a telephone conversation with Lisa Winters — she had "balled every hood in this town ... and a few over in Mexico."
Her hair was shades of red and hung in a full drop to a point just below her shoulders. The eyes were emerald-hued, but lacked sparkle. The body was long and shapely with soft curves that flowed one into the other beneath velvet-textured skin. A true redhead, the sun apparently was not kind to her; she was glistening and greasy with protective oils and lotions. She wore a micro-bikini which did not quite conceal the fringes of the silky growth of hair at the base of her soft little tummy.
She was topless — one of those who could get away with it admirably.
With all that, if Bolan
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