stroke the suffering animal. She murmured, "I wouldn't believe that if I hadn't seen it. I was assured 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
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
to be obedient to his master's desires. Actually, Bolan knew, guard-dogs killed because
they had to kill.
There was no mental or moral alternative.
Bolan did not
have
to kill.
He killed
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 Blancanales invaded an impressively modern skyscraper 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.
Blancanales 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
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," Blancanales growled in his best Brooklynese.
Schwarz had spun the woman's appointments book around and was studying it.
Blancanales nudged the flustered receptionist again with, "Hop,
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 button 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 button 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. Blancanales patted her shoulder as he brushed past her and into the private office of Maxwell Thornton.
The entire outside wall was glass, 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
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
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
to be obedient to his master's desires. Actually, Bolan knew, guard-dogs killed because
they had to kill.
There was no mental or moral alternative.
Bolan did not
have
to kill.
He killed
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 Blancanales invaded an impressively modern skyscraper 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.
Blancanales 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
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," Blancanales growled in his best Brooklynese.
Schwarz had spun the woman's appointments book around and was studying it.
Blancanales nudged the flustered receptionist again with, "Hop,
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 button 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 button 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. Blancanales patted her shoulder as he brushed past her and into the private office of Maxwell Thornton.
The entire outside wall was glass, 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
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