Save the Children (7 page)

If they found him where he crouched now, there was no way he would be able to avoid a shoot-out with the cops. And it was something that he didn't even want to contemplate. Still Bolan had no intention of losing it all in Chicago.

He dropped flat onto his stomach and bellied under the car, knocking the back of his head on the undercarriage a couple of times in the process.

He wasn't there for longer than a couple of heartbeats when he heard an engine gun to life to his right. He turned his head and spotted white-lettered wheels rolling slowly backward out of a parking space.

Bolan wormed out of his cover to see a young woman behind the steering wheel of a Datsun 300 ZX.

He raced toward the side of the crawling vehicle and yanked open the driver's door.

The woman turned a panic-stricken face toward this looming figure in black. The sheer terror told Bolan that she feared for her life.

It saddened the warrior instantly, because it was a reflection of what "civilized" society had become. He meant the woman no harm, but as far as the lady was concerned, she was a goner. After all, this was Big City, U.S.A.

Bolan spoke urgently, and it was only then that he saw a measure of relief cross the young woman's face.

"I need to borrow your car, miss. I won't hurt you."

She swallowed and slipped out from behind the wheel. Bolan jumped into the Datsun and slapped the gear lever into reverse. The entire encounter had taken less than a minute.

The Japanese sportster roared backward when he floored the gas pedal. Bolan caught a glimpse of a uniform in the rearview mirror.

One of the cops was right behind him.

He slammed a booted foot down on the brake pedal, rocking the Japanese sportster to a stop.

The cop, who had been running full blast when he saw the car suddenly backing toward him, wind-milled his arms to keep his balance. His palms slapped against the trunk of the stopped Datsun to keep from falling.

Bolan stomped on the gas, shifting.

The Datsun jumped forward, right out from under the cop leaning on the trunk.

The guy fell, and as Bolan pulled away, he saw the officer getting to his feet, dusting off his hands.

A squad car, top lights flashing, careered into the exit Bolan had been heading for.

He sped down one aisle of the lot with the cruiser on his tail, siren wailing.

When he reached the end of the row of parked cars, Bolan spun his steering wheel and felt the tires shuddering on the pavement, the Datsun threatening to roll over as he turned 180 degrees into the next aisle.

Behind him, the police vehicle did not handle the turn as well, the driver's side crunching into a low brick wall that bordered the parking lot.

The wall ran around three sides of the lot, Bolan saw as he headed back toward the exit. On the fourth side, the one bordering Wacker Drive, a hedge about the same height took the place of the wall.

Another cop car closed in on that exit, squealing tires smoking beneath the streetlights as it slid into position to block that exit.

Bolan floored the Datsun's accelerator, angling the car left to drive full speed straight for the hedge.

The shrubbery gave way, parting under the nose of the Datsun as Bolan had hoped it would, with no hidden posts or fencing to stop his run.

He felt a surge of relief as the Datsun rocketed through to the other side.

A sidewalk ran along the other side of the hedge, with cars parked at the curb.

Bolan pumped the Datsun's brakes, yanking the steering wheel hard at the same time with a finger on the horn.

The car raced along the sidewalk, away from the office building and the parking lot, the few pedestrians diving out of the way when they heard the insistent warning of the horn.

At the end of the block was a gap in the line of parked cars.

Bolan sent the Datsun rocketing through that break, lurching down over the curb, skidding out into the slow-moving traffic along Wacker, easing in and out between lanes of crawling vehicles full of rubberneckers gawking to see what all the excitement was about. They almost missed Bolan entirely until the Datsun whizzed by.

He heard tires squealing and motorists cursing, but somehow there was no crunch of metal against metal.

State Street was ahead of him to the left.

He sent the little car spurting toward it.

He took the turn on two wheels.

Traffic was thick but he was able to weave in and out and make good time.

A glance in the rearview mirror told him he had shaken off his pursuers for the moment. He took a lightly traveled road that he knew would lead him to the city's suburbs. Ten minutes later he spotted a phone booth. He parked the car in some shadows and made another scrambled call to Stony Man Farm.

"What've you got, Bear? Come up with anything?"

"I take it Parelli wasn't aboard his yacht."

Kurtzman's troubled grumble carried clearly across the highly classified connection from Virginia.

"It was a trap," Bolan told him. "We're up against one sharp savage. Smarter than most. I want this one, Bear. I want Parelli so damn bad I can taste it. But I need a lead, something to go on. The guy could already be slipping out of the city."

"Could be, but I doubt it," Bear opined. "Parelli likes the personal touch and every vibe we're picking up says it's going down tonight, whatever 'it' is. You're moving fast, big guy. You'll nail his ass."

Bolan blinked away the awful images he had seen on Parelli's VCR screen.

He thought of the children...

"That's not enough. I want him, I want his whole operation down the tubes, but I've got to get him in time and time could already have run out."

"Explain, Striker," said Bear, using Bolan's Stony Man code name.

"No time," Bolan growled. "Anything on Lana Garner?"

"Still working on that one, but the other two, now you're talking accessible."

"The Porsche?"

"The connection we may have been looking for all along between Parelli and Washington," said Bear. "That Porsche is the private property of Senator Mark Dutton of Chicago."

"Bingo," growled Bolan, and then he thought of the sedan with the bumper sticker he had spotted outside the Parelli estate. "And that other license plate number?"

A short pause.

"Belongs to Detective Sergeant Lester Griff," Bear said uneasily. "Griff is assigned to the Cook County Org Crime Task Force."

"Uh-huh. And there was one more thing, Bear."

"No connection I could find between Parelli and kid porn," Kurtzman reported glumly. "Parelli owns a string of escort services, whorehouses and porno dives, but kids... nothing yet." Bear's voice was deeply troubled across the wire. "Kid porn. That's got to be the bottom of the barrel even for these scumbags. What is it all about, Striker?"

"I'll let you know when I find out. Keep trying on that Garner woman, if that's her name. I'll be in touch. Right now I think I'll pay a call on Detective Griff."

"You can visit Senator Dutton, too, if you've a mind to," said Kurtzman. "There's a fund-raising dinner tonight at the Sheraton. Hey, wait a mo. That fund-raiser... it's for a new bunch of day-care centers. Kids, again. You think..."

"I'll damn well find out," Bolan assured him, "but the senator can wait. He's a politico hobnobbing with his constituents. He won't leave that dinner for a while. Dutton is more notable than Griff, but if Griff is on the Org Crime unit, he'll be closer to the dirt and that puts him closer to Parelli in one way. I'll dig there first."

"I hope he's a clean cop," said Kurtzman uneasily.

"I'll damn well find that out, too," Bolan promised grimly.

Sergeant Lester Griff was bone weary and irritable.

As if there wasn't enough on his plate already, that bastard Bolan had to come crashing back onto the scene.

He was off duty now, though, and he was going to do his best to put Mack the Bastard Bolan, the so-called Man from Blood, out of his mind. He would spend some time tomorrow with Kathleen, have some lunch together at a restaurant, maybe a trip to the zoo would be nice.

Who the hell was he trying to kid?

There was no way Lester Griff could stop himself from thinking about Bolan.

Not when the guy was likely to get him killed.

Kathleen came out of the kitchen.

Griff came into the house and shrugged out of his overcoat.

Kathleen's face lit up with a smile of greeting; as usual, she came into his arms. When they held each other for their customary brief hug, he wished more than ever that his life was different, that he could be like other men, come home and leave his job behind, because no matter how often they hugged, he always felt real love for this woman.

She was the girl next door grown up into a forty-plus beauty who still moved him, yes.

She pulled back, remaining in his arms, to look long and deep into her husband's eyes.

"Something's wrong," she said.

He shook his head, forcing a smile.

"Nothing's wrong."

He let a hand stray down affectionately to the curve of her hip.

The lie came out uneasily.

He did not want her worrying about him.

If she had asked him about Bolan, he would have shrugged and said, "The guy's got nothing to do with me."

And that would have been a lie, too.

The Executioner's interest in an up-and-coming Mafia don named David Parelli made that a certainty. When the blowout came, there might be blood spilled. With Bolan, blood spilling was a sure thing. And some of that blood might belong to Griff. If anything happened to him, where would that leave Kathleen?

He had to stay alive.

Not for his own sake, but for hers.

Griff was third-generation Chicago Irish cop. Now he was a detective. He had the kind of civil service job most of the Irish and Polish ethnics in his neighborhood envied.

These days he had something else, too.

Trouble.

Big trouble.

In her quiet way, Kathleen had been pleading with him lately to share his problems, whatever they were.

With both kids raised and out of the house, she had little to do but concern herself with her husband.

So she was extra sensitive to his moods, to any changes he might be going through.

Griff had to smile bitterly to himself.

It was just like her to worry her pretty Irish head about him, when she herself should be the focus of her concern.

The rheumatic fever of her girlhood, when she'd been the best-looking girl at St. Michael's, still took its toll even today.

Her cardiovascular system needed yet another operation to function properly. She was due to enter the hospital next week for the fourth such operation in the past three years, and this was not only dangerous but expensive as well.

He appreciated the fact now that she accepted his refusal to talk about what was troubling him. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and eased out of his arms, moving toward the kitchen of their small home, saying, "I'll get you something to eat, Les."

After she was gone, Griff moved to the window set into the door and looked out at his front yard and the street illuminated by lamplight and the headlights of passing cars.

He liked the neighborhood, liked looking it over. It was a good place to live.

The neighbors did not mind having a cop as one of them. If there was any trouble, you ran and got Griff. He'd handle things.

No, it wasn't the fanciest place in the world but he liked it.

And he hoped that what he was doing would not take him away from there forever.

The radio had said it might snow later tonight, but a little snow would not stop Bolan.

Griff could not get the Executioner out of his head. He lit a cigarette and tried to think of other things but the specter of the Bastard in Black kept rising unbidden.

Movement in the street drew his attention.

A nondescript midsize sedan was pulling up in front of the Griff house.

He did not recognize it.

He watched, the cigarette dangling from his lips, forgotten.

A man wearing an overcoat emerged from the car, but Griff's trained eyes spotted the combat boots on the guy's feet fast enough and that started prickly warning quivers icing their way up and down his spine.

The dude left the car, coming up the Griffs' walkway.

A mountain of muscle; a husky six-foot package of cool, detached alertness.

Griff knew who the man was without being told.

It was time for the payback...

And Griff's only thought was, God help us, Kathleen. I'm sorry.

The big man walked up to the front door as bold as brass and rang the bell.

With his mouth open, Detective Sergeant Lester Griff looked a little like a fish as he stood in the opened doorway of his house, thought Bolan. A scared, very surprised fish.

"H-how did you find me?" Griff asked in a quiet, dry voice.

Bolan kept his hand on the Beretta in his overcoat pocket. He wasn't going to take any chances, regardless of what Griff looked like.

"It wasn't hard, just knowing the right questions, the right people to ask."

Griff swallowed.

"I should be placing you under arrest."

Bolan shook his head.

"I don't think so."

Griff's eyes dropped to the pocket where Bolan's hand was concealed and he saw the outline of the Beretta.

"Don't hurt my wife, please..."

"Don't worry, I won't. What say we step inside and talk?"

The cop stayed where he was, blocking the doorway.

"I don't want you in my house."

"Maybe you'd rather come with me, then."

"What do you want?"

"Answers," said Bolan. "There are things I need to know."

"This is crazy," Griff muttered. "I was just thinking about you."

Before Griff could answer, his wife emerged from the kitchen door to stand behind her husband.

"I feel a draft, honey..." she began, then, "well, no wonder, with you standing in the open doorway like that."

The policeman's already pale face lost even more color.

Kathleen Griff edged closer to her husband and looked past him at their visitor.

"Uh, it's business, Kathleen. Come in... Captain Blanski," Griff said to Bolan.

Bolan stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He smiled at the woman.

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Griff."

"Just some routine business, hon," Griff told her. "We'll go in the den. Shouldn't take but a few minutes."

Bolan heard hope in that last statement.

"Nice to have met you, Captain."

"Ma'am."

With a smile, she went back into the kitchen, but Bolan could read the uncertainty in her eyes.

Mrs. Griff had enough intuitive power, and probably knew her man well enough, to sense the tension that crackled between Griff and "Captain Blanski."

Bolan hoped the sergeant's wife would write it off as the pressure of some important case about to break, and that she would stay out of his way.

He had to know about Griff, and what this cop knew about a child-molesting animal like David Parelli.

"This way," Griff grumbled.

He pushed open some folding doors and led the way into a room with books on the walls, a decent carpet on the floor and a small television set on a rolling stand in one corner. The furnishings had a masculine air, and on one wall there were several mounted fish and some bowling trophies. A comfortable room, not a fancy one.

Again, Bolan shut the door behind him.

"What do you want?" Griff demanded in a harsh, lowered voice, making no move to sit down.

"I want Parelli."

Griff snorted.

"So do I, pal. Only I can't get him."

"Where is he tonight?"

"I'm off duty," Griff snarled. "I don't tuck the guy into bed."

"Maybe not," said Bolan in a voice cold as the Arctic, "but maybe you sleep together just the same."

Griff's face flushed.

"Who the hell you been talking to?"

"I keep my eyes open. You were at Parelli's tonight."

Griff could not suppress a snort of derision.

"I'm not a crooked cop," he said softly. "I don't guess I expect you to believe me, but it's true."

"What were you doing at Parelli's house?"

Griff shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

Bolan stared icy eyed at him.

"You tell me you're not in Parelli's pocket, but you won't tell me why you were at his house. Give me something solid, Griff, or I'll have to draw my own conclusions."

The cop stared at him, anger and fear mixed in his eyes.

"Go ahead and draw your damn conclusions. Nothing I can say is going to change your mind, anyway."

"Try me."

"Go ahead and shoot if that's what you want to do."

Bolan studied the stubborn cop.

Griff was afraid, sure, but Bolan had looked over his gun sights at many frightened men over the long bloody years, and he had learned that there were different kinds of fear.

Dirty cops lived every day with the fear that their sins would be discovered, fearing exposure as much as or more than they did death.

Bolan saw none of that shamed fear in Griff's taut countenance. But he did not release the Beretta in his pocket.

"You don't seem too surprised to see me."

"Maybe I'm not."

"Care to tell me about that?"

Griff shrugged. "No mystery there. I may be off duty but I'm not out of touch. That hit a little while ago at the health club Parelli runs... you left your calling cards... a pile of dead hoods and a marksman's medal."

"Dead hoods," Bolan confirmed with a nod. "That should put us on the same side of the fence."

Griff snorted again.

"Far as I'm concerned, dude, you're every bit the public enemy that Parelli is. I don't think much of vigilantes taking it upon themselves to shoot up my town just because they don't like the way the law works."

"Sometimes the law doesn't work, Griff."

"There's just one thing," Griff went on. "Whatever's between you and me, Kathleen's got no part in it. You leave her out of it."

"What makes you think you can trust me?"

"They say you keep your word."

Bolan took the Beretta out of his pocket.

He pushed the overcoat aside and slid the little automatic home into shoulder leather.

"All right, guy. If that's the way you want to play it, I'll cut you a little slack. For now."

Griff nodded, snaking his tongue over dry lips.

"Uh, okay, that's fine, but don't think you'll change my mind. I'm a law and order man and you're not, Bolan, and that's the way it is. Your coming in here waving hardware around won't change my mind, but I won't give you trouble, at least not here in my home."

Bolan went with what his gut told him about this man.

"I'm not so sure I'd want to change you," he told the cop, "and I didn't want to bring this into your home, but it won't wait."

"So talk," Griff growled steadily.

Bolan asked, "What do you know about a man named Randy Owens?"

Something flared in Griff's eyes at the mention of the name.

"I know him. At least I know of him."

"Tell me about him."

"Beyond the fact that he's a slimebucket? Not a hell of a lot to tell. He makes movies."

"I thought it was tv commercials."

"The stuff that Owens makes they don't even show on cable," Griff insisted adamantly. "Strictly dirty movies, all the way. Real dirty."

"You're sure?"

"I used to work in Vice, pal. I know what I'm talking about."

"Did you ever bust Owens?"

Griff shook his head.

"You know how it works. The guys who make the stuff never get busted and most often the distributors never do, either.''

Bolan nodded. "The ones who get thrown in jail are the college kids who work as clerks and ticket takers for minimum wage at the porn joints."

"They're the ones who get busted," Griff continued. "The higher-ups don't give a shit. There's always another college kid hard up for money who'll take the job."

Bolan had to admit that Griff did not sound like a crooked cop, but he had also known a lot of officers who railed against the injustices of the system, but felt that they might as well sell it out and get a piece of the pie for themselves.

"How does Owens tie in with Parelli?"

"Same as anybody else who makes porn," Griff replied with a shrug. "The family has control of production and distribution, not just where that sick crap plays, same as they do with a fair share of the porno publishing trade. Don't tell me I'm telling you something you don't already know. I don't get it."

"What about Mrs. Parelli?"

Griff frowned. "What about her?"

"I've heard Owens has a more personal tie-in with her."

Griff thought about that for half a moment.

"Uh, could be. Seems like I have heard rumors along those lines, though why Owens would want to bang somebody like Mrs. Parelli when he can hang around with all those young porno babes all day... guess there's no accounting for taste..." Griff let his voice trail off.

Bolan, recalling Denise Parelli's sleek, mature good looks, did not comment on Griff's last statement.

"Where can I find Owens?"

"He's got an office downtown in the Loop, but he's not there much," said the cop. "You can usually find the creep out at his so-called studio. I'll give the guy credit for working hard; that place turns out a whole shitload of those movies in a very short time."

Griff gave Bolan an address on the South Side, which Bolan filed away in his head.

"You're not afraid of me showing up at Owens's and doing what I did at Parelli's club?" Bolan asked.

"Maybe I plan to call in to the station house after you leave," said Griff. "Maybe I'm setting you up."