Executioner 77 Hollywood Hell by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

Los Angeles was simmering by noon. According to the DJ doubling as weatherman, the temperature was flirting with a new record and was expected to climb higher in the next few days. Impatient now, Mack Bolan killed the radio as he turned west onto Sunset.

There were other kinds of heat in Hollywood this afternoon, and weather was the least of Bolan's worries as he made a quick preliminary drive by of his new objective. The Executioner had been applying heat all night and through the morning, waiting for the pot to boil, and he was not alone. Detectives out of Homicide, enforcers for the syndicate, a group of angry, battered pimps on Wilshire Boulevard—all were turning up the flame in their respective kitchens, working on the ingredients of a devil's brew, which, when added to the final recipe might be explosive.

And warrior Bolan desired to help them toward that flash point. He was fuse and detonator for the time bomb ticking in Los Angeles, but so far he had no concrete idea of where Ground Zero lay. He had been traveling a violent zigzag course these past few hours, playing hunches for the most part, virtually devoid of guidance. Waiting, right, for shock waves he produced to trigger secondary tremors in the underworld and lead him home, directly onto target.

He had a name at last, an address, and had double-checked them back through Cherry Gifford, phoning in to the motel where he had dropped her off.

He hoped it was the last place anyone would look for her She recognized the name, connected it with distribution of selected "specialties" outside the realm of normal sex films. There was fear and something else—a caring—in her voice as she had asked him to be careful.

Despite the legends that had grown around his exploits, Bolan was no wild-assed warrior, living on the edge and chasing danger for the hell of it. He valued life—all life—and never risked his own unnecessarily. Whenever possible his movements on the battlefield would be preceded by a thorough recon and collection of intelligence. Bolan always sought to tag the enemy, to know his number and his name before committing himself to a firefight situation. But sometimes you simply had to live on instinct and let events select your course.

Sometimes.

Like now.

His first objective was a seedy camera shop. The sallow clerk inside responded to a purchased password and the offer of a hundred-dollar bill. He sold the Executioner a ticket and gave him directions to a private screening scheduled for that afternoon. Admission at the door, he said, would be another thousand dollars. Bolan flashed a chilling, graveyard smile and told him it was cheap at half the price.

The "theater" was above a pharmacy on Figueroa. Bolan left his rental car in the parking lot out back and made his way inside. He felt a momentary chill as air conditioning washed over him and dried the perspiration clinging to his skin.

He brushed on past the magazine rack, where a clutch

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