Free War Against the Mafia by Don Pendleton Page B

to pass along an interesting piece of information."
    Bolan was not being a gracious host. He left the lieutenant standing in the center of the living room and went back to the small kitchen. He put a pot of water on the stove, pulled two cups and a jar of instant coffee from a shelf, then turned sleepy eyes toward the front of the apartment. "Come on back here," he called.
    The huge bulk of the detective moved into the narrow dining compartment. Bolan was perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar. "Coffee be ready in a minute," he announced in a thick voice. "What'd you say about some information?"
    Weatherbee nodded. "Came by way of an informant." He settled tenuously onto a stool, sitting sideways and studying Bolan's face in the dim light. "A contract has been let on you, Bolan."
    Bolan thought about it for a moment, then said, "I don't understand you."
    "A kill contract," the policeman explained. "Somebody has set
you
up for an execution. Understand now?"
    Bolan stared at him briefly, lit a cigarette, and glanced toward the pot of water. "Why does it take water so much longer to boil in the morning?" he asked soberly.
    "You do know what I'm saying?"
    "Yeah, I know." Bolan slid off the stool and stepped to the stove, touched the pot experimentally with fingertips, then angled a penetrating gaze toward his companion of the early morning. "You trying to shake me up, or something?" he asked softly.
    Weatherbee sighed and shook his head negative. "No, this is on the level, Bolan. Look, I've had you under observation. I've known that you've been playing some sort of game with these people. Well-now
they
know it. You didn't really expect to insult their intelligence forever, did you?"
    Bolan dug a spoon into the coffee jar, extracted a heaping spoonful, and slid the jar toward Weatherbee. "You're speaking of the Matthews," he declared. The water pot was just beginning to sizzle. Bolan glared at it, then lifted it off the stove and poured hot water into his cup, swizzling the coffee crystals mechanically with one hand while pouring water into his visitor's cup with the other. "They haven't seemed so intelligent," he murmured.
    "Many, many dead men have had that same first impression," Weatherbee said. He stirred his coffee and took an experimental sip, "They've pegged you, Bolan," he declared, exhaling noisily. "They know who you are -and obviously they know why you are interested in them. And there's a contract out, with your name on it."
    "What can I do about it?" Bolan wondered aloud.
    Their eyes met. Weatherbee smiled grimly and said:
    "Run. As fast and as far as you can. Southeast Asia, if you can get there."
    Bolan shook his head. "I'm not running anywhere. How long has this, uh, contract been in effect?"
    Weatherbee glanced at his watch. "About four hours, if my informant's information is accurate."
    "And how long does it take them to get something going?"
    Weatherbee shrugged the massive shoulders. "Not long. They must figure it as a fairly easy hit. The price on the contract, I'm told, is only five thousand." He sighed. "To tell the truth, Bolan, I rather half expected to find you already dead when I came up here."
    "Why all the intrigue?" Bolan wanted to know. "I've been under their noses for days. Why the cat and mouse routine? They could have taken me any time."
    "Why yours?"
    "Huh?"
    The big cop smiled. "Why have you been holding off? Your object is to kill them-and don't bother denying or confirming that, I don't expect you to. It's a matter of
modus operandi,
isn't it. The same is true of the Mafia. Contract killings are their way." He pushed the coffee away from him with a grunt. "The coffee is lousy. You didn't let the water boil. Well..." He got down off the stool, placed his hands on his hips and rocked back, stretching himself. "...I've told you. That's my duty, as I see it. It's all I can do, unless you want to request protective custody."
    Bolan's reaction to the suggestion was a disparaging grunt. "Where