Capt. Harley Davis swore at the phone, then picked it up. “Davis here.”

“What the hell is going on down there, Davis? You know who this is. A perfectly legitimate nightclub gets blasted to rubble. Where the hell is our police protection?”

“Hey, easy. I’ve been having some problems. My force is spread thin. No way all the cops in the world can stop something like that. The attacker always has the advantage — you know that. We’re doing what we can to find the bomber and take care of him.”

“We’re doing the same thing, Davis. I’m pissed at you and the department. Hell, we pay taxes. What good does it do? Now three more places have closed because some nut set off smoke bombs in them. No big damage but a lot of sick people and mad ones.”

“He’s trying to scare you.”

“Who?”

“Hell, you know. Mack Bolan, the guy who calls himself the Executioner. He’s always after... places like yours.”

“So find him and nail his hide to the closest flagpole.”

“I’d like to. He’s made my damn ulcer kick up again.”

“Fuck your ulcer. I’m losing money.”

“We had to take two of your boys in on gambling charges. No way we could avoid it. I’ll set it up so they can get released on their own recognizance.”

“Damn well better.”

“Send me anything you have on this Bolan. Isn’t there a picture of him? I’ll check the wires on him. FBI had something going a while back.”

“You get something going. You shut this joker down, and do it damn quick!”

“Yeah. Nothing I would like better.”

They hung up. Captain Davis slouched in his chair in the glass-enclosed office. At least the glass went to the ceiling to provide a little privacy, soundwise. He was forty-nine years old and awaiting his thirty-year retirement, due in three years. Before then his plan was to have a nest egg to keep him on easy street. Hell, he might have to stay on a few years more, if he could keep raking in a hundred thousand a year from his friends.