The elder Bolan liked the sound of San Diego at this moment, had almost decided on a visit to his brother when he spied a phone booth. He had a call to make before he left New York, and this would be as good a time as any.

Bolan punched the private number up from memory and waited until Leo Turrin answered in D.C.

"I'm calling for La Mancha," Bolan told him.

"Go ahead."

The breach of regular security, the sudden tension in his contact's voice, alerted Bolan to a crisis in the making. Normally, the man from Wonderland would take his number, find a different phone and call him back within five minutes, thus evading any possibility of taps or bugs. For Leo to accept the call unscrambled on his private line could only mean that he, or someone close, was in a world of trouble.

For a fleeting instant Bolan nearly hung up, breaking the connection before a trace could be established. But he fought the urge and stood his ground. Leo Turrin would never knowingly betray him, and it would be virtually impossible for agents in D.C. to mobilize a New York team in any case. Secure in the thicket of red tape, he forged ahead.

"What is it, Sticker?"

Turrin hesitated then cleared his throat, as if asking for help was an ordeal for him. And in retrospect the Executioner would realize that it had been precisely that. Reluctantly, the former mafioso laid it out.

"Hal's in deep. He needs a specialist."

"Explain."

"His family's been taken, and the brass at Justice have him figured for a mole."

"That's bullshit."

"Hey, Iknow that, but they're talking evidence. Like phone logs, videos, the whole nine yards."