smooth as he arced in at Grimaldi. His left hand, previously at his side, rose to show the dark configuration of a hard-looking compact shotgun. The guy brought up the weapon, securing it with his right hand, and he was already into his swing as he stepped around the lead man. Grimaldi brought up an arm to ward off the blow. The solid steel barrel cracked against his forearm, the blow delivered with maximum force. The impact drew a pained grunt from Grimaldi, and he swiveled hard, his right hand catching Buchanan’s shoulder, pushing her aside as the lead man went for her.
As she stumbled out of the immediate area, Grimaldi swung his right hand and caught the lead man across the side of the face. The blow stung and the man’s head rocked. He stepped back, anger showing in his cold eyes as the shotgunner closed in, swinging the weapon again, slamming the butt into Grimaldi’s side, a savage blow that cracked ribs and drove the breath from the Stony Man pilot’s lungs. The others were moving in now, dark shapes converging on Grimaldi. He was no slouch when it came to defending himself, and he used his moment of freedom to set himself, gritting his teeth against the swell of pain from his broken ribs. The pain was sharp, sweat popping across his face as Grimaldi forced himself to fight back.
He got in a few telling blows, had the satisfaction of seeing bloodied faces before the overwhelming odds closed around him and he went down under a deluge of blows from weapons and feet. He struggled to push himself upright, the continuing blows starting to wear away his resistance. His face was dripping blood. He tasted it in his mouth. A savage kick drove in over his left eye, splitting flesh to the bone. He felt the hot gush of blood, which washed downward and blinded his vision. Somewhere out of the blur of movement and sound he heard Jess. She was yelling, fighting hard. Through the swirl of dark coats he caught a glimpse of her.
She was struggling in the grip of the lead man. He held her with little effort, a crooked grin on his tight face. She reached out and took hold of his short blond hair, yanking hard. He jerked away, then suddenly, cruelly, punched her hard in the face. The last thing Grimaldi saw was Jess going limp, her mouth bloody, eyes starting to glaze over from the blow. He tried to yell to her but he was choking on his own blood. Someone stamped down hard on his left hand, breaking several fingers. Grimaldi felt himself being hauled up off the floor, pinned against the bench as more blows landed on his body. He made a vain attempt at resisting. His attempts were brushed aside. As his body began to shut down, oblivious to the continuing beating, all Grimaldi could recall was the final expression in Jess’s eyes…it had been one of pure terror. And then he went under.
MACK BOLAN STOOD as the white-coated doctor came into the waiting room. The medic held out a hand, gripping Bolan’s firmly.
“How is he?” Bolan asked.
“When you called you said you were family. I don’t see a resemblance.”
Bolan smiled. “Maybe I should have added that I’m all the family Jack has, Doc. We work together. Right now my friend is in trouble, and I want to know how he is.”
“All right, Mr. Belasko. Let’s sit down. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
When they were seated, the doctor took a moment to collect his thoughts.
“Jack Grimaldi was brought in about five hours ago. He had taken one hell of a beating. We have three broken ribs on his left side. Came close to puncturing his lung. He also has three broken fingers in his left hand. In addition his upper torso, arms and face are showing severe bruising associated with the beating he took. He has a slight fracture in his right cheekbone, and it looks like someone kicked him above the right eye. Left a deep gash. His eye has swollen so he won’t be able to see for a while. In nontechnical terms your friend has been well and truly worked over.”
“Are any of the injuries life threatening?”
“No, but he’s going to be out of action for a while.”
“Is he awake?”
The doctor sighed; he knew what was coming.
“You want to see him?”
“I understand he needs rest. I’m not going to be there long, and I’m not about to put him under any kind of stress. I just need to see him for a couple of minutes. Then I’m gone.”
The doctor stood and beckoned for Bolan to follow him.
“If I say no, you’ll just keep pestering me. Am I right?”
“You got it.”
“I’ve already sent the police away when they wanted to question him. So why am I letting you in?”
“Did the police ask as nicely as I did?”
The doctor shook his head and chuckled.
Bolan followed the medic down the hall and to the private room where he could see Grimaldi’s prone shape on the bed through the window.
“I’ll be outside,” the doctor said. “And I’ll be watching. Any signs of distress, and I’m hauling you straight out. He’s been sedated to ease the pain, so he might not be fully awake.”
“Understood. And thanks.”
Bolan eased into the room. The lights were low and the room was silent except for Grimaldi’s slightly harsh breathing. As the soldier stood beside the bed, looking down at his friend, Grimaldi’s good eye opened and he stared up at his visitor.
“Hey, Sarge, thanks for showing up.”
“I’m going to make this quick,” Bolan said. “Your doc’s got his eye on me.”
“Sarge, they took her. They took Jess.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know. But they looked like they had military training at some time. The guy in charge had close-cropped white-blond hair. I got one in on his left cheek before they put me down.”
Grimaldi was talking slowly so as not to increase any pain he was suffering. It still had to have hurt, Bolan realized, seeing the strain on his friend’s face.
“Any idea why they wanted Jess?”
“The only thing I can tell you is she told me she’d had a call from her late father’s brother. Jess was out at the time, and he left a message on her answering machine. She hadn’t had contact with him for some time. He’s in the Air Force, Sarge, and his name is Doug Buchanan. The call came out of the blue. Jess said he sounded like he was under some strain. He warned her not to talk to anyone about hearing from him and to watch out for strangers. Coincidence?” Grimaldi fell silent for a moment. “What could they want from her, Mack?”
Bolan rested a gentle hand on Grimaldi’s shoulder. “Let me worry about that. One way or the other, I’ll find out.”
Grimaldi nodded, satisfied. He knew Mack Bolan well enough to accept those few words as a promise.
“You rest easy.”
Bolan turned to leave. At the door he paused as he heard Grimaldi’s whispered thanks. When he turned to look back, the Stony Man pilot had drifted into a tranquilized sleep.
Back in the corridor Bolan thanked the doctor and made his way outside. He stood in the warm afternoon sun, considering his next move. There was, he realized, only a single
