Bolan left them to their private hell, accelerating out of there before the woman could see. She had already seen enough, damn right, to last a dozen lifetimes, and he didn't feel she needed another lesson.
"That's three times now you've saved my life," she said as she regained her seat, "and I don't even know your name."
"LaMancha," Bolan told her, opting for the path of least resistance.
"I'm Sarah."
Bolan nodded.
She was safe for now. All the soldier had to do was drop her off, then go to find her husband. Find him and free him from whatever army had him under wraps.
Simple.
A piece of cake.
Like falling in a grave.
4
The telephone rang half a dozen times before a sleepy voice answered.
"Rafferty."
"I understand you're interested in Dave Eritrea."
The drowsy tone was instantly replaced by keen suspicion. "Could be, yeah. Who is this?"
Bolan smiled and said, "I'm a friend of the family."
"Oh, yeah? I don't suppose you could arrange an introduction?"
"Thought you'd never ask. I have the lady with me now."
"She looking for a place to stay?"
"Affirmative. You offering?"
Hesitation. Bolan could almost hear the mental wheels turning, scanners searching for signs of a trap.
"I'll have to make some calls. If you could meet me..."
"No good," Bolan interrupted. "She's bashful."
"Okay, I understand." A pause. "How did you get this number?"
Bolan played it cagey. "We've got some mutual friends in Washington."
"Uh-huh. Then I suppose you've got the address, too?"
"I'm looking at it."
"Yeah, well, give me a few minutes, willya?"
Bolan cradled the receiver, briskly retracing his steps to the rental and Sarah Eritrea.
"It's set," he told her.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
The Executioner had neither met Bill Rafferty nor spoken to him prior to this night's call, but he was sure. He knew the man by reputation, through Brognola's Justice contacts, and he liked what he had heard.
Bill Rafferty was currently a New York Police Department captain, placed in charge of the department's elite organized-crime unit. As a charter member of the city's tactical intelligence council, he owed his present post equally to sheer ability and some maneuvering by Hal behind the scenes. If any man had his finger on the Mafia pulse tonight, able to explain — and possibly predict — the furtive movements of the brotherhood, that man would be Bill Rafferty.
And he would be the only man who could provide a measure of security to Bolan's charge right now.
The captain lived in Queens, a modest home in Jackson Heights, not far from LaGuardia Airport. Bolan was a short drive away when he stopped to place his call. His knowledge of the man assured him Rafferty would listen and do his best to shelter Sarah Eritrea from the coming storm.
Whatever else he would or would not do depended on the man himself, and Bolan's method of approach. In this case, he decided that the only logical approach would be straightforward, open.
The soldier drove by Rafferty's home, seeing lights in the living-room windows, checking out the standard-issue unmarked police car outside and doubling back to park behind it in the driveway. He had taken time to change, to clean his face and hands of war paint, and the suit he wore above his hardware was expensive and stylish. Sarah Eritrea — still disheveled, but presentable — hung back a cautious pace as Bolan led her to the door and pressed the bell.
Bill Rafferty was dressed in shirt and slacks, complete with cross-draw holster on his hip, and he was in his stocking feet, his hair still rumpled from the pillow. Bolan thought he looked a boyish thirty rather than his actual forty years.
The Mafia expert scrutinized his callers briefly, Bolan first and then the woman, finally stepping back to let them pass.
"Come in."
He double-locked the door behind them, led them through a tiny vestibule that opened on the parlor, waving them to easy chairs and sofa. It would have been the family room in any other home, but Bolan's mental mug file told him Rafferty was widowed, childless.
"Coffee?"
"Thanks."
He disappeared, returning moments later with a tray laden with refreshments.
"Best I've got is instant."
"Fine."
The Executioner could feel the detective's sharp stare, knew that Rafferty had noted the Beretta in its armpit sling before he let them through the door.
The strike-force captain filled their cups and sank back on the couch to sip from his own.
"I had another call right after yours," he said, appearing nonchalant but watching Bolan for the trace of a reaction. "Seems they had a little trouble on Long Island. Some of Don Minelli's people bit the big one. You know anything about that?"