California Hit

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Mack Bolan had long entertained a bone feeling about San Francisco. His ground ear had been pulling him here ever since the nightmare in New York, the steady vibrations from that underculture of the national crime network telegraphing the insistent message that here was where the blood was at.

That certain feeling was intensified as the warwagon sped across the doubledecked engineering marvel known as the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge and the fabulous skyline of that great old city came into view.

Down there was a population-density surpassed only in Manhattan, and a cosmopolitan atmosphere second to nowhere. It was more than a city; San Francisco was a way of life and a state of mind, an independence of the human spirit exuberantly expressed and often wildly exaggerated. There was the largest Chinatown outside the Orient, the most cohesive Italian community on the continent, and a general mixture of peoples and cultures more productive than any similar venture on the planet Earth.

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