War Against the Mafia (13 page)

"What's on the other side of this party room, downstairs here?"

"Oh, well, I told you, they push the walls back, and it's all just one big room, clear across."

"How many people would you say are in there right now, Harry?"

"Oh, well, I can tell you exactly. I got the front detail, see. I checked thirty-two guys through. There's thirty-two in there, exactly."

"No girls?"

"Oh, well, yeah, there's girls. There's the twenty-five regulars and about, uh, oh I'd say about, uh. fifteen or so specials."

"Specials for what?"

"Well, for the party. They move 'em around for these parties, see. Specialists."

"Specialists in what?"

"Different lands of stunts, you know. Sex stunts."

"I see. Thank you, Harry. You've been very helpful. If I find out you've misled me, I'll come back and skin you."

"I ain't misled you."

"We will see," said The Executioner. He removed the pointed blade and immediately applied the.45 just behind the ear. The talkative informant fell over sideways without a sound. Bolan picked up his shotgun, checked it over for load and readiness, and carried it with him to the large window at the unguarded side of the house. He removed one of the canisters from his waist pouch and dropped it to the ground, then swung the shotgun against the window, dancing back to avoid flying fragments. The huge window went with a roaring crash; Bolan waited but a split second to clear any falling slivers, then thrust the muzzle of the shotgun against the exposed drapery, angling high toward the ceiling, and pulled both triggers. The double roar must have sounded like doomsday to those inside. A watermelon-sized hole appeared in the heavy drapery material. Bolan picked up the canister, flipped a lever at its top, and tossed it through the hole in the drapery. Heavy black smoke drifted back through the hole and billowed up between the drapery and the window frame. There were sounds of pandemonium within as Bolan hurried back to the fallen guards. He grabbed up the remaining shotgun and restored it to firing condition just as a man ran around the corner from the back side of the house. Bolan pushed the shotgun in the general direction of the running figure and pulled the trigger. The man was flung into the air like a rag doll, catching the full charge in the chest. Bolan swung to the sounds of thudding feet in the opposite direction and let go the other barrel. The target screamed and fell writhing to the ground, hands clutching at where his stomach had been. Bolan dropped the now-useless shotgun and got a grip on his.45 just as an upstairs window swung open and a man leaned out with a gun in his hand, foolishly exposing himself in full light.

The Executioner's.45 arced upwards and exploded once. The man's head snapped back and he disappeared from view. Bolan moved swiftly toward the front door, rounding the corner just as another man, gun at the ready, hurtled off the porch, firing wildly as he ran. Bolan dropped to one knee and his finger moved of its own accord, squeezing off two calculated shots at the running figure. The man stopped firing, stopped running, and began flopping about the ground. Bolan returned to the side of the house and tossed another smoke cannister into the open upstairs window, then dropped the last one on the ground and retreated behind the fast-forming cloud.

He regained his car, turned it around, and headed for South Hills. The prelude skirmishes were at an end. The stage, he reflected grimly, should now be set for the big kill. He just hoped he hadn't overplayed the prelude music.

"Shit, I'm telling you the asshole is running wild again!" Plasky jabbered, pushing on into Sergio's bedroom. "Leo's on 'is way-"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," the old man cried. "Calm down, will you." He shot a glance at his bodyguard and nodded his head calmly; the guard inclined his head slightly in an understanding and returned to his desk in the sitting room and picked up a house phone. Sergio sat stiffly upright at the edge of the bed, and said, "Now, Nathan, what is all this?"

"I said Bolan is at it again," Plasky replied, spacing his words in firm articulation, obviously smarting under the earlier shushing. "He hit three of Leo's places in less than an hour, and he killed four of the guards out at the Meadows. Leo is on his way out here now, and he's bringing Walt with him."

"Well, it's what we have been waiting for, isn't it?" Sergio replied, smiling calmly.

"Yeah, but hell, are you just going to sit there?"

"Would you like it better if I tried walking on the ceiling?"

"Aw hell, Sergio, we gotta man the ramparts. We gotta get the men-"

"Terry is seeing to those details at this moment," Sergio said, his eyes flicking past the open door and to the man at the desk. "Now simmer it down and get ahold of yourself. I'll tell you what. You go down to the council room and see that the stage is well set, eh?"

Plasky nodded his head jerkily. "Sure, sure Sergio, I'll make double-sure." He moved quickly out the door, past the guard desk, and along the hall to the large chamber on the second level.

The council table had been set, the chairs placed, and each one was occupied. Plasky smiled at the close attention to detail, readjusted an arm on one of the mannikins, and moved a wine bottle closer to the dummy hand. He walked about the table in a close inspection, hands clasped behind him like a proud maitre d', then went to the window and inspected the positioning of the thin draperies that had been added during the reinstallation of the huge window glass. He stepped slowly about the room, checking the lighting, rechecking each little detail and wondering how it would look in shadow, through a sniperscope, and from perhaps a thousand yards distant. Then he punched a button on the hastily installed electronic device that would vary the lighting in a timed cycling and repositioning of light source, thus changing the projection of shadows onto the window-drapery. Plasky cackled inwardly as a shadowy arm was seen to move on the drapery, a head seemed to tip forward, a body appeared to lean across the table.

He had to see it again from outside. He hurried from the room and down the curving stairway and onto the patio, then sat on the wall and gazed up at the second-level window. Yeah, yeah, it was perfect, just perfect The place looked alive, with a full council going on. Plasky grunted with satisfaction and paced about the flagstoned patio in hot anticipation of the little welcome The Family had in store for the sonuvabitch of the century.

Walt Seymour was about to burst with contained excitement. "How do we know he'll hit South Hills tonight?" he asked nervously, watching Turrin's face in the reflected glow of the instrument panel.

Turrin's teeth gleamed in a smile as he turned down the freeway ramp and began to climb into the exclusive neighborhood. It's a thing the cops call
modus operandi,"
he said. "Bolan isn't interested in stirring up our whorehouse operation, he just wants to stir
us
up. It worked for him once, he figures it'll work again. He sweeps in, see, and raises hell down in the grass roots to force us all to the council table. Then, he figures, he's got us all together and he can plunk us like rats in a water barrel, see. This is what we been waiting for, Walt."

"I wonder where the bastard's been all this time."

Turrin scowled. "Well-I hope he's just been licking his wounds. I'm positive Angie hit him the other night." The scowl deepened. "But from what I been hearing of his antics tonight-well-I dunno-he must o' not been hit too damn hard."

"He's probably onto us," Seymour said, his agitation visibly increasing. "He's probably been laying up there somewhere watching us all this time, probably with binoculars." He shivered. "Or through that damn sniper scope. How good are those scopes, Leo? You were in the service. They any damn good?"

"They're plenty damn good," Turrin replied. "Good enough to see a fly's pecker at fifteen hundred yards."

Seymour exploded into a mirthful fit. "A fly's
pecker,"
he howled. Turrin grinned along with him, and he chuckled for a while, his tensions seeming to disintegrate in the penetrating good humor. "If that guy is fool enough to hit us again," he commented, following a long silence, "we'll nail his ass for good."

"Yes, I believe we will," Turrin agreed. But he was scowling again, and it was still with him when he turned into the hillside estate of Sergio Frenchi.

Bolan stopped at a public telephone in the darkened approaches to a closed service station, dropped in a dime, and dialed a rehearsed number. The receiver at the other end was lifted before the first ring could be completed and a trembly feminine voice said, "Yes?"

This is the phantom of the bedroom," he announced pleasantly. "Mack! Oh, Mack! Everything's okay?"

"Sure," he said "But the night's still young. I just wanted to check in, let you know I'm still in the picture. I may be tied up the rest of the night? Uh-you been waiting up for me to call?"

Her reply came in a tumble of words. "Mack, I'll never go to bed again until it's with you. I tried, I really tried to, but that old bed just
shrieked
at me. No, I-I'm sitting up, I'm on the couch-oh Mack, don't let anything happen to you."

It's not in the plan," he said, chuckling reassuringly. "I, uh, you know, Val, there's always a possibility of something going haywire, though. I forgot to tell you about the money. It's in a leather case, in the storage space above your hall closet. If anything-"

"I don't want the darned old money!" she cried.

"Just listen to me. If anything should go wrong, I want you to keep that money. Now, I mean it. Consider it as my estate. It's as much mine as anybody else's."

"Mack, you'd
better
come back here to me. You've just
got
to!"

"Hell, I'm sorry I mentioned it," he said uneasily. "Anyway-I've got this kid brother, see. You know about him. He could use some money, too, and-"

"Mack, I'm going to start screaming!"

"Don't do that," he said quickly. "Don't worry, it'll all come out okay. I just thought I should mention the money, just in case."

"I just want
you.
She was sobbing. "Call it off, Mack. Just come back. Come back right now."

"You're making it awfully tough on me, honey," he told her. "You know what I have to do."

She was regaining control. "All right," she said. "I'll be brave. Is this better?"

"Much better. Be a good girl now and go to bed. I want you nice and fresh when I get home."

"I'll try."

"I love you, Val"

"Oh
God,
Mack, I love you nutty!"

"It's great, isn't it." His voice was glowing.

"Yes, yes darling, it's great."

"Well- back to work. Stay cool, now."

"I promise. I'll stay cool. You do, too. And Mack..."

"Yeah?"

"I don't care who you have to kill, or how many. You come back here to me."

"I'll be back," he said, chuckling. He hung up, and his smile faded, and he stared glumly at the black box. It was odd, he reflected, how life came in bunches and gobs, and always at the wrong times. He had so much more to live for now than ever before, and he was facing the most perilous moment of his lifetime. He sighed, muttered, "I'll get back, Val,"-fingered a kiss onto the telephone mouthpiece, and The Executioner went off to join the gathering.

Lieutenant Al Weatherbee of the Metropolitan Police sleepily gathered his thermos jug and sandwiches and headed toward the police garage with his young sergeant, John Pappas. "Well, Johnny," he said tiredly, "if our intelligence is good, tonight will be the night"

"You say he knocked off three of their joints tonight?" Pappas asked, grinning.

"Yes, and don't look so happy about it. He's making us look like monkeys too, you know."

They stepped into the elevator and were silent in the descent to the garage. They stood quietly and waited as a half-dozen marked patrol cars gunned up the narrow ramp to the street, then went over to their squad car. Pappas slid behind the wheel and reached over to help

Weatherbee with his burden. "You planning on eating all this in one night?" he asked.

"Oh, between the two of us, I figure we can take care of it all right," the lieutenant replied. "And it could be a long, long night."

"Well, it's three o'clock already, and I just ate at two."

"It could still be a long time till breakfast." Weatherbee settled into the seat, nodded to his companion, and the car eased up the ramp.

"How many units they sending out?" Pappas wondered aloud.

"We'll have a dozen cars in the general area, eight of them assigned directly to us, the other four for backup as required. The sheriff is cooperating on this one, also. He's promised a minimum of ten men in the canyon, on the county side, and possibly some mounted units. I think we'll have him pretty well sewed up. If he shows, and I think he will, I don't see how he can possibly slip away from us this time. Unless..." Weatherbee scratched his cheek thoughtfully and showed his partner a wry smile. "Unless he really is a ghost, like the newsmen have been calling him."

They hit the expressway with the warning light flashing, pulled into the far-left lane, and hurtled along in steadily building momentum.

"I don't think there's all this big a hurry, though, Johnny," Weatherbee said uneasily.

"Never can tell," Pappas replied, flicking a gleaming glance toward his superior. "And I sure as hell don't intend to miss this one."

The lieutenant sighed, scratched his cheek again, and said softly: "'And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon.'"

"What?" Pappas said, chancing another quick glance.

"That's from the Book of Revelation," Weatherbee said. "Somehow it seemed appropriate to the moment."

Pappas shivered involuntarily and hunched closer over the wheel. "Armageddon," he repeated musingly. "That's a sort of hell, isn't it?"

"No," Weatherbee said quietly, hanging onto the, door Handle to brace himself in the hurtling automobile, "-it's supposed to be the place where the final battle will be fought between the forces of-Christ!-watch it, will you!"

Pappas had swerved between two slower-moving vehicles, setting the lieutenant rocking and swearing beneath his breath.

"Between the forces of what?" he asked, ignoring the complaint.

"Between the forces of good and evil. Goddamnit, we're going to find our Armageddon right here on this expressway if you don't slow this son of a bitch down. Now damnit, that's an order, Johnny!"

Pappas reluctantly released some of the pressure from the accelerator. "Just hurrying to the gathering," he said, grinning. "I sure as hell wouldn't want to miss Armageddon."

"I'll remind you that you said that," Weatherbee said quietly.