"We are not questioning your identity. Just tell us this much. Were the murders at Palm Village this morning ordered by Julian DiGeorge?"
"No," Bolan said. "It was all Pena's idea."
"I see. And now Pena and his squad are dead."
"That's right."
"At DiGeorge's orders?"
"There was a contract out on Pena"
"I see," Brognola replied with some confusion.
Bolan sighed. "Okay, Lyons," he said. "I don't want you people to start questioning my intel. You're right, it's no time for games. Besides, I'm about as incriminated as one person can get already. This is Bolan. I've penetrated the DiGeorge family, and I pulled off the hit on Pena this morning. I was acting purely for myself on that one, though. You saw, or heard, what they did to Brantzen."
"Yeah," Lyons said softly. "Braddock gave a pretty good description of the guy who helped him, Bolan. It fits a man who was sitting in my car the other night, in Redlands."
"Yeah," Bolan said. "About my problem."
"Go ahead," Lyons sighed.
"I hear that: the Commissione employs a private staff of enforcers. I need to know who runs that show."
"That's your department, Hal," Lyons said.
"Presently only ten bosses sit on the Commissione," Brognola reported. He rattled off the names. "You'll note that DiGeorge's name is not present. He walked out in a huff two years ago over some dispute about the narcotics traffic. He sits in from time to time, though, when some subject important to him comes up for discussion. Technically, he still has a voice on that council."
"But there are tensions?" Bolan asked interestedly.
"There are tensions," Brognola assured him. "The council wanted to regulate prices. DiGeorge won't go for it. He controls a big slice of their narcotic imports. He feels that the pricing is his affair, and he wholesales to the other families on his own terms. Yes, there are tensions."
"Thanks," Bolan said. "That gives me something to parlay, I'm especially interested in the council's enforcers, though. What can you tell me about that?"
Brognola coughed and said, "The Talifero brothers, it is said, have the most feared crew of enforcers in the country. These brothers are loosely called 'Pat and Mike.' They are . . ."
"Okay, I've heard of Pat and Mike. What you say wraps it up. Maybe I can keep my neck out of . . ."
"Be careful, Pointer," Brognola urged. "These Talifero boys are double trouble. It's said that once they get their orders, they are like guided missiles, there's no way of calling them back or scrubbing the hit. The triggermen in their crew are like an elite Gestapo, taking orders from no one but Pat and Mike. The brothers themselves operate directly out of the Commissione."
"Exactly what I wanted," Bolan commented. "I'd better bug off now."
"Uh, Pointer . . ."Brognola said hurriedly.
"Yes?"
"I'm flying to Washington tonight. I'd like to make a representation on your behalf."
"What sort of representation?"
"A sort of unofficial 'forgive and forget' representation. Do you follow me?"
"Who's playing games now?" Bolan said, chuckling.
"He's dead serious, Bolan," Lyons broke in.
Brognola said, "Rather, uh, high offices have been apprised of your successes here. We've suspected your true identity and now that you've confirmed it . . . well . . . I'm not promising anything, but . . . I believe I can get you a portfolio — unofficially, you understand — if you'll agree to continue on in your present role."
"It is my intention to continue," Bolan said. "Unless I die soon."
"You aren't going to die soon, are you?" Lyons said, chuckling.
"Not if I can help it."
"Can we do anything to help?"
"I doubt it. I guess it's my show — win, lose, or draw. Uh, you might look into the death of Charles D'Agosta two years ago, age about 20, supposedly drowned on a boating accident off San Pedro."
"Mafia rubout, Bolan?" Lyons asked.
"Let's can him Pointer," Brognola broke in nervously.
Bolan laughed and said, "The rubout is an outside chance. Look into it, will you?"
"I'll do that," Lyons assured him. "Anything else?"
"You might pray."
Lyons and Brognola chuckled. Bolan said, "Well . . ."
"Braddock says thanks," Lyons added hastily.
Bolan said, "Sure," and broke the connection. He returned to the new Mercedes, checked his gunleather, and set off for the villa. Police-community relations had never seemed better for Mack Bolan. He wondered vaguely what was implied by acquiring a "portfolio."
"Maybe it's a license to kill," he muttered to his Mercedes. "And then again," he added thoughtfully, "maybe it's a license to die."
Either way, Mack Bolan was not too impressed with licenses. He had his rage to keep him warm.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
"No," Bolan said. "It was all Pena's idea."
"I see. And now Pena and his squad are dead."
"That's right."
"At DiGeorge's orders?"
"There was a contract out on Pena"
"I see," Brognola replied with some confusion.
Bolan sighed. "Okay, Lyons," he said. "I don't want you people to start questioning my intel. You're right, it's no time for games. Besides, I'm about as incriminated as one person can get already. This is Bolan. I've penetrated the DiGeorge family, and I pulled off the hit on Pena this morning. I was acting purely for myself on that one, though. You saw, or heard, what they did to Brantzen."
"Yeah," Lyons said softly. "Braddock gave a pretty good description of the guy who helped him, Bolan. It fits a man who was sitting in my car the other night, in Redlands."
"Yeah," Bolan said. "About my problem."
"Go ahead," Lyons sighed.
"I hear that: the Commissione employs a private staff of enforcers. I need to know who runs that show."
"That's your department, Hal," Lyons said.
"Presently only ten bosses sit on the Commissione," Brognola reported. He rattled off the names. "You'll note that DiGeorge's name is not present. He walked out in a huff two years ago over some dispute about the narcotics traffic. He sits in from time to time, though, when some subject important to him comes up for discussion. Technically, he still has a voice on that council."
"But there are tensions?" Bolan asked interestedly.
"There are tensions," Brognola assured him. "The council wanted to regulate prices. DiGeorge won't go for it. He controls a big slice of their narcotic imports. He feels that the pricing is his affair, and he wholesales to the other families on his own terms. Yes, there are tensions."
"Thanks," Bolan said. "That gives me something to parlay, I'm especially interested in the council's enforcers, though. What can you tell me about that?"
Brognola coughed and said, "The Talifero brothers, it is said, have the most feared crew of enforcers in the country. These brothers are loosely called 'Pat and Mike.' They are . . ."
"Okay, I've heard of Pat and Mike. What you say wraps it up. Maybe I can keep my neck out of . . ."
"Be careful, Pointer," Brognola urged. "These Talifero boys are double trouble. It's said that once they get their orders, they are like guided missiles, there's no way of calling them back or scrubbing the hit. The triggermen in their crew are like an elite Gestapo, taking orders from no one but Pat and Mike. The brothers themselves operate directly out of the Commissione."
"Exactly what I wanted," Bolan commented. "I'd better bug off now."
"Uh, Pointer . . ."Brognola said hurriedly.
"Yes?"
"I'm flying to Washington tonight. I'd like to make a representation on your behalf."
"What sort of representation?"
"A sort of unofficial 'forgive and forget' representation. Do you follow me?"
"Who's playing games now?" Bolan said, chuckling.
"He's dead serious, Bolan," Lyons broke in.
Brognola said, "Rather, uh, high offices have been apprised of your successes here. We've suspected your true identity and now that you've confirmed it . . . well . . . I'm not promising anything, but . . . I believe I can get you a portfolio — unofficially, you understand — if you'll agree to continue on in your present role."
"It is my intention to continue," Bolan said. "Unless I die soon."
"You aren't going to die soon, are you?" Lyons said, chuckling.
"Not if I can help it."
"Can we do anything to help?"
"I doubt it. I guess it's my show — win, lose, or draw. Uh, you might look into the death of Charles D'Agosta two years ago, age about 20, supposedly drowned on a boating accident off San Pedro."
"Mafia rubout, Bolan?" Lyons asked.
"Let's can him Pointer," Brognola broke in nervously.
Bolan laughed and said, "The rubout is an outside chance. Look into it, will you?"
"I'll do that," Lyons assured him. "Anything else?"
"You might pray."
Lyons and Brognola chuckled. Bolan said, "Well . . ."
"Braddock says thanks," Lyons added hastily.
Bolan said, "Sure," and broke the connection. He returned to the new Mercedes, checked his gunleather, and set off for the villa. Police-community relations had never seemed better for Mack Bolan. He wondered vaguely what was implied by acquiring a "portfolio."
"Maybe it's a license to kill," he muttered to his Mercedes. "And then again," he added thoughtfully, "maybe it's a license to die."
Either way, Mack Bolan was not too impressed with licenses. He had his rage to keep him warm.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The enforcer
The gate guard grinned warmly and said, "Hi-ya, Franky. God, I heard about the fracture this morning. They say it was like a wild man. I wished I'd been with you."
Bolan kept his face straight and said, "You might get a chance, Andrew Hardy." He soberly winked one eye and eased on over to his usual parking place. He noted that the gate guard had trotted down to engage another guard in an animated conversation.
Benny Peaceful appeared as Bolan was leaving the Mercedes. He showed Bolan the peace sign and said, "Somebody has been waiting for you by the pool for a couple of hours. Somebody's gonna be terrible disappointed if you don't go in that way."
Bolan acknowledged the message with a nod of his head. He paused to light a cigarette and said, "What's rumbling, Benny?"
"The whole joint's rocking over your work this morning," the youth replied, laboring to maintain a sober visage. "Don't surprise me none, of course. I knew what you could do, Franky."
"I need your help, Benny Peaceful," Bolan said, staring over the boy's head. "I think I know what you can do, too."
Benny seemed to grow an immediate inch. Following Bolan's lead, he averted his eyes in a casual inspection of the sky. "You just say it, Franky Lucky," he said solemnly.
"A boy like you can change his thinking when the right time comes," Bolan suggested.
"You watch me."
"Pat and Mike could use a boy like that."
The youth's breath hurriedly left him. He staggered slightly, regained his balance, and then gave way to the glowing smile that was fighting for control of his facial muscles. "God!" he exclaimed. "I knew you was something special."
"A boy that knows when to keep quiet, and then when to come running at the right time — he can be a valuable boy," Bolan pointed out.
"You just snap your fingers, Franky Lucky," Benny assured him.
"Okay. You be ready for the snap." Bolan tossed away the cigarette and entered the enclosed patio. Benny Peaceful came in several paces to the rear and took up station against the wall, his face glowing like the sunrise. Bolan went back to him and said, "Listen, I made a decision, you're my second here. You know?"
The news was almost too much for Benny Peaceful. His lips trembled, he drew in a ragged breath, and he gasped. "I'm your boy, Franky. What's going on?"
Bolan leaned closer. "I told you, Benny, a valuable boy has to change his thinking. Deej is out. Understand?"
The youth nodded his head in an uncoordinated jerk. "I been hearing," he replied. "I been changing my thinking, since a long time back."
"Okay, now you round up the other boys that've been thinking. We don't want the good to go down with the bad, do we, Benny Peaceful? I'm making that your Number One job for right now. You mark the ones that are fit to save. You know?"
"God, I know, Franky."
"Okay. You get these boys aside. Boys who have been thinking ought to know that what happened on the desert this morning was nothing but a prophecy of things to come. You know what I'm saying?"
"Screwy Looey had that coming," Benny Peaceful agreed eagerly. "A lot of muscle around here has got it still coming."
"It'll get to 'em, don't you worry," Bolan declared somberly. "It's up to you, Benny, to cull out the others so they don't get hurt. I don't have the time, so I'm depending on you. Now you get these boys aside and you tell 'em what's what. And you tell 'em to wait for your fingers to snap."
Benny Peaceful fought down another broad grin. "My fingers? Sure — sure, Franky."
"Get your crew organized."
"I'll get right to work, Franky."
The youth took off on a strangely hurried-casual gait, disappearing around the corner to the parking area. Bolan clucked his tongue and went on over to the pool and Andrea D'Agosta.
"What was all the chatter with Boy Blue?" she asked him.
"Got rid of him, didn't I?" Bolan replied, smiling.
"Don't look so happy," she said. "I've been waiting out here for hours. I'm afraid your moment has almost arrived, whoever you are."
Bolan leaned down and brushed her cheek with his lips. "Yeah?"
"No time for that," Andrea fretted. "Victor Poppy is here with that man from Florida. They're all in Poppa's study right now."
Bolan clung to his smile. "Did you get this man's name?"
"I heard Victor call him Tony. That's all I know. Little man, sallow, skinny, scared. About 40."
Bolan sighed and said, "Thanks."
"Don't thank me, just get me out of here."
"Are you ready to go right now?" Bolan asked her.
Her eyes flipped wide. "Are you serious?"
"I guess it's now or never," he told her. He looked her over and added, "You're dressed fit to travel. Leave everything else behind. Do you know where you're going?"
"A bee-line to Italy," she said. "I'll visit Momma for a while."
"And you don't care what becomes of your father?"
Andrea stared curiously at Bolan for a moment, then: "Poppa didn't consult me when he went into this business."
Bolan took it as a reply. He said, "Okay, come on, I'll get you out of here. Then I have to . . ."
He had Andrea by the arm and was helping her out of the chair. Phil Marasco appeared in a doorway across the court and yelled at him. Bolan looked up and waved a greeting. "Deej is waiting for you," Marasco called out. "Come on, he's getting impatient."
Bolan released the girl. "Sit tight," he told her. "I'll be back."
"I wonder," she murmured, and fell back into the chair with an unhappy sigh.
Bolan walked briskly across the patio and joined Marasco in the doorway. "What's up?" he asked.
"I dunno," Marasco replied nervously. "Th' old man is sitting on needles, though, and he wants to see you in the worst way."
They walked elbow-to-elbow along the corridor toward DiGeorge's study. "I told him the order was filled," Bolan growled. "What's he worrying about?"
"He would have cancelled that hit if we could of got to you, Franky," Marasco confided. "Don't mention it, though, it'll just make him nervouser."
"You don't cancel, hits, Philip Honey," Bolan snapped.
Marasco grunted and said, "Now you're talking like a family man."
"I like you, Phil," Bolan said, slowing his pace. Marasco slowed to match him.
"That's great, I like you too," he said without embarrassment.
"You know, in the old days of Egypt and places, when a king died they buried all his household with him. Servants, slaves, and everything."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Those Egyptians figured when the king stopped living, all his cadre had a right to stop living too. Stupid, huh?"
Marasco halted completely. "What're you getting at, Franky?"
Bolan swung about to face him squarely. "Pat and Mike say a king has got to go, Philip Honey," he said soberly.
The blood drained from Marasco's face. He said, "Oh my God. I knew it was something like that."
"I been hoping you ain't no Egyptian, Philip Honey," Bolan said.
Marasco snatched a cigarette from his pocket and thoughtfully placed it between his lips. Bolan lit it. He took a deep drag and puffed the smoke out in tight grunts. Presently he said, "I'm not no Egyptian, Franky Lucky."
"I'm glad to hear that." Bolan began moving slowly toward DiGeorge's door. Marasco reached out and placed a restraining hand on his arm.
"Wait a minute," Marasco said. "Before you go in there. They got a turkey in there waiting for you."
"What kind of turkey?" Bolan asked casually.
"A guy says he knew you back when. But he says also you died in Vietnam, in the army. Is this guy part of your cover, Franky?"
"Maybe. What's his name?"
"Tony Avina, He says you grew up on his block in Jersey City. Says you got drafted and got killed. Is this gonna embarrass you in front of Deej?"
"Is this guy in the organization?" Bolan asked.
"Naw. A nobody. Prison gray sunk in all over him."
"Look, Phil," Bolan said conspiratorially, "my name ain't Frank Lambretta."
"Yeah, I figured that about a minute ago," Marasco replied. "So what're you gonna do about this turkey?"
''I'm gonna scare the turkey-shit outta him, that's what," growled Franky Lucky Bolan. "Come on. Let's go see what color he drops."
Carl Lyons paced the floor excitedly, glaring at Howard Brognola. "But this could be dynamite, Hal, if we could just get it into Bolan's hands!" he cried. "Somebody bought himself a coroner on this deal, and you know it as well as I. That inquest should have come out with murder written all over it."
"I know, I know," Brognola said gently. "But you have to remember, Carl, the name Lou Pena wasn't half the flag two years ago that it is now. There was never any suggestion that this Louis Pena who was driving the motorboat was the same infamous Lou Pena of the roaring thirties, no suggestion at all The coroner could have quite logically arrived at a valid decision when he ruled in favor of accidental death. The damages were settled out of court, no trial, no charges, no nothing, and everybody appeared satisfied all around."
"But for God's sakes," Lyons argued, "a sailing boat always has the right of way over a powered launch. The D.A. should have brought charges, if nobody else. Pena simply sliced through that little sailboat, hung around long enough to make sure the job was thorough, pleaded an unfortunate accident, and walked away with everybody happy. Now that's not justice, no matter how you slice it. We can even prove motive. You take a . . ."
"In aftersight," Brognola said, trying to calm the angry policeman. "There was no access to these records two years ago. Not even now, for ordinary circumstances. If I hadn't had a bell ring over that name D'Agosta, you still wouldn't have any lead on the motive."
"Well, I have to get hold of Bolan," Lyons said. "I have a boney feeling about this. Bolan is out there in a den of vipers, and he needs all the ammo we can feed him. Do you realize that we've never been able to get an informer inside the Malta?"
"Do I realize?" Brognola replied, laughing.
"So okay," Lyons snapped. "Let's not mince around, with our man's neck on the block. Bolan gave us the number. I say we use it."
Brognola put on a pained expression. "That will have to be your decision," he said. "Call him there if you think you must. But don't ask me to second the motion."
Lyons unfolded a scrap of paper and stared at a telephone number written there. It had been included in the last package of information which had been passed to them by the man they had then known as Pointer.
The words "For Red Alert Only" were above the number, then the name "Lambretta," followed by a Palm Springs telephone number.
"I wonder where this telephone is located," Lyons muttered.
"I guess you'll never know until you call it," Brognola said.
"I could give it to the phone company. They'd run it down for me."
"By that time, perhaps the time for action will have passed," Brognola sighed.
"Yeah," Lyons said. He stared hesitantly at the telephone. Then he pulled the instrument toward him, acquired an outside line, began dialing, then abruptly re-cradled the transmitter. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath. "I wasn't cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff."
Bolan and Marasco strolled into the Capo's inner sanctum in controlled good humor. Marasco remained near the door. Bolan proceeded on, flipped a high-sign to DiGeorge, and dropped into a leather chair.
"A rest is a rest, Franky," DiGeorge groused, "but I didn't tell you to take all day."
Two other men were present. One of them was familiar to Bolan; he assumed that this was Victor Poppy. He recognized the other from Andrea's crisp description. Bolan looked the man over thoroughly during a hushed silence, playing the moment for its most, then said, "Hi-ya, Tony. When did you decide to retire from institutional life?"
DiGeorge began breathing again. Victor Poppy smiled nervously and flicked a glance at his boss. The little man in the hot seat was staring at Bolan with a frightened gaze. "Hi, Fr . . ." His voice cracked. He choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and dabbed at eyes suddenly brimming with tears. He pounded weakly on his chest, smiled self-consciously, and settled back into the chair.
"You boys know each other?" DiGeorge asked in feigned surprise.
"People change a lot," Bolan said quietly. "Tony there used to be a real terror. Had half the guys in the neighborhood scared to death of him. Yeah . . . people change."
"I guess you ain't changed a lot, Franky," Marasco said. "You're still lookin' like a young frisky colt."
Bolan did not miss the reproachful glance tossed at Marasco by Julian DiGeorge. He grinned. "Naw . . . I'm changing, too," he said. "Take the present situation, now. Look at me, all tired and beat. Over a simple little everyday hit. Five years ago I could've rubbed six boys like that and stopped off for a few pieces o' tail on the way home. Now all I'm doing is dragging my tail."
Marasco laughed loudly. DiGeorge turned to him with a frown and Marasco promptly shut it off.
Victor Poppy said, "I heard about that, Franky. Everybody in the place is talking it up. I'd like to go out there and see that."
"Shuddup!" DiGeorge growled.
The effect of Bolan's braggadocio was already evident on the face of DiGeorge's "gift turkey," however. The small man was staring at Bolan with haunted eyes, nervously twisting his hands together. "It's good to see ya again, Frank," he chirped.
"Waitaminnit waitaminnit," DiGeorge yelled. He pointed an accusing finger at Tony Avina. "You was telling me not ten minutes ago that this Frank Lambretta went off to war and got hisself killed! Now what, huh?"
"Jeez, I dunno, Mr. DiGeorge," Avina quavered.
"Lay off 'im, huh Deej?" Bolan said softly. "Can't you see he's sick?"
"Where do you get off telling me to lay off?" DiGeorge shouted. "Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Franky Lucky Phoney!"
"Who do you think I am, Deej?" Bolan asked quietly.
DiGeorge stared at him in speechless rage. Every movement, every word, every gesture of Franky Lucky since he entered that door had served to increase DiGeorge's irritability. Now this! Talking back, acting like a Capo, just like that first damn day with Andrea, just like . . . A cold knot began to form in DiGeorge's belly, clamping off the line of thought. The rage dissolved instantly. "Okay," he said, now in perfect control, "you asked the question, Big Shot. Now you answer it."
Bolan's gaze shifted to Tony Avina. "Answer it, Tony," he said. "Tell Mr. Julian DiGeorge I who am. Tell him the damn truth."
"Jeez, I don't know who you are, Franky," Avina shot back.
Bolan became convulsed with laughter. Phil Marasco joined in, and then Victor Poppy. DiGeorge's chin trembled, then he began laughing also. Bolan got up and pounded on the wall with one hand, clutching at his stomach with the other, in a very convincing demonstration of rampant humor.
"Jeez, I don't know who I am either!" Bolan yelled and fell back into the chair gasping for breath and holding himself with both hands.
"Get this goddam turkey outta here!" DiGeorge roared between snorting guffaws. "First thing comes up, I won't even know who I am!"
"Just a minute," Marasco said, sobering suddenly. "I guess I have to tell you, Deej. After all these years together, I got to tell you."
"Tell me what?" DiGeorge asked.
"Okay, Franky?" Marasco asked of Bolan.
Bolan, still chuckling, gave him the nod.
"About Franky Lucky. He's in the family."
"What family?" DiGeorge said, sobering and craning about to glare at Marasco.
"Vittorini," Bolan said quietly.
All chuckling and sniggering ceased as total quiet descended. DiGeorge slowly turned about to inspect "his boy" Franky Lucky whom he wanted to sponsor into his family and turn over the reins to some day. "I don't get you," he said thickly.
"I belong to the Vittorini Family," Bolan explained.
"He belongs to Pat and Mike," Marasco explained further.
DiGeorge opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He looked from Bolan to Marasco and back to Bolan again. "What is this?" he asked quietly. "Tell me what this is, Philip Honey."
"You know what this is, Deej," Bolan said.
"No I guess I don't." DeGeorge had heaved to his feet and was walking warily toward his desk.
"You know what I want, Phil," Bolan stated softly.
Marasco beat DiGeorge to the desk and leaned against it. His hand went inside his jacket and stayed there.
"Hey what the hell is this?" DiGeorge asked, his voice shaking.
"You want me to take Deej out for some air, Franky?" Marasco said.
"He looks like he needs some," Bolan replied. He relaxed further into his chair. "Yeah. He needs some air, Phil."
"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge yelled.
"I'm not pulling nothing, Deej," Bolan said. He smiled at Victor Poppy. "Hey, Victor, take your friend and go on back to Florida. Stay awhile. Get some sun. Tony looks like he could use some. And you . . ."
"Where d'you get off telling my boys when to go and where to go?" DiGeorge screamed.
"Is that guy still here?" Bolan asked, still looking at Victor Poppy. "I thought Phil was taking him out for an airing. Huh? Is he still here?"
Victor Poppy was moving for the door, pushing Avina ahead of him. "What guy?" Victor Poppy asked nervously. "I don't see nobody but you me and Tony, Franky."
"That's what I thought," Bolan said contentedly.
"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge screamed.
"The hell I can't," said Franky Lucky Bolan.
Bolan kept his face straight and said, "You might get a chance, Andrew Hardy." He soberly winked one eye and eased on over to his usual parking place. He noted that the gate guard had trotted down to engage another guard in an animated conversation.
Benny Peaceful appeared as Bolan was leaving the Mercedes. He showed Bolan the peace sign and said, "Somebody has been waiting for you by the pool for a couple of hours. Somebody's gonna be terrible disappointed if you don't go in that way."
Bolan acknowledged the message with a nod of his head. He paused to light a cigarette and said, "What's rumbling, Benny?"
"The whole joint's rocking over your work this morning," the youth replied, laboring to maintain a sober visage. "Don't surprise me none, of course. I knew what you could do, Franky."
"I need your help, Benny Peaceful," Bolan said, staring over the boy's head. "I think I know what you can do, too."
Benny seemed to grow an immediate inch. Following Bolan's lead, he averted his eyes in a casual inspection of the sky. "You just say it, Franky Lucky," he said solemnly.
"A boy like you can change his thinking when the right time comes," Bolan suggested.
"You watch me."
"Pat and Mike could use a boy like that."
The youth's breath hurriedly left him. He staggered slightly, regained his balance, and then gave way to the glowing smile that was fighting for control of his facial muscles. "God!" he exclaimed. "I knew you was something special."
"A boy that knows when to keep quiet, and then when to come running at the right time — he can be a valuable boy," Bolan pointed out.
"You just snap your fingers, Franky Lucky," Benny assured him.
"Okay. You be ready for the snap." Bolan tossed away the cigarette and entered the enclosed patio. Benny Peaceful came in several paces to the rear and took up station against the wall, his face glowing like the sunrise. Bolan went back to him and said, "Listen, I made a decision, you're my second here. You know?"
The news was almost too much for Benny Peaceful. His lips trembled, he drew in a ragged breath, and he gasped. "I'm your boy, Franky. What's going on?"
Bolan leaned closer. "I told you, Benny, a valuable boy has to change his thinking. Deej is out. Understand?"
The youth nodded his head in an uncoordinated jerk. "I been hearing," he replied. "I been changing my thinking, since a long time back."
"Okay, now you round up the other boys that've been thinking. We don't want the good to go down with the bad, do we, Benny Peaceful? I'm making that your Number One job for right now. You mark the ones that are fit to save. You know?"
"God, I know, Franky."
"Okay. You get these boys aside. Boys who have been thinking ought to know that what happened on the desert this morning was nothing but a prophecy of things to come. You know what I'm saying?"
"Screwy Looey had that coming," Benny Peaceful agreed eagerly. "A lot of muscle around here has got it still coming."
"It'll get to 'em, don't you worry," Bolan declared somberly. "It's up to you, Benny, to cull out the others so they don't get hurt. I don't have the time, so I'm depending on you. Now you get these boys aside and you tell 'em what's what. And you tell 'em to wait for your fingers to snap."
Benny Peaceful fought down another broad grin. "My fingers? Sure — sure, Franky."
"Get your crew organized."
"I'll get right to work, Franky."
The youth took off on a strangely hurried-casual gait, disappearing around the corner to the parking area. Bolan clucked his tongue and went on over to the pool and Andrea D'Agosta.
"What was all the chatter with Boy Blue?" she asked him.
"Got rid of him, didn't I?" Bolan replied, smiling.
"Don't look so happy," she said. "I've been waiting out here for hours. I'm afraid your moment has almost arrived, whoever you are."
Bolan leaned down and brushed her cheek with his lips. "Yeah?"
"No time for that," Andrea fretted. "Victor Poppy is here with that man from Florida. They're all in Poppa's study right now."
Bolan clung to his smile. "Did you get this man's name?"
"I heard Victor call him Tony. That's all I know. Little man, sallow, skinny, scared. About 40."
Bolan sighed and said, "Thanks."
"Don't thank me, just get me out of here."
"Are you ready to go right now?" Bolan asked her.
Her eyes flipped wide. "Are you serious?"
"I guess it's now or never," he told her. He looked her over and added, "You're dressed fit to travel. Leave everything else behind. Do you know where you're going?"
"A bee-line to Italy," she said. "I'll visit Momma for a while."
"And you don't care what becomes of your father?"
Andrea stared curiously at Bolan for a moment, then: "Poppa didn't consult me when he went into this business."
Bolan took it as a reply. He said, "Okay, come on, I'll get you out of here. Then I have to . . ."
He had Andrea by the arm and was helping her out of the chair. Phil Marasco appeared in a doorway across the court and yelled at him. Bolan looked up and waved a greeting. "Deej is waiting for you," Marasco called out. "Come on, he's getting impatient."
Bolan released the girl. "Sit tight," he told her. "I'll be back."
"I wonder," she murmured, and fell back into the chair with an unhappy sigh.
Bolan walked briskly across the patio and joined Marasco in the doorway. "What's up?" he asked.
"I dunno," Marasco replied nervously. "Th' old man is sitting on needles, though, and he wants to see you in the worst way."
They walked elbow-to-elbow along the corridor toward DiGeorge's study. "I told him the order was filled," Bolan growled. "What's he worrying about?"
"He would have cancelled that hit if we could of got to you, Franky," Marasco confided. "Don't mention it, though, it'll just make him nervouser."
"You don't cancel, hits, Philip Honey," Bolan snapped.
Marasco grunted and said, "Now you're talking like a family man."
"I like you, Phil," Bolan said, slowing his pace. Marasco slowed to match him.
"That's great, I like you too," he said without embarrassment.
"You know, in the old days of Egypt and places, when a king died they buried all his household with him. Servants, slaves, and everything."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Those Egyptians figured when the king stopped living, all his cadre had a right to stop living too. Stupid, huh?"
Marasco halted completely. "What're you getting at, Franky?"
Bolan swung about to face him squarely. "Pat and Mike say a king has got to go, Philip Honey," he said soberly.
The blood drained from Marasco's face. He said, "Oh my God. I knew it was something like that."
"I been hoping you ain't no Egyptian, Philip Honey," Bolan said.
Marasco snatched a cigarette from his pocket and thoughtfully placed it between his lips. Bolan lit it. He took a deep drag and puffed the smoke out in tight grunts. Presently he said, "I'm not no Egyptian, Franky Lucky."
"I'm glad to hear that." Bolan began moving slowly toward DiGeorge's door. Marasco reached out and placed a restraining hand on his arm.
"Wait a minute," Marasco said. "Before you go in there. They got a turkey in there waiting for you."
"What kind of turkey?" Bolan asked casually.
"A guy says he knew you back when. But he says also you died in Vietnam, in the army. Is this guy part of your cover, Franky?"
"Maybe. What's his name?"
"Tony Avina, He says you grew up on his block in Jersey City. Says you got drafted and got killed. Is this gonna embarrass you in front of Deej?"
"Is this guy in the organization?" Bolan asked.
"Naw. A nobody. Prison gray sunk in all over him."
"Look, Phil," Bolan said conspiratorially, "my name ain't Frank Lambretta."
"Yeah, I figured that about a minute ago," Marasco replied. "So what're you gonna do about this turkey?"
''I'm gonna scare the turkey-shit outta him, that's what," growled Franky Lucky Bolan. "Come on. Let's go see what color he drops."
Carl Lyons paced the floor excitedly, glaring at Howard Brognola. "But this could be dynamite, Hal, if we could just get it into Bolan's hands!" he cried. "Somebody bought himself a coroner on this deal, and you know it as well as I. That inquest should have come out with murder written all over it."
"I know, I know," Brognola said gently. "But you have to remember, Carl, the name Lou Pena wasn't half the flag two years ago that it is now. There was never any suggestion that this Louis Pena who was driving the motorboat was the same infamous Lou Pena of the roaring thirties, no suggestion at all The coroner could have quite logically arrived at a valid decision when he ruled in favor of accidental death. The damages were settled out of court, no trial, no charges, no nothing, and everybody appeared satisfied all around."
"But for God's sakes," Lyons argued, "a sailing boat always has the right of way over a powered launch. The D.A. should have brought charges, if nobody else. Pena simply sliced through that little sailboat, hung around long enough to make sure the job was thorough, pleaded an unfortunate accident, and walked away with everybody happy. Now that's not justice, no matter how you slice it. We can even prove motive. You take a . . ."
"In aftersight," Brognola said, trying to calm the angry policeman. "There was no access to these records two years ago. Not even now, for ordinary circumstances. If I hadn't had a bell ring over that name D'Agosta, you still wouldn't have any lead on the motive."
"Well, I have to get hold of Bolan," Lyons said. "I have a boney feeling about this. Bolan is out there in a den of vipers, and he needs all the ammo we can feed him. Do you realize that we've never been able to get an informer inside the Malta?"
"Do I realize?" Brognola replied, laughing.
"So okay," Lyons snapped. "Let's not mince around, with our man's neck on the block. Bolan gave us the number. I say we use it."
Brognola put on a pained expression. "That will have to be your decision," he said. "Call him there if you think you must. But don't ask me to second the motion."
Lyons unfolded a scrap of paper and stared at a telephone number written there. It had been included in the last package of information which had been passed to them by the man they had then known as Pointer.
The words "For Red Alert Only" were above the number, then the name "Lambretta," followed by a Palm Springs telephone number.
"I wonder where this telephone is located," Lyons muttered.
"I guess you'll never know until you call it," Brognola said.
"I could give it to the phone company. They'd run it down for me."
"By that time, perhaps the time for action will have passed," Brognola sighed.
"Yeah," Lyons said. He stared hesitantly at the telephone. Then he pulled the instrument toward him, acquired an outside line, began dialing, then abruptly re-cradled the transmitter. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath. "I wasn't cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff."
Bolan and Marasco strolled into the Capo's inner sanctum in controlled good humor. Marasco remained near the door. Bolan proceeded on, flipped a high-sign to DiGeorge, and dropped into a leather chair.
"A rest is a rest, Franky," DiGeorge groused, "but I didn't tell you to take all day."
Two other men were present. One of them was familiar to Bolan; he assumed that this was Victor Poppy. He recognized the other from Andrea's crisp description. Bolan looked the man over thoroughly during a hushed silence, playing the moment for its most, then said, "Hi-ya, Tony. When did you decide to retire from institutional life?"
DiGeorge began breathing again. Victor Poppy smiled nervously and flicked a glance at his boss. The little man in the hot seat was staring at Bolan with a frightened gaze. "Hi, Fr . . ." His voice cracked. He choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and dabbed at eyes suddenly brimming with tears. He pounded weakly on his chest, smiled self-consciously, and settled back into the chair.
"You boys know each other?" DiGeorge asked in feigned surprise.
"People change a lot," Bolan said quietly. "Tony there used to be a real terror. Had half the guys in the neighborhood scared to death of him. Yeah . . . people change."
"I guess you ain't changed a lot, Franky," Marasco said. "You're still lookin' like a young frisky colt."
Bolan did not miss the reproachful glance tossed at Marasco by Julian DiGeorge. He grinned. "Naw . . . I'm changing, too," he said. "Take the present situation, now. Look at me, all tired and beat. Over a simple little everyday hit. Five years ago I could've rubbed six boys like that and stopped off for a few pieces o' tail on the way home. Now all I'm doing is dragging my tail."
Marasco laughed loudly. DiGeorge turned to him with a frown and Marasco promptly shut it off.
Victor Poppy said, "I heard about that, Franky. Everybody in the place is talking it up. I'd like to go out there and see that."
"Shuddup!" DiGeorge growled.
The effect of Bolan's braggadocio was already evident on the face of DiGeorge's "gift turkey," however. The small man was staring at Bolan with haunted eyes, nervously twisting his hands together. "It's good to see ya again, Frank," he chirped.
"Waitaminnit waitaminnit," DiGeorge yelled. He pointed an accusing finger at Tony Avina. "You was telling me not ten minutes ago that this Frank Lambretta went off to war and got hisself killed! Now what, huh?"
"Jeez, I dunno, Mr. DiGeorge," Avina quavered.
"Lay off 'im, huh Deej?" Bolan said softly. "Can't you see he's sick?"
"Where do you get off telling me to lay off?" DiGeorge shouted. "Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Franky Lucky Phoney!"
"Who do you think I am, Deej?" Bolan asked quietly.
DiGeorge stared at him in speechless rage. Every movement, every word, every gesture of Franky Lucky since he entered that door had served to increase DiGeorge's irritability. Now this! Talking back, acting like a Capo, just like that first damn day with Andrea, just like . . . A cold knot began to form in DiGeorge's belly, clamping off the line of thought. The rage dissolved instantly. "Okay," he said, now in perfect control, "you asked the question, Big Shot. Now you answer it."
Bolan's gaze shifted to Tony Avina. "Answer it, Tony," he said. "Tell Mr. Julian DiGeorge I who am. Tell him the damn truth."
"Jeez, I don't know who you are, Franky," Avina shot back.
Bolan became convulsed with laughter. Phil Marasco joined in, and then Victor Poppy. DiGeorge's chin trembled, then he began laughing also. Bolan got up and pounded on the wall with one hand, clutching at his stomach with the other, in a very convincing demonstration of rampant humor.
"Jeez, I don't know who I am either!" Bolan yelled and fell back into the chair gasping for breath and holding himself with both hands.
"Get this goddam turkey outta here!" DiGeorge roared between snorting guffaws. "First thing comes up, I won't even know who I am!"
"Just a minute," Marasco said, sobering suddenly. "I guess I have to tell you, Deej. After all these years together, I got to tell you."
"Tell me what?" DiGeorge asked.
"Okay, Franky?" Marasco asked of Bolan.
Bolan, still chuckling, gave him the nod.
"About Franky Lucky. He's in the family."
"What family?" DiGeorge said, sobering and craning about to glare at Marasco.
"Vittorini," Bolan said quietly.
All chuckling and sniggering ceased as total quiet descended. DiGeorge slowly turned about to inspect "his boy" Franky Lucky whom he wanted to sponsor into his family and turn over the reins to some day. "I don't get you," he said thickly.
"I belong to the Vittorini Family," Bolan explained.
"He belongs to Pat and Mike," Marasco explained further.
DiGeorge opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He looked from Bolan to Marasco and back to Bolan again. "What is this?" he asked quietly. "Tell me what this is, Philip Honey."
"You know what this is, Deej," Bolan said.
"No I guess I don't." DeGeorge had heaved to his feet and was walking warily toward his desk.
"You know what I want, Phil," Bolan stated softly.
Marasco beat DiGeorge to the desk and leaned against it. His hand went inside his jacket and stayed there.
"Hey what the hell is this?" DiGeorge asked, his voice shaking.
"You want me to take Deej out for some air, Franky?" Marasco said.
"He looks like he needs some," Bolan replied. He relaxed further into his chair. "Yeah. He needs some air, Phil."
"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge yelled.
"I'm not pulling nothing, Deej," Bolan said. He smiled at Victor Poppy. "Hey, Victor, take your friend and go on back to Florida. Stay awhile. Get some sun. Tony looks like he could use some. And you . . ."
"Where d'you get off telling my boys when to go and where to go?" DiGeorge screamed.
"Is that guy still here?" Bolan asked, still looking at Victor Poppy. "I thought Phil was taking him out for an airing. Huh? Is he still here?"
Victor Poppy was moving for the door, pushing Avina ahead of him. "What guy?" Victor Poppy asked nervously. "I don't see nobody but you me and Tony, Franky."
"That's what I thought," Bolan said contentedly.
"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge screamed.
"The hell I can't," said Franky Lucky Bolan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Blood springs
Victor Poppy and Tony Avina almost ran over someone in the corridor. Bolan could hear them apologizing. The .32 was in his hand and muzzling for the door when Andrea D'Agosta stepped through. In her hand was the little nickel-plated .22 Bolan had taken from her some days earlier.
She sized up ,the situation in a quick circular glance, then stared soberly at Bolan's weapon. Her nose quivering, she said, "I want my Poppa."
"Someone else already has him," Bolan told her.
"I take everything back," she said. "I want him."
"Andrea, get outta here," DiGeorge growled.
"I've been listening," she said. "I know what's going on here." Her eyes flared pure hatred at Mack Bolan. "You're worse than any of them," she spat. "I didn't want to believe the stories I've been hearing today but they're true. You're a kill-crazy hood and now you think you're going to kill my Poppa."
"Aw hey, bambina," DiGeorge pleaded. "Go on outta here and let us men handle our business. You got it all wrong."
"She has it all right, Deej," Bolan said.
"Well, for God's sakes ain't you got no sense of . . ."
DiGeorge's protest was cut short by the capgun plaap of the tiny revolver. A vase shattered behind Bolan. He grinned and said, "She's got the drop on us, Phil."
"I'll drop you, too," Andrea angrily told him. "Don't think I can't handle a gun."
"I don't think that," Bolan replied, still grinning.
"Come on, Poppa," Andrea said.
"For God's sake, Andrea, this guy is playing with you. He can shoot both your eyes out before you know he's moving. Get on outta here."
"I said . . ."
"Go on, Deej," Bolan said, cutting Andrea off. "I'm not gunfighting your kid."
DiGeorge said, "That means you get off easy. You get me to running and all you have to do is sit back and laugh and send out your boys to shoot Deej in the back. On some streetcorner. In a car somewheres. I ain't going. We settle this here."
"Don't argue with him, Deej," Marasco pleaded.
Andrea elevated her pistol to shoulder level at full arm-extension, sighting on Bolan. "We leave right now, together, or I start shooting," she warned.
Bolan's .32 was still in his hand. He casually angled it toward DiGeorge. "When I go, Poppa goes," he said simply.
"Deej, get outta here," Marasco urged him.
"I ain't forgetting you, Mr. Philip Honey full of stingers. I ain't forgetting,"
"Just go," Bolan said.
DiGeorge went. Andrea went out behind him, the little gun still trained on Bolan. She closed the door and Marasco said, "Well."
"There's still the contract," Bolan philosophized.
"Deej ain't no clown," Marasco said, wetting his lips nervously. "He won't go no further than the first bunch of boys, then he'll be coming back here with 'em."
"I'm not letting him go," Bolan said. He stepped over to the French doors and tugged at the latch. "I didn't want the kid in the middle of this."
"I sure hope there ain't no mistakes about this, Franky," Marasco worried aloud. "I mean, hitting a Capo just don't happen every day. Maybe we should check it first. Just to make sure."
"You crazy?" Bolan said. "Who you think you're gonna check with?" He pushed the doors open and stepped onto the lawn. Marasco leapt after him.
"Well, who issues th' contract, Franky?"
"You crazy? Who the hell you think can order a hit on a Capo? You gonna ask 'em if maybe they haven't changed their minds? You, Philip Honey?"
"Not me, Franky," Marasco replied quickly.
Bolan fired three rapid shots into the air. Several men whirled and raced toward him. "What's up?" one of them shouted.
"You know Benny Peaceful?" Bolan yelled.
"Hell, yes we know 'im! Is his fingers moving?"
"They damn better get to! I want the gates sealed! Nothin' gets out!"
"Nothin' it is!" the man shouted back. He ran toward the front, two others following. A fourth man stood fiat-footed, gawking at Bolan. Bolan raised his .32 and shot him dead where he stood.
"Hey!" Marasco cried. "What's that for?"
Bolan whirled on him with a savage snarl. "Only two kinds are here now. Those that live and those that die. And Benny Peaceful is the line that divides."
"That punk?" Marasco yelled unbelievingly.
"Yeah, it's kind of poetic, isn't it?" Bolan said, suddenly dropping the mask from his Lambretta voice. "Of all the senseless, idiotic killings you lunatics are in for, what could be more senseless and idiotic than letting a Benny Peaceful separate the sheep from the goats?"
"Huh? What?" Marasco was confused and mentally reeling. "I don't get . . . what the hell is . . . for God's sake! You're Bolan!" He was failing away in shock, clawing for his gun.
"That's right," Bolan said, and put a bullet through the base of his nose. Marasco went over backwards, alarm and betrayal and outrage and fear all evaporating in that final mask of death. "Sorry about that, Philip Honey," Bolan said, actually meaning it, and then he began reloading the .32 and went in search of more game.
Bolan's gun was pre-empted by his own strategy, however. Everyone, by this time, was shooting at everyone. A squad of guards with Thompsons were mowing down everything that moved in the vicinity of the gate. Two vehicles in the parking area were burning. Bodies were strewn about the grounds in various poses of death and near-death. Bolan gave up looking for targets and concentrated on finding Andrea. He did not find the girl outside but he did stumble upon the man who had eluded him on the cliffs of Balboa. Julian DiGeorge lay like a split sandbag with his guts oozing out upon the soil of his kingdom, victim of his own trained assassins and their ever-willing Thompson subs. The big .45 calibre bullets had torn him open, but the Capo was still trying to show his dominance of the forces about him, trying to stuff his own entrails back inside with manicured fingers that had not yet received the summons of death. Staring down at him, Bolan was thinking of Doc Brantzen and Genghis Conn and a sweet-faced little lady he had met only in death. He saw the face of pain and surprise on Big Tim Braddock, and he saw the embalmed faces of his own father, mother, and kid sister. He saw the seven grotesque remains of his death squad, and the scores of Mafia dead and dying who had met the Executioner's guns . . . and then he saw only Julian DiGeorge, squirming in the dirt of a kingdom that had not been worth it, and Bolan wondered if anything was worth it. War and violence and death had walked the mountains and valleys of his life for as long as he could remember, and Bolan suddenly could not find any meaningful reasons for any of it. His nose twitched with the smell of death, his ears roared with the screams and moans of the dying, and his eyes smarted with the sight of suffering and torn bodies and blood blood blood everywhere.
Julian DiGeorge looked up at him and said, "Shoot me," in a voice that could not be much longer for this world.
"I wouldn't think of it," Bolan muttered. He stepped away from the dying and went back the way he'd come, across the lawn of death, through the French doors, and into the Capo's study.
Andrea D'Agosta was there also, struggling in the grip of one Benny Peaceful, No. 2 Man of Franky Lucky Bolan's new crime empire. Tears were streaming across her cheeks and she screamed out her hate and rage for the man who had brought them there.
Bolan listened to her until her breath ran out, then he said to Benny Peaceful, "You run a sweet hit. Now get on back out there and clean up the garbage. If cops show, and I doubt it, tell 'em Bolan was trying to hit on th' place."
"Sure, Franky," Benny replied. He went to the door, then turned back with an afterthought. "Oh, by the way," he said, "do I move into the villa?"
"Sure," Bolan said wearily. "You take Philip Honey's suite."
Benny Peaceful went out beaming. Bolan stared at the sobbing girl for a moment, then reached for the phone and dialed Carl Lyons.
"I'm glad you called," Lyons said tightly. "I was thinking of trying to contact you. You asked me to check the death of Charles D'Agosta. There's more than a dozen letters from him on file with a congressional committee on organized crime, all of them relating to the financial empire and underworld involvements of Julian DiGeorge. Now Lou Pena was the guy who . . ."
"Hold it," Bolan said tiredly. "Give it to someone who needs it."
He carried the telephone over to Andrea and held the receiver to her ear. "Tell the man to start over," he instructed her.
"Start over," she whispered mechanically. Seconds later she began holding the instrument for herself. Bolan lit a cigarette and smoked while she listened to the policeman's recital. Then she returned the phone to Bolan, said, "Thank you," smoothed her clothing, pushed at her hair, and walked out.
Bolan carried the phone to the desk and sat in DiGeorge's chair. "What's going on out there?" Lyons asked him.
"Just a little house cleaning," Bolan replied, his voice still wearied. "Tell, uh, what's his name — Brognola? — tell him to forget about that portfolio. I've blown it."
"Your cover?" Lyons asked anxiously.
Bolan sighed. "That and everything else. DiGeorge is dead and his family is a shambles. They're running around shooting at each other now. I suggest you post a couple of platoons of infantry to watch this place. The fireworks will really start when they all wake up and find out what they've done. Maybe you can pick up a few extra pieces in the process."
The detective whistled to cover an embarrassing loss for words, then murmured, "I don't suppose there's any chance for squaring up your cover. I mean . . ."
"No chance," Bolan tiredly replied. "You can fool some of the fools some of the time, but — no, I'm going to gather up some stuff from DiGeorge's desk, my final package, and then I'm going to pull a quick fade. Uh, Lyons — thanks, eh."
"Drop the stuff in a locker somewhere and send me the key," Lyons suggested. "Some of us are thanking you, Bolan. But just some of us."
"I get the message," Bolan said. He hung up, pulled a briefcase from a bottom drawer of the desk, and began filling it with assorted tidbits from the records of the late Julian DiGeorge. Then he went to the door, took a final look at the Capo's control center, and went out through the familiar corridor.
He found Andrea standing beside the pool, staring dazedly into the water. A fully-clothed body floated there, partially submerged.
"You want to leave with me?" Bolan asked her.
"Where to?" she replied, smiling woodenly.
Bolan shrugged. "Does it matter?" he asked.
She shook her head and placed a hand in his. He led her to the new Mercedes, put her inside, then climbed in and cranked the motor. They spun across to the gate. The man whom Bolan had tagged "Andrew Hardy" glanced at her and showed Bolan a smug grin. A bloodstained handkerchief was wound tightly about one of his hands. He leaned against the Mercedes with his good hand and said, "Quite a show, Franky."
"Yeah," Bolan said. "Tell Benny Peaceful I'm taking care of the kid. Tell 'im I said to watch things until I get back."
"Don't you worry none about Benny," Andrew Hardy reassured him.
Bolan nodded curtly and released the clutch. They cleared the gate with a screech of tires and powered down the lane to the main road. Benny Peaceful did not know it yet, Bolan was thinking, but he needed everyone's worry. A family reckoning was coming for this day's work. Bolan knew a momentary twinge of sympathy for the insurgents, but clamped it back, seeing the hired guns in their true light: as budding Lou Penas. The world could get along without them.
Andrea looked back briefly as they swung out of the lane. She shuddered, then straightened and moved closer to Bolan. "Whoever you are," she said quietly, "you've just delivered me from purgatory."
Bolan smiled. "There are two ways out of purgatory, you know," he reminded her.
"Which way are we taking?" Andrea murmured.
Bolan could not answer the girl, but he had a pretty good idea of his own route. It would be a familiar one. A shadow life in a shadow world, taking on three dimensions only when someone's blood flowed. Bolan knew his route. He squared his shoulders, encircled her with an arm, and drew her closer. "Just keep looking at that horizon up there," he told her.
"What will that do?" she quiety inquired.
"It will remind you that you're still alive, that the world is still turning, and that just about anything could happen next."
The girl sighed and moved her head onto his shoulder. They had reached the junction of the main east-west highway. Bolan looked to the west and into the blood-red of a desert sunset. "Oh no," he muttered, swinging east, "I'm not heading into that."
But the Executioner did not need a symbolically red sky to overshadow his future. The red of blood was etched into his very shadow, and all compass points would lead inevitably to the same horizon. If there had been reason for the Mafia to hate and fear Mack Bolan in the past, the time was fast approaching when they would rise up with all their wrath and power to crush this greatest of all threats to their continued existence. Pat and Mike lay just across the Executioner's next horizon. In Bolan's shadow world of the immediate future, all skies were bloody red.
For the moment, however, there was another victory which was not quite a victory, a good car under him, a straight road ahead, and a warm woman in his arms. Andrea sighed, "Wherever you're heading, just take me with you."
"No hard feelings?" Bolan asked her.
"My Poppa died before I was born, Mack," she said.
"What'd you call me?"
"I'll call you anything you'd like," she whispered.
Bolan sighed through his battle mask. "Just don't call me Lucky," he said, and kissed her, and realized that the mask did not have to be all battle.
She sized up ,the situation in a quick circular glance, then stared soberly at Bolan's weapon. Her nose quivering, she said, "I want my Poppa."
"Someone else already has him," Bolan told her.
"I take everything back," she said. "I want him."
"Andrea, get outta here," DiGeorge growled.
"I've been listening," she said. "I know what's going on here." Her eyes flared pure hatred at Mack Bolan. "You're worse than any of them," she spat. "I didn't want to believe the stories I've been hearing today but they're true. You're a kill-crazy hood and now you think you're going to kill my Poppa."
"Aw hey, bambina," DiGeorge pleaded. "Go on outta here and let us men handle our business. You got it all wrong."
"She has it all right, Deej," Bolan said.
"Well, for God's sakes ain't you got no sense of . . ."
DiGeorge's protest was cut short by the capgun plaap of the tiny revolver. A vase shattered behind Bolan. He grinned and said, "She's got the drop on us, Phil."
"I'll drop you, too," Andrea angrily told him. "Don't think I can't handle a gun."
"I don't think that," Bolan replied, still grinning.
"Come on, Poppa," Andrea said.
"For God's sake, Andrea, this guy is playing with you. He can shoot both your eyes out before you know he's moving. Get on outta here."
"I said . . ."
"Go on, Deej," Bolan said, cutting Andrea off. "I'm not gunfighting your kid."
DiGeorge said, "That means you get off easy. You get me to running and all you have to do is sit back and laugh and send out your boys to shoot Deej in the back. On some streetcorner. In a car somewheres. I ain't going. We settle this here."
"Don't argue with him, Deej," Marasco pleaded.
Andrea elevated her pistol to shoulder level at full arm-extension, sighting on Bolan. "We leave right now, together, or I start shooting," she warned.
Bolan's .32 was still in his hand. He casually angled it toward DiGeorge. "When I go, Poppa goes," he said simply.
"Deej, get outta here," Marasco urged him.
"I ain't forgetting you, Mr. Philip Honey full of stingers. I ain't forgetting,"
"Just go," Bolan said.
DiGeorge went. Andrea went out behind him, the little gun still trained on Bolan. She closed the door and Marasco said, "Well."
"There's still the contract," Bolan philosophized.
"Deej ain't no clown," Marasco said, wetting his lips nervously. "He won't go no further than the first bunch of boys, then he'll be coming back here with 'em."
"I'm not letting him go," Bolan said. He stepped over to the French doors and tugged at the latch. "I didn't want the kid in the middle of this."
"I sure hope there ain't no mistakes about this, Franky," Marasco worried aloud. "I mean, hitting a Capo just don't happen every day. Maybe we should check it first. Just to make sure."
"You crazy?" Bolan said. "Who you think you're gonna check with?" He pushed the doors open and stepped onto the lawn. Marasco leapt after him.
"Well, who issues th' contract, Franky?"
"You crazy? Who the hell you think can order a hit on a Capo? You gonna ask 'em if maybe they haven't changed their minds? You, Philip Honey?"
"Not me, Franky," Marasco replied quickly.
Bolan fired three rapid shots into the air. Several men whirled and raced toward him. "What's up?" one of them shouted.
"You know Benny Peaceful?" Bolan yelled.
"Hell, yes we know 'im! Is his fingers moving?"
"They damn better get to! I want the gates sealed! Nothin' gets out!"
"Nothin' it is!" the man shouted back. He ran toward the front, two others following. A fourth man stood fiat-footed, gawking at Bolan. Bolan raised his .32 and shot him dead where he stood.
"Hey!" Marasco cried. "What's that for?"
Bolan whirled on him with a savage snarl. "Only two kinds are here now. Those that live and those that die. And Benny Peaceful is the line that divides."
"That punk?" Marasco yelled unbelievingly.
"Yeah, it's kind of poetic, isn't it?" Bolan said, suddenly dropping the mask from his Lambretta voice. "Of all the senseless, idiotic killings you lunatics are in for, what could be more senseless and idiotic than letting a Benny Peaceful separate the sheep from the goats?"
"Huh? What?" Marasco was confused and mentally reeling. "I don't get . . . what the hell is . . . for God's sake! You're Bolan!" He was failing away in shock, clawing for his gun.
"That's right," Bolan said, and put a bullet through the base of his nose. Marasco went over backwards, alarm and betrayal and outrage and fear all evaporating in that final mask of death. "Sorry about that, Philip Honey," Bolan said, actually meaning it, and then he began reloading the .32 and went in search of more game.
Bolan's gun was pre-empted by his own strategy, however. Everyone, by this time, was shooting at everyone. A squad of guards with Thompsons were mowing down everything that moved in the vicinity of the gate. Two vehicles in the parking area were burning. Bodies were strewn about the grounds in various poses of death and near-death. Bolan gave up looking for targets and concentrated on finding Andrea. He did not find the girl outside but he did stumble upon the man who had eluded him on the cliffs of Balboa. Julian DiGeorge lay like a split sandbag with his guts oozing out upon the soil of his kingdom, victim of his own trained assassins and their ever-willing Thompson subs. The big .45 calibre bullets had torn him open, but the Capo was still trying to show his dominance of the forces about him, trying to stuff his own entrails back inside with manicured fingers that had not yet received the summons of death. Staring down at him, Bolan was thinking of Doc Brantzen and Genghis Conn and a sweet-faced little lady he had met only in death. He saw the face of pain and surprise on Big Tim Braddock, and he saw the embalmed faces of his own father, mother, and kid sister. He saw the seven grotesque remains of his death squad, and the scores of Mafia dead and dying who had met the Executioner's guns . . . and then he saw only Julian DiGeorge, squirming in the dirt of a kingdom that had not been worth it, and Bolan wondered if anything was worth it. War and violence and death had walked the mountains and valleys of his life for as long as he could remember, and Bolan suddenly could not find any meaningful reasons for any of it. His nose twitched with the smell of death, his ears roared with the screams and moans of the dying, and his eyes smarted with the sight of suffering and torn bodies and blood blood blood everywhere.
Julian DiGeorge looked up at him and said, "Shoot me," in a voice that could not be much longer for this world.
"I wouldn't think of it," Bolan muttered. He stepped away from the dying and went back the way he'd come, across the lawn of death, through the French doors, and into the Capo's study.
Andrea D'Agosta was there also, struggling in the grip of one Benny Peaceful, No. 2 Man of Franky Lucky Bolan's new crime empire. Tears were streaming across her cheeks and she screamed out her hate and rage for the man who had brought them there.
Bolan listened to her until her breath ran out, then he said to Benny Peaceful, "You run a sweet hit. Now get on back out there and clean up the garbage. If cops show, and I doubt it, tell 'em Bolan was trying to hit on th' place."
"Sure, Franky," Benny replied. He went to the door, then turned back with an afterthought. "Oh, by the way," he said, "do I move into the villa?"
"Sure," Bolan said wearily. "You take Philip Honey's suite."
Benny Peaceful went out beaming. Bolan stared at the sobbing girl for a moment, then reached for the phone and dialed Carl Lyons.
"I'm glad you called," Lyons said tightly. "I was thinking of trying to contact you. You asked me to check the death of Charles D'Agosta. There's more than a dozen letters from him on file with a congressional committee on organized crime, all of them relating to the financial empire and underworld involvements of Julian DiGeorge. Now Lou Pena was the guy who . . ."
"Hold it," Bolan said tiredly. "Give it to someone who needs it."
He carried the telephone over to Andrea and held the receiver to her ear. "Tell the man to start over," he instructed her.
"Start over," she whispered mechanically. Seconds later she began holding the instrument for herself. Bolan lit a cigarette and smoked while she listened to the policeman's recital. Then she returned the phone to Bolan, said, "Thank you," smoothed her clothing, pushed at her hair, and walked out.
Bolan carried the phone to the desk and sat in DiGeorge's chair. "What's going on out there?" Lyons asked him.
"Just a little house cleaning," Bolan replied, his voice still wearied. "Tell, uh, what's his name — Brognola? — tell him to forget about that portfolio. I've blown it."
"Your cover?" Lyons asked anxiously.
Bolan sighed. "That and everything else. DiGeorge is dead and his family is a shambles. They're running around shooting at each other now. I suggest you post a couple of platoons of infantry to watch this place. The fireworks will really start when they all wake up and find out what they've done. Maybe you can pick up a few extra pieces in the process."
The detective whistled to cover an embarrassing loss for words, then murmured, "I don't suppose there's any chance for squaring up your cover. I mean . . ."
"No chance," Bolan tiredly replied. "You can fool some of the fools some of the time, but — no, I'm going to gather up some stuff from DiGeorge's desk, my final package, and then I'm going to pull a quick fade. Uh, Lyons — thanks, eh."
"Drop the stuff in a locker somewhere and send me the key," Lyons suggested. "Some of us are thanking you, Bolan. But just some of us."
"I get the message," Bolan said. He hung up, pulled a briefcase from a bottom drawer of the desk, and began filling it with assorted tidbits from the records of the late Julian DiGeorge. Then he went to the door, took a final look at the Capo's control center, and went out through the familiar corridor.
He found Andrea standing beside the pool, staring dazedly into the water. A fully-clothed body floated there, partially submerged.
"You want to leave with me?" Bolan asked her.
"Where to?" she replied, smiling woodenly.
Bolan shrugged. "Does it matter?" he asked.
She shook her head and placed a hand in his. He led her to the new Mercedes, put her inside, then climbed in and cranked the motor. They spun across to the gate. The man whom Bolan had tagged "Andrew Hardy" glanced at her and showed Bolan a smug grin. A bloodstained handkerchief was wound tightly about one of his hands. He leaned against the Mercedes with his good hand and said, "Quite a show, Franky."
"Yeah," Bolan said. "Tell Benny Peaceful I'm taking care of the kid. Tell 'im I said to watch things until I get back."
"Don't you worry none about Benny," Andrew Hardy reassured him.
Bolan nodded curtly and released the clutch. They cleared the gate with a screech of tires and powered down the lane to the main road. Benny Peaceful did not know it yet, Bolan was thinking, but he needed everyone's worry. A family reckoning was coming for this day's work. Bolan knew a momentary twinge of sympathy for the insurgents, but clamped it back, seeing the hired guns in their true light: as budding Lou Penas. The world could get along without them.
Andrea looked back briefly as they swung out of the lane. She shuddered, then straightened and moved closer to Bolan. "Whoever you are," she said quietly, "you've just delivered me from purgatory."
Bolan smiled. "There are two ways out of purgatory, you know," he reminded her.
"Which way are we taking?" Andrea murmured.
Bolan could not answer the girl, but he had a pretty good idea of his own route. It would be a familiar one. A shadow life in a shadow world, taking on three dimensions only when someone's blood flowed. Bolan knew his route. He squared his shoulders, encircled her with an arm, and drew her closer. "Just keep looking at that horizon up there," he told her.
"What will that do?" she quiety inquired.
"It will remind you that you're still alive, that the world is still turning, and that just about anything could happen next."
The girl sighed and moved her head onto his shoulder. They had reached the junction of the main east-west highway. Bolan looked to the west and into the blood-red of a desert sunset. "Oh no," he muttered, swinging east, "I'm not heading into that."
But the Executioner did not need a symbolically red sky to overshadow his future. The red of blood was etched into his very shadow, and all compass points would lead inevitably to the same horizon. If there had been reason for the Mafia to hate and fear Mack Bolan in the past, the time was fast approaching when they would rise up with all their wrath and power to crush this greatest of all threats to their continued existence. Pat and Mike lay just across the Executioner's next horizon. In Bolan's shadow world of the immediate future, all skies were bloody red.
For the moment, however, there was another victory which was not quite a victory, a good car under him, a straight road ahead, and a warm woman in his arms. Andrea sighed, "Wherever you're heading, just take me with you."
"No hard feelings?" Bolan asked her.
"My Poppa died before I was born, Mack," she said.
"What'd you call me?"
"I'll call you anything you'd like," she whispered.
Bolan sighed through his battle mask. "Just don't call me Lucky," he said, and kissed her, and realized that the mask did not have to be all battle.