Don Pendleton: Save the Children

He twirled the rope twice above his head and a loose-armed toss released the end with the hook in the direction of the wall's top. One of the grapnel's sharp points bit into the brick with a barely audible metallic clink.

After a pair of tugs to test the hold, he silently scrambled up the wall at full speed.

He gained the top of the wall, and lay flat. A few moments later, he straightened into a sitting position and reset the climbing device on his webbing. Then he snapped his wrist around so the MAC-10 filled his right fist.

He dropped loose and easy to the ground just inside the walled perimeter, landing in a crouched position...

a spectral shift in the frozen darkness, nothing more...

his penetration wholly undetected by the sentries. He saw them across the distance where they huddled together for warmth under a single light by the gate a couple of hundred yards to the north.

And yeah, those two hardguys were alone.

The night penetrator scanned what he could make out of the grounds of the estate, his MAC-10 and his senses probing the night for danger.

A narrow asphalt path wound its way through a miniforest of towering fir trees.

Ahead, one lone second-floor window of the Parelli home glowed in the gloom.

Bolan left the base of the wall, advancing on the house on a zigzag course from tree to tree, ever wary, but finding the security force conspicuous by its absence.

He turned over in his mind again what he knew about the man he had come to Chicago to kill, but it was not enough to give him a clue as to where Parelli would have gone to ground, if he was not here.

Bolan knew far more about David Parelli's late father.

Vito "The Butcher" Parelli had first come to Depression-era police notice when he'd been collared during a raid on Al Capone's old headquarters at the Montmarte Cafe in Cicero. Parelli had been sitting guard outside of Scarface Al's office, a tommy gun propped across his lap.

Vito had not opened fire with the Thompson on the cops, of course. That only happened in the movies. Vito and the score of other bodyguards on the speakeasy's premises were there in case rival bootleggers showed up looking for trouble, not to shoot it out with the cops. Hell, the fix was in.

The Butcher had gone on from such humble beginnings to claw and kill his way to the top of the heap of the ever-warring Chicago underworld, gaining hold of all the strings after repeal when the various bootleg factions had come together to organize into the multi-billion-dollar-per-annum business the Mafia had become in the years since.

Anyone who didn't like the way Vito ran things, well, that was how he got the name, The Butcher. Vito Parelli had killed, and ordered killed, plenty when he had to, and he had to a lot to keep hold of the power he wielded without mercy or compassion.

Vito had married a young beauty during the forties...

the daughter of one of his "business" cronies...

and she had borne him a son. Vito's iron grip on the Chi underworld had remained intact, repulsing anyone foolish enough to try for a piece of what Don Vito would not let go.

Until a power even greater than that of Vito The Butcher came along to snatch that power from him along with everything else in the meanest, roughest way to go.

Vito died after an agonized, protracted battle against cancers in his body that had done what the law and his Mob competitors had been unable to do.

What was known about David Parelli, now thirty-seven years of age, was that this father's son was not of the old school, not of his father's time.

At least, not on the surface.

David Parelli did not carry the almost standard nickname invariably bestowed upon young men on their way up through the Mafia ranks.

This Parelli was single and lived at home with his mother, had a college degree, business associates in the very top echelons of city politics and, according to Bolan's most recent intel, was driven by ambition and a war chest that wouldn't quit.

He was the kind of cannibal who was a lot more merciless than thugs like his father or Capone ever used to be because this new generation of Parellis knew how to play all the games the way respectable people played them.

Parelli had used the family name, sure, but had grabbed his own slice of the pie with a savagery all the more dangerous because of the finesse that masked his evil.

Bolan gained the end of the house that was hidden from view of those around the front gate.

Except for the illumination of the single second-floor window he had noted on his approach, the residence appeared unlighted, not even a porch light.

He knew something about the way Mafia households were run. He had been waging his war against these types for some time and had walked among them via the role camouflage of one of the elite Mob hit men...

the legendary Black Aces...

on more than a few occasions.

It was not unusual to keep such a relatively low profile as the Parelli household seemed to be keeping this evening.

The walled perimeter and armed sentries were not there for show by any means, and the joint would be set up to go "hard" at a nod from the boss. There would be accommodation for street soldiers brought in to protect the premises, if it was decided that a situation warranted "hitting the mattresses." But that kind of show of force was frowned on by the new breed of the family, except in the most extreme cases.

It appeared to Bolan now that he would encounter but a skeleton security force here tonight, which did not mean they would be any less formidable if bullets started flying.

He had come prepared for that, but he now considered making this a soft penetration if he did not find Parelli on the premises.

There was a door on this side of the house.

Bolan moved stealthily toward it, opened the screen door, tried the doorknob and found it locked. He unsheathed his knife and in a matter of seconds he had the inside door open.

He started to step into the side entrance when he heard faint footfalls coming in his direction from around the rear of the house. He sheathed the knife and faded back against the wall.

A sentry, armed with a rifle similar to those at the front gate, ambled around the corner of the house, not paying much attention to anything on his rounds except the cold. The guy was blowing into his clenched fists.

Bolan saw the guard clearly thanks to the NVD goggles, and when the sentry moved abreast of him, the Executioner stepped up behind the punk and brought down a stiff-edged palm at the base of the guy's skull. The guard grunted and his knees buckled as if his legs were made of rubber.

Bolan caught the man's body before it hit the ground. The Executioner dragged the unconscious sentry behind some bushes against the house. He knew the yardman would be out of it far longer than the time required for Bolan to complete his soft probe.

The nightsuited figure let himself quietly into the house, letting the MAC-10 hang loose from its ready position beneath his right arm. He unholstered the Beretta and had a look around.

He was in the kitchen.

Nothing stirred in the house.

With the Beretta pointing the way, he began a room-by-room search of the ground floor, his first impression confirmed. No lights. All of the first floor of the house was dark.

The NVD goggles did their job as he prowled without having to flick on any of the lights, but he found little of interest to slow him down: the usual layout of kitchen, living room, den, dining room.

In a study that had to be Parelli's, he did come across a personal desktop phone directory, a small plastic-covered notebook.

He took the directory, slipping it inside his black-suit.

A sweeping, curved staircase led him upstairs.

He paused at the balustraded top landing, eyeing the closed door nearest to him on his left, which opened off an unlighted hallway that stretched from the landing to both ends of the house.