Don Pendleton - Tennessee Smash

"Hal" was Harold Brognola, federal chief of everything. "Sticker" was the redoubtable Leo Turrin, inside man extraordinary, the feds' man at Mafia headquarters.

Anders said, "I don't know what it means but I'll send the message. A Full House?" Bolan said, "Yeah. And it's getting fuller all the time. I guess you'd better call in your fail-safe line, Tom. But give me operating room." "What's the trick?"

"The trick is to safe an empire."

Toby sniffed, and said, "I thought we were getting square."

"I've been there all the while," Bolan told her. "How about you?"

She dropped her eyes but then she flashed him a smile and replied, "Touche, Captain Quick. But don't you think we should be in the signals this time?"

Indeed, yes. Bolan the Quick would have it no other way.

"Just give me plenty of room," he said quietly.

Conditions were not exactly ideal for a night operation. There was a full moon, a cloudless sky, no wind anywhere. But it would have to do.

He was in blacksuit and soft footwear. The big silver.44 magnum rode the honor spot at the right hip. Close to the heart and snugged into a special shoulder harness was the whispering Beretta. Slit pockets at the outer calf of each leg carried surgical quality stilettos. Nylon garrotes were coiled and waiting at the waist.

He had been scouting them for more than an hour. He had their numbers and he knew that Crazy Gordy was anything but crazy. The guy was a real pro. He knew how to set a defense. He had ten people on outside guard duty, as silent as the night and well placed for maximum utilization of what was there.

Bolan had scouted the place earlier, during daylight, from a distance. And although he had spotted Carl Lyons strolling the grounds in the company of two keepers, there had been no other guards visible at that time. Now the place was crawling with them.

Which only made the job harder, not impossible.

But it would have been a hell of a lot simpler and surer if he had gone in while the boys were engaging themselves at Juliana Academy.

The cabin was emplaced on level ground in a relatively isolated setting. The Percy Priest Reservoir was a huge body of water, a major recreational area with a couple dozen parks hugging its shoreline. During daylight hours, the entire area had been busy with people. Not now. Now the whole world seemed deserted.

Except for that little cabin nestled in the trees.

There was activity in there, all right.

And silent sentries posted all around. Most of them carried sawed-off shotguns. They would be repeaters, bet on it. Two guys were hefting submachine guns. They were the anchor men-close in.

And there was a rover with nothing but a side-arm worn in a big shoulder holster. He was the most vulnerable. Therefore he would be the first to go.

The rover died without knowing it. A silent wraith in black stepped from behind a tree as the guy passed by. A razor-sharp stiletto expertly found its mark between the proper vertebrae of the neck and the rover dropped with a sigh.

Bolan quietly bore the body away and searched it. The only thing of interest was a small micro radio clipped to the belt. The moonlight was so bright that he could read the PocketCom trademark on the little rig. It looked like a paging device, which it was-but it was also a two-channel CB radio.

A guy took what he could get, yeah.

Bolan took the tiny radio and returned, to the hellgrounds. He quietly worked his way to within ten paces of the corner man at the left flank. The guy was wedged between the forks of a tree, about three feet off the ground, all but invisible. Bolan's thumb found the call button on the PocketCom. A rewarding beep responded from the tree-but the sentry did not stir. So Bolan did it again. This time he caught motion over there, followed by a hushed voice. "Who'd you want?"

The beep sounds for thee, guy.

Bolan had already started his move, taking quick advantage of the distraction.

And the left corner man never got his call.

Bolan left him where he died and went swiftly on. The radio was a godsend. All these guys were wearing them. The whole damn outfit was wired for sound, and Bolan held the sounder. Every guy in that yard beeped when Bolan pushed the button. And he had the entire left flank cleared out before the survivors began complaining.

"Who's playing with the damn radios?" "Henny! Has anybody seen Henny?"

"He passed here a couple minutes ago."

"Get off the damn radios! Quiet it!" Bolan recognized that harsh voice.

"Someone's playing with the damn pager, Gordy. Or else somebody's in trouble."

"Check it out, Henny. Give me a roger on that."

Bolan took the rear man with a singing garrote.

"Henny! lf you hear me, fire a shot!"

The big silver AutoMag roared into the night and a flanker on the right forty yards uprange spun to eternity.

Another guy up there stepped from a shadow with a chopper poised, craning his neck for a better see. Big thunder erupted again, sending another 240 grains sizzling uprange to splatter that craning neck.

"That's not Henny! Alla you boys-"

The lights in the cabin went out.

People were in motion in the darkness.

Bolan was one of them, with them. He made the front porch and vaulted the railing, coming down softly on creaking boards. The body count had gone to seven. And he knew that the remaining three outside men had to be between the cabin and the access road.

And he had them coming in.

They were pulling back, cautious and trying to keep their dignity, moving slowly and passing quick signals back and forth in the interest of friendly identification.

All was entirely quiet inside the cabin. No voices, no movements. Which led Bolan to believe that not many were inside. Perhaps only two-one tied to a bed and the other…

He waited for the outsiders to enter the cleared area at the front of the cabin. Three, yeah. One with a chopper. He took that one first, with a bone-shattering headshot that sent juices spraying into the moonbeams, then tracked immediately onto the other targets. Both shotguns boomed, almost precisely together, the loads traveling God knew where-certainly not toward the cabin-and not even the senders knew to where.

Ten up and ten down.

So how now, bad Gordy?

He fed a fresh clip into the AutoMag and kicked the door open. A revolver flashed at him from the dark interior and a heavy bullet whizzed past as he ducked back to cover.

He called in, "Come on out, Gordy."

"Who's there?"

"You haven't figured it out?"

A moment of silence, then, "I still hate your fucking town."

Bolan chuckled without humor. "Me too yours."

He flipped the spent clip from the AutoMag at the window. A shotgun boomed in there and the whole window dissolved.

A moment later: "You still there, Omega?" "Oh sure."

"Why're you doing this?"

"You called me, guy."

"The hell I did. I'm just trying to make a living."

"You try too hard, Gordy. You should have known."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right?" "Maybe so. You feel up to one more venture?" The guy even sounded like Lou Costello as he asked, "Do I got a choice?"

"Guess not. I came for your head, Gordy."

"Hell you think I didn't know that right from the start? Well okay. You'll have to come and get it, hot ass."

"Is that your final word?"

"It sure is."

The guy had not changed position during that conversation. Bolan had a pretty decent fix on the location of his voice. He just hoped to God there was only one.

He tried for a final fix. "Nick said I should kiss you first. I told him you're too damned ugly."

"Nick is a-"

Bolan would never know Crazy Gordy's final thoughts on Nick Copa. He'd launched himself with the first syllable of the reply, diving in through the shattered window with a twisting plunge to land belly up.