Don Pendleton - War Against the Mafia

"Where's Leo going?" someone asked, staring after the careening auto.

Sergio stood at the wall, arms crossed over his chest, smiling. "He has gone to beard the lion in his den," he said proudly, then added, under his breath, "I hope."

The speaker crackled and a terse voice announced: "A car is speeding out of the Frenchi estate."

Weatherbee snatched up the mike and said, "Let 'im pass, don't one unit move off station until I give the word!"

"What do you think is going on out there?" Pappas asked.

"Plenty, I'd say," Weatherbee grunted. I'd give a nickel to get in there and have a look at some of those faces. I bet there'd be some interesting ones."

"Where do you think Bolan will strike from?"

"That's a good question. It's like trying to outguess the quarterback on a third-down play. Tell the truth, I don't envy this Mafia bunch. They have to sit and wait for him to make his hit before they will know how to react and where. It's like waiting for the beginning of an atomic attack, with this Bolan, anyway."

Pappas was grinning. "Well, it's a new role for the Mafia, isn't it. The tables are turned, so to speak."

"Yeah. What time is it?"

"Three- forty."

"See, I told you it would be a damn long night. You want a sandwich?"

Pappas shook his head emphatically. "I couldn't eat a belly dancer's navel right now."

"Nervous?"

"You could say that, yeah. I've been on plenty of stake-outs before, but this one..."

"But this one, you're rooting for the other side, is that it?"

Pappas shifted about uncomfortably and lit a cigarette.

"Isn't that it?"

"Well, shit, so what? I kind of admire the guy."

"Don't be embarrassed, Johnny-so do I. I'm just hoping he won't try to shoot his way through a police line, that's all."

"So why do you think I'm butterflies?" Pappas announced, laughing.

"We can't afford to let sentiment ride the trigger finger, Johnny."

"Hell, I know that."

"A sentimental cop is a dead cop."

"Hell, I know that."

"The order is shoot to kill."

"Well, goddamn it, I know that!"

Weatherbee smiled grimly. "Just don't forget it," he said quietly.

The Executioner made a final check of the weaponry and did a mental rehearsal of the sequence of events, then returned to the range finder to study once again the layout on the opposite hillside. For thirty minutes, now, that bunch had been going through the exact same motions, as evidenced by the shadows on the large window. Either they were having a prayer service, or some sort of elaborate rite, or else...

He kept his eye to the range finder and moved his watch close alongside and began a timing. Mark- the guy at the head of the table lifts an arm at the exact instant the third guy from the end leans over... mark-three seconds, and somebody walks past in the background... mark- five seconds, and the arm comes down, the other guy straightens... mark- three seconds, and a guy walks past in the opposite direction... mark- five seconds, and...

Bolan studied the shadow-movements for a full five minutes, then grinned and moved on to other things. Pretty cute, he had to admit, pretty damn cute-but now, where really was the pack congregating? There were very few lights showing. Of this few, all were at the lower levels, with the sole exception of the dim rectangle of light at the large window on level two.

He could make out one corner of the parking lot, and as he watched, a car moved rapidly through the narrow vision-field allowed by the telescopic lens; he followed it, saw the headlamps flare into brilliance, and the car careening along the drive. He wondered about it, but only briefly, returning to the inspection of the house itself. He could see nothing whatever of the roof, no more than a faint outline against the black. He swung back to the ground level, and picked up the figure of a man standing on the patio, near a waist-level wall, partly concealed in shadows. The man moved then, and rubbed something against one shoulder. A pistol-he was scratching his shoulder with the barrel of a pistol. Some idiot. What did they have down there-idiots? The range finder tracked along the wall, seeking other evidence of human habitation. A door flashed open, bright light spilling onto the flagstones for a split second, then was hastily closed. He held the spot and saw the door open again, this time without accompanying light-spillage, and two men scurried out the door and ran up some steps at the corner of the building. Bolan grinned. They were learning-but too slowly. He lost the men in the upper darkness, his wonderment growing with respect to the darkened roof area.

Bolan glanced at his watch, and waited. He had a timed sequence planned, and he preferred a firm jump-off time. Just a few minutes more. He allowed his thoughts to wander to Valentina, to Mom and Pop, to Johnny, the kid he'd barely known and now probably would never know, to Cindy whom he had known better than any living soul and yet had not known at all.

One minute to jump-off. He'd promised Val that he'd be back. An empty promise, one that he'd never expected to keep. Bolan was a soldier-he knew a soldier's odds, he knew the chances of walking off this hillside alive. Cops were all over the place; maybe they'd even bring in dogs. If the Mafia didn't get him, the cops would. Sweet Val. Tender little, passionate little, sweet little Val-a girl who had saved her love only to hand it over to a doomed man. There was a sadness; yes, there was a sadness.

He pushed aside the sadness and moved over to the long tubelike object positioned alongside the range finder, final-checked the azimuth calculations, and began the ten-second countdown. The tube belched and hissed and the projectile roared down the range. The Big Kill was on.

"Jesus Christ!" Pappas yelped. "What was that? Where'd it come from?"

"Rocket of some kind!" Weatherbee yelled.

The streaking glow had roared through the night air at dazzling speed, impacting on the lower corner of the mansion in a thunderous explosion. All lights had winked out and only the dull, licking flames at the devastated corner were providing illumination. A man was screaming in obvious agony, and the excited, raised voices of other men could be heard calling to one another.

Weatherbee and Pappas were on their feet outside the squad car at the perimeter of the property, looking down on the house from about 300 feet. "Where'd the damn thing come from?" Pappas repeated excitedly.

"Those hills over there," Weatherbee snapped. "Hand me those binoculars!"

"Think we oughta go down there, maybe give 'em a hand?"

"You outta your mind? They'd shoot us as quick as they'd shoot Bolan. Besides, he isn't finished with them, bet your ass on that."

"Good Mary, Mother of God!" Plasky cried. "He's bombing us!"

"Shut up, shut up, and get your head down, you idiot" Seymour snapped. "F'Chn'st's sake, that was just the first shot!"

"Shot? Shot? You call that a shot? Where's Sergio? What the hell is Sergio doing?"

"Everybody keep down and stay calm," Sergio's voice intoned loudly, floating down from the higher level. "Did anybody see where it came from?"

A chorus of excited voices all tried to report at once.

"Outta the sky!" yelled one.

"Th' south corner!" came another intelligible response.

"It came right outta th' fuckin' moon," reported a voice close to Seymour.

"Aw shit, shit!" Sergio cried. "Keep your eyes open now! Look for a flash, anything, a bit of smoke, just keep your eyes open!"

"Heads up, pip, pip, and all that shit," Seymour muttered to himself.

The Executioner was completing another countdown. He hit Zero and the flare gun at the same instant, then smiled and picked up the Marlin, peering through the scope. Seconds later the flare shell opened in the sky directly above the Frenchi mansion and floated gently groundward in startling brilliance, lighting the area like a personal sun. Bolan's scope was already seeking the Frenchi roof when the shell burst into brilliance, a dazed, upturned face raised to the white hot sun loomed into the vision-field and Bolan's educated finger took spontaneous action. The big gun roared and bucked against him; he fought it steady, hanging grimly to the eyepiece and saw his target go down, hands digging at the belly. Bolan nodded in confirmation of his correction; from chin to belly was about 15 inches. He swung slightly left and picked up another target; another squeeze and buck; a few more degrees left, another target, again a squeeze; and another, and another, and he had counted off but five seconds. He laid down the Marlin and bent his eye to the range finder for a broader view. That roof was full of men, some still standing and staring stupidly into the brilliance, others seemingly frozen with surprise and fear, one was trying to support a bloody and obviously dead body; but most were at least partially concealed behind the low parapet at the edge of the roof. Obviously nobody had spotted his muzzle-flashes; there was no return fire.