Savage Fire

by Don Pendleton

  For now, though …

  He stepped into the hall with a smile and a ready hand. “Omega! Glad you came. I’ve been worried about you. God, isn’t it awful what happened up there! I was worried that maybe you—well, you know, it was a lot of hell.”

  Omega grasped the outstretched hand and pressed it firmly, smiling solemnly for the occasion. “Close is good enough, isn’t it?” he said quietly, revealing nothing whatever.

  Eritrea steered the visitor into the library and saw him comfortably seated at a small table where orange juice, toast and marmalade awaited. Then he closed the doors and took a chair opposite his guest.

  “I didn’t wish that for Augie,” Eritrea declared in a hushed voice.

  “Course not—none of us did,” the visitor replied.

  “I didn’t even know he’d gone up there. I’m totally mystified—I’m—he was getting senile, you know. Paranoid, too. Of course, who wouldn’t—with all that’s been going on these past months. But I believe sometimes he even mistrusted me.” Eritrea sighed. “You can’t watch them twenty-four hours a day, can you? I want you to understand something one hundred percent, Omega. I was trying to protect the old man. I was trying to hold the thing together, trying to make sure that he died with dignity. I was trying to protect the tradition. It’s important that you understand that.”

  “I understand it,” Omega said, still holding off, staring distastefully at the orange juice.

  “Can I get you something more, uh—”

  “It’s okay,” the wild card said quietly. “I didn’t come to be entertained, David. I came to parley.”

  Eritrea nodded agreeably. “Okay. Fine. Let’s parley.”

  “You know what you have to do now. But you’ll have to move fast. It’s started already, with Augie not even planted yet. What are you doing about funeral arrangements?”

  “It’s scheduled for tomorrow. What do you mean? What’s started already?”

  “The scramble, David, has started already. I thought you had things nailed down a bit tighter than that. It’s only been a matter of hours since …”

  A cold chill chased along King David’s spine. “Well, sure, uh—I thought—you told me …”

  “I told you I’d help,” the visitor said softly. “I did not say that we were nailing it down for you. You know what you have to do, eh?”

  The chill hit him again. Eritrea hoisted the orange juice to cover any outward show of emotion as he assured the wild card, “I’m doing it.”

  “You need to call a council, too. Full table.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “You can work it in with the funeral arrangements. Delay the funeral, if necessary. Let’s give them all time to get here.”

  “Oh, sure. We’ve covered that. Everybody has been notified. They’re all coming.”

  “Good work. Okay. You need to lock it up before some of the old bosses have time to think about it. Guys like—well, never mind, you already know who they are. Tradition, David, is what they want.”

  The son of a bitch! Right between the eyes with it! Eritrea coughed delicately. “You said—”

  “What I said in Pittsfield still goes. You’ll get your support from my people—but after you’ve locked it up with the others. You need a majority, David. Give us something to enforce. Then we’ll do our job. There’s a possible hitch, though. I can’t cover it. You’ll have to.”

  Eritrea felt his dream squirming away from him. In a hollow voice he asked, “What’s the hitch?”

  “One of my kind,” the son of a bitch told him. “One guy I really can’t be sure about. He could toss it. You’ll have to get to him, and quick.”

  Eritrea knew it, goddammit! He never got spinal chills for nothing! “Which guy?” he asked quietly.

  “The one that got away,” the goddamned rockjawed bastard announced in that infuriatingly placid tone.

  David shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Augie was not alone in the Pittsfield stand, David.”

  “Oh. Well.” Eritrea sipped more orange juice. He could feel his soul sweating. How much did this cool bastard know? Really know! “I thought, uh … I heard—the word came down that Mack Bolan was the one got to Augie. What are you saying?”

  “The same,” Omega coldly assured him. “But that’s only one of your problems. There’s a guy in Manhattan, David, who knows why Augie was at Pittsfield.”

  Sweating, sure. Sweating blood! He sighed. “I see.”

  “I can’t approach the guy. I’m not even sure who he really is. They call him Peter.” Omega was looking at his watch, lips pursed, eyes slitted. “He knows, David. You’d better find him. And quick.”

  Eritrea groaned aloud, allowing some of the tightly reined emotion to leak out, then tried to cover it with a growling comment. “He’s an Ace, huh?”

  “Odds-on favorite, yeah. Maybe you should let Leo the Pussy look into it. He has good instincts for such things.” The guy’s eyes warmed momentarily as he added, “They worked fine for him at Pittsfield, didn’t they?”

  Eritrea nodded agreement with that, not really giving a particular damn at the moment about Leo “the Pussy” Turrin and his survival instincts.

  Omega was suggesting, “Let Leo work it for you. He already knows, David. If you’re worrying about his loyalty … hell, man, it was Augie trying to set him up for the fall at Pittsfield, and he knows that, too.”

  “You’re right,” Eritrea agreed. He smiled suddenly. “You’re always right, aren’t you?”

  “As long as I’m alive,” the other said, grinning thinly. He looked at his watch again. “I’m on a tight timetable, David.” He got to his feet. “Tell you what. Contact me through Leo; let’s work it that way. Keep him advised of all developments, and I’ll work the liaison through him from here on. It’s better that way, eh?”

  “Better, sure, right,” Eritrea agreed as he left the table and accompanied the visitor to the door.

  “I’m keeping a low profile through all this. You understand.”

  “Low profile, right, that’s a good idea. Don’t worry—I’ll keep you plugged in via Leo the Pussy.”

  They were in the hall, heading toward the entrance foyer. Omega again consulted his watch. He turned on a bright smile and said, “Good luck, David.”

  But then, before any response to that was possible, it began to appear that King David’s luck was all running the wrong way. A white-hot light flashed through the doorway of the library they had just vacated, the floor beneath their feet shook and heaved, and the cataclysmic roar of high explosives battered the air around their ears. The wall at David’s left spilled open and a white cloud puffed through at about the same moment that Omega grabbed him and threw him to the floor.

  “What th’ hell!” Eritrea squawked.

  Omega was on top of him, protecting him from the shower of debris from the library, and other rumblings were moving across the grounds out front.

  “I guess it’s that other problem you have, David,” Omega told him, unflappable as ever, cool and possessed while all the world tumbled down. “I’d say you’ve got Mack Bolan right up your ass—right now.”

  The would-be king of crime shivered under the knowledge that it was true. He should have known it already. It was an occupational hazard for Mafia bosses—the very one which had given David Eritrea legs enough to reach for the crown.

  “Get that guy, Omega!” he groaned. “God’s sake, get him! Then you can write your own ticket with me! I’ll give you the fucking world!”

  Omega was already on his feet and sprinting through the wreckage toward the door, gun in hand and looking magnificent.

  And the vision of that made King David feel tremendously powerful—not at all clumsy or less the ruler. With a guy like that at his side—why God!—David Eritrea could have it all!

  There was a comfort.

  God yes, there was a magnificent comfort.

  3

  FROM THE PIT

  A bit of sleig
ht of hand, sure, with all the magic being provided by the war wagon’s auto-fire system, but it had come uncomfortably close to the man behind it all, just the same. Each of the four big birds carried in the rocket pod had been programmed for individual targets on a sequence-time logic, with the first directed at the big east window on the ground floor of the mansion. It was pure luck that Bolan himself wound up in that room with the budding capo and still more luck that he was able to make the grandstand play over the guy’s cringing body.

  It had been designed as more than a stunt to cover his Omega identity, however. It was a seriously considered attack which had been designed to shake the swaggers out of these guys and to serve notice that there would be no free ride to glory over Marinello’s ashes. It was also a carefully calculated cover fire, in case Bolan needed a hard withdrawal from that joint—a circumstance which had not arisen, but which had to be covered in the planning of the mission.

  There was nothing wild-assed about this warrior. Bolan consistently picked missions up and put them down with the greatest of care and planning—and it was a tribute to his tactical genius that he had remained alive for so long under such incredible odds against survival.

  Actually, that mission into the Marinello palace had served several important purposes. “The one that got away” at Pittsfield was of as much concern to Bolan as it could possibly be to Eritrea. “Peter,” whoever he was, could mean big trouble for Bolan’s closest friend and ally, little Leo Turrin, who had been living the double life as undercover cop and Mafia big shot for quite a bit longer than Bolan’s war had been in progress. The Pittsfield thing had gone okay, with Leo actually stronger in the mob than ever before—but “Peter” could possibly undo it all. Bolan had to plug that hole, with any means available, and the tip to Eritrea represented but one avenue of attack into the problem.

  Bolan had also wanted personal contact with Billy Gino. He’d accomplished that, and hopefully he’d started something building in Gino’s mind which would help the Executioner somewhere downstream in this command strike.

  Otherwise, it had been an almost routine visit for Mack Bolan. He’d picked up a few vibes, sown a few seeds, and shaken their house a bit. Which was good enough for starters.

  He received visible evidence that it had been good enough the moment he hit the doorway in his withdrawal. A smoking section of porch railing was lying on the lawn beside a blackened body. Flames were leaping from the shattered east side of the house and a couple of men were scampering around over there trying to figure out what to do about it. The yard guard was in full reaction, with electrified flunkies running everywhere in grimly silent response to the attack—taking up defensive positions, probably, on some prearranged perimeter surrounding the manse. A crew wagon in the parking area was aflame beside the gutted remains of another which had obviously taken a direct hit.

  A man with a guard dog at his wrist stood stolidly in the drive at the front of the house—just standing there, waiting for what might come from behind the barrage. Bolan had to respect him. He stepped around him and climbed into the Ferrari. “Watch it, guy,” he growled in a friendly tone.

  The man was worried. He asked, “What is it, sir?”

  “Watch me go find out,” Bolan suggested, and sent the Ferrari screaming toward the front gate.

  It was real chaos down there. Bolan had sent the other two birds to this sector—one straight along the chute and into the west gatehouse, the other into a section of wall which bore the main power transformers for the electronic security system. The chute was littered with debris, impassable. Someone was moaning pitiably from somewhere in the wreckage of the guard shack, while others frantically tried to dig him out with bare hands.

  Bolan pulled onto the lawn and nosed along the wall toward the breeched section, seeking exit. He found Billy Gino there, arm-waving a reaction team into position to cover the break and also directing damage-control efforts.

  “Watch it, Mr. Omega!” the Head Cock shouted as Bolan drove up. “We got live wires here! Already fried a couple of boys!”

  “Clear me a path, Billy!” Bolan commanded.

  “Pardon me, sir, you shouldn’t go out there now!”

  He was running alongside the car as Bolan continued maneuvering through the litter. Bolan just gave him a look and kept on moving.

  “I’m the Head Cock, dammit, sir, and I say you should take cover and let my boys secure the situation! We got a full-scale assault here! I already sent a crew out! We think we know where to look! So please! Take cover!”

  Bolan growled, “Cover yourself, Billy!” and bulldozed on out of there. He cleared the wall and hit the roadway at full whine, taking off with a fishtailing squeal of rubber and putting that place quickly behind him.

  But it was no time for self-congratulations. This thing could go sour yet. Billy said he’d sent a crew out. Yeah. “Where to look” was a small knoll overlooking the estate from the western approach, the only really viable position from which the attack could have been launched. And, sure, that was the place. He had to get up there damn quick and cover that front. The war wagon was too valuable a piece of hardware to trade in for a mere Mafia hard-site.

  Bolan had his own damn palace to guard. Sure as hell he was not turning it over to one of Billy Gino’s crews!

  The war wagon was indeed a valuable piece of hardware. Conceived by Bolan himself, but actually put together by a team of moonlighting aerospace engineers who dubbed the resulting marvel a “terran module,” the new war wagon had served the Executioner well since its first use during the New Orleans campaign. The basic structure was a 26-foot GMC motor home with a 455-cubic-inch Toronado engine and tandem rear wheels with airbag suspension. She served multiple functions, as home for the warrior, field headquarters, mobile command post, armory, electronics surveillance post, and battle cruiser. Mafia bucks from the war chest had built her, sure, but the only mortgage on this item of space-age technology was written in blood—and the repossession notice would have to be written the same way.

  Bolan arrived on the scene just a couple of beats behind the head party. There were nine of them, standard crew with standard arms—couple of choppers, couple of shotguns, the rest with sidearms only. They’d pulled their vehicle into some trees about fifty yards below the battle cruiser and were cautiously debarking when the Ferrari pulled up behind them. Bolan recognized the crew chief as a guy he’d glimpsed at the hotel in Pittsfield, one Eddie Rainbow, and Eddie was looking as though he’d found his own pot of gold. Literally, he had. A cool million bucks was awaiting the possessor of Mack Bolan’s head.

  Someone whispered, “Relax! It’s Omega!”

  At Omega’s right knee, nestled between seat and console, a 9-millimeter Ingram machine pistol awaited directions to the front. Basically a one-hand weapon with folding wire stock, the impressive little chattergun was scarcely larger than the AutoMag. The clip held 32 Parabellum flesh-shredders, with feed via the pistol grip. She’d been conceived as a “room broom” for use by sniper-plagued urban police forces and could deliver at the rate of 1,200 rounds per minute. In the interests of ammo conservation and improved fire control, Bolan had modified this one to a 700-rpm delivery. At this very moment, he was wondering if that had been a desirable modification. Desirable or not, it was the only arm he had; he’d just have to make it do.

  Eddie Rainbow was walking toward the Ferrari.

  The others were beginning to separate into fire teams, one to either side of the crew wagon.

  It was going to have to be now, while they were still bunched up—or it was going to be never!

  The crew chief was hung somewhere between a smile and a frown. He was reading Omega’s presence here as an interference, perhaps even as a “ace out” of the bounty money. No matter. The Ingram came up blazing, catching the chief with a burst full in the throat at close range, flinging that shocked, unhappy face into a grotesque mask as the head led the way to oblivion.

  The Ingram tracked on, laying a blazin
g wreath of death around the four gunners of the first fire team, sweeping them into a crumpled heap beside their vehicle.

  The other team was more advantageously placed, beyond the crew wagon, but one of them also spun away with a shriek and both hands at his head. The others instinctively flung themselves to the ground behind the vehicle—and one of the immediate survivors was evidently gripped by the idea that some monstrous error had been committed.

  “Mr. Omega!” he yelped. “We’re with Billy Gino! Hold your fire!”

  But Mr. Omega had committed no error whatever, and he did not hold his fire. He had already quit the Ferrari to seek a better fire track. Now the Ingram was firing for effect, searching for a hot spot and finding it instantly. The result came first as a whoof of flame, then as a bellowing roar, as the gas tank of the crew wagon responded to that certain stimulus and lifted all four wheels in a flaming jump to ruin.

  The Ingram’s clip was empty. Bolan picked up an abandoned shotgun and made it ready as he circled the funeral pyre. Bodies were aflame back there, one of them flopping crazily in a final, futile gasp at survival. Bolan gave it a round at close range from the shotgun, then pumped in another load and did it again to another, and again and again, purely for mercy’s sake and nothing else. And when he was sure that mercy’s work was done, he retrieved the Ingram, returned to the Ferrari, and took the hot sportster to her berth in the enclosed trailer behind the war wagon.

  Moments later, the man and his gunship were moving cross-country in a circling return to the main road.

  He was clear, yeah—for the moment—and all was okay. But Mother Death had found Bolan’s fix once again. He had wallowed with her for a bare few seconds in the slime pits of humanity and fed her the blood of others for temporary satisfaction.