Precisely on time, a car rolled through the gate and into the first parking lot. It came to the end and stopped fifty feet north of Bolan. The headlights snapped off and the door opened, spreading light inside the car. It would make Davis almost blind to the outside.
Quietly Bolan moved into the darkness and trailed a three-inch stream of gasoline from one of the cans ten feet behind the unmarked police car. He made a U with the gasoline, pouring it on both sides of the car.
The darkness and the light inside the car let him do the task unseen. He crept into the wooded section at the end of the parking lot, shouldered the heavy sprayer and moved toward the car. He settled behind a wide tree to the right of the car but out of range of the headlights, in case the cop turned them on.
“Davis, is that you?” Bolan called. His voice sounded strangely hollow in the dark outdoors.
A figure stood beside the door.
“Yeah, so let’s talk.”
“Take out your piece and lay it on top of the car.”
“Hey, you don’t ask a cop to give up his weapon.”
“I do. I’m allergic to cops. But you’re safe with me, you know that.”
There was a pause, then a sound of metal against metal. Bolan figured Davis would also have a hidden weapon.
“You’ve been lucky so far, Davis. You’ve got away with everything. First the two thousand a month bribe money you’re taking from Don Nazarione, then the snuff on Lieutenant Paulson, and the blackmail on the two assistant chiefs. You even pulled off the cocaine plant on Chief Vincent.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You, Davis. You’re just dirty as hell. Do you want to give up all this and turn state’s evidence against Nazarione and his killers? If you do, we can save you from the death penalty.”
“You’re insane. I’m a cop. Six awards for valor, three commendations. I didn’t come out here to be insulted.”
“Don’t leave just yet.” Bolan drew Big Thunder and put one heavy .44 round from the AutoMag into the police car’s engine, then another. “Your wheels just died on you, Davis.” He struck a match, lit the remaining nineteen matches in the book and threw the flaming cardboard torch into the dark stain of gasoline on the tarmac.
There came an immediate whooshing sound as the gasoline and the vapor burst into flame. The trail of fire raced around the U shape he had poured.
Davis screamed and fired two shots from a handgun. Bolan, wedged behind a tree, pumped up the sprayer, triggered the nozzle and sent a stream of gasoline into the closest trail of flames. Quickly he laid down a gasoline line in front of the car, closing the box of flames around the car.
Davis fired again, missed and yelled.
“What the hell you doing? I came out here to help you!”
“You came out here to kill me and collect the reward from the Mafia commission. It isn’t going to work.”
Bolan sent a dozen shots of the gasoline at Davis, who stood beside the car. In a few seconds his clothes were soaked with gasoline.
“Now, Davis, you try to run through that ring of fire and you go up in flames. Let’s get practical. You answer some questions and I might not kill you.”
“Go to hell, Bolan! I’ll get inside the car.”
“Then I’ll shoot at the gas tank and set the car on fire.”
Davis had started to get in the car. Now he stopped. Through the snapping of the flames, Bolan heard Davis sigh.
“Okay. What questions do you have?”
“When is the takeover try on the police department?”
Davis inhaled sharply. “How did you know about that?”
“Doesn’t matter now. When is it?”
“They haven’t told me for sure yet. It’s soon.”
“How many cops does Nazarione have on the take?”
“How many... probably three hundred or so. He doesn’t tell me that.”
“Why was Chief Smith killed?”
“Because he was not the kind who could be turned around to our way of thinking.”
Bolan used the sprayer again to increase the fire surrounding the car, then sprayed Davis again before he slid inside the car.
“Just a reminder, Davis. You’re not fireproof.”
“Fuck you, Bolan.” The cop fired two shots; both missed. The Executioner moved behind the tree. He knew he had to get around behind the rig and spray a new line yet stay out of the light.
He walked deeper into the brush, then ran to one side and sprayed the fire line again. The gasoline burst into flames in the air and worked back toward the nozzle, but Bolan stopped the stream.
Two more shots came, one nicking the metal sprayer tank.
The fire line vanished for six feet across the back of the U.
Bolan ran toward it. He sensed the cop making a dash for it, too. There was not enough time for the Executioner to run there and reestablish the flames.
Instead he turned and drew a new line closer to the car, directly in front of the running cop. The thin line of fire and the lawman got to the same point simultaneously. After a second, Davis’s saturated clothing burst into flames.
Davis screamed.
Bolan stopped squirting and stared.
Davis became a six-foot torch. The flames shot up his pant legs and across his jacket in one whooshing vapor explosion. His hair sparked like fireworks in tiny balls of flames, then burst into fire as he screamed and tried to beat it out with his hands.
Somehow he had lived through the vapor explosion when the oxygen in the air around him had been sucked into the fire. Now he staggered and fell, trying to roll. His screams came one on top of another.
As he rolled, the fire snuffed out under him, but as soon as the air hit his clothing again the gasoline reignited and burned fiercely, as only a petroleum fire can.
Davis rolled again and again. His hand came out, seeking help.
For a moment in the firelight, Bolan saw the captain’s face clearly. His eyebrows were gone, his hair was blackened stubble, his ears were on fire. Now his eyes made one last frantic appeal. Then his hand fell, and his lungs filled with the inhaled gasoline vapor. Flames danced over his body. The vapor in his lungs exploded and Capt. Harley Davis’s chest erupted outward, blowing vital organs onto the pavement and snuffing out any life that had persisted through the twenty seconds of the immolation.
Bolan returned to the woods beyond the parking lot. Already the fire was going out. Scraps of clothing on the body only smoldered once the gasoline had burned away.
The Executioner dropped the sprayer and moved through the woods toward the second parking lot. Hearing sirens, he ran, started his Buick and drove out the far park entrance and continued slowly back toward town.
Davis had had a choice. He could have cooperated if he had wanted to. Essentially he’d killed himself. Bolan had only made it convenient for him to do so.
Somewhere along the drive, Bolan peeled from his hands the thin surgeon’s gloves he had worn during the confrontation and threw them out the window.
He still did not know when the takeover would be attempted, but realized it would be gradual. The public would not stand for a coup. The Mafia had its fangs so deeply into the department now that the takeover was almost complete. But Bolan figured they were planning a day or an event to wrap it up. He would find that out tomorrow.
He drove back to his small hotel and slept until dawn.
10
Mack Bolan crouched behind a tree next to the Nazarione estate. He had been up with the morning sun, checked with Nino Tattaglia and found out that the Mafia turncoat still did not know when the final thrust of the Mafia’s takeover of the police department would occur.
Bolan had to know today. So he planned a lightning raid on the godfather’s own fortress by daylight. He knew just enough about the layout to get by. If he was lucky, and no one tried to be a hero, he would succeed.
Then there was his ace in the hole. He watched a guard patrol the cement fence. The sentry made
the circuit every twelve minutes. Such punctuality could get him killed. Bolan waited until he had passed, then looked into the parking area behind the mansion, where four crew wagons sat.
Nothing big was scheduled for this morning, or the wagons would be in front ready for loading. A mechanic came out, tinkered with one of the engines for a minute, then slammed the hood and went into the big house.
The Executioner looked at the cars, hoping that at least one of those in which he had planted the radio-detonated bombs was in the group below. There was only one way to find out.
It was time. Bolan took out the small black box, opened it and thumbed a toggle switch to the On position. There was no one around the crew wagons. He put his finger on the red button and pushed.
Immediately the peaceful neighborhood was rocked by a pair of explosions from the parking area. One of the crew wagons lifted off the ground and came down with its rear wheels on top of another Cadillac. The second blast tore another crew wagon in half, throwing the engine and front section ten feet across the yard, leaving the rest of the body and rear wheels where they had been.
While the debris was still falling, men ran out of the house and garage. People were everywhere. The guards charged into the area, their handguns out and ready.
As Bolan hoped, the sentries had left their posts, and he scaled the wall and hid behind the shrubbery that would give him cover and a safe route all the way to the mansion.
He made the run without attracting attention. Then he heard someone shouting at the guards to return to their posts.
Bolan rose and examined the closest window. It was locked from the inside. Breaking it would make too much noise. As he stared, a woman appeared, looked back at him, grinned and raised the window.
“Looking for a way inside?” she asked.
It took Bolan that long to recognize Angela Albergetti, Jo Jo’s widow. Now she wore a blouse, and her blond hair was combed, brushed and set beautifully.
“Come on in before they find you. We wouldn’t want to get blood all over that nice sport shirt.”
Bolan went over the sill and into the room. He was on his feet at once, and she stood in front of him.
“That should be worth at least a thank-you. I know I’ve seen you somewhere before, but I can’t quite place you. Oh, I’m Angela.”
He nodded.
She laughed. “Well, are you going to say hello, or blow up the rest of the house? You made a good start on the motor pool out there.”
“Hello, Angela. The house is safe. That was what we call a strategic diversion.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I like you. And I’m not overly delighted with the management right now. They moved me out of my house because they thought I’d shout everything I knew about these guys to reporters. I just might have. They got my old man killed yesterday or the day before. Sometime.” She looked up and shrugged. “Whatever. What’s your line of work?”
“I help people to change their minds about things.”
“I’m ready.”
“Later. First I need to do some research upstairs.”
“In Don Carlo’s office?”
“Right. And I’ll have to come back through here when I’m done.”
She nodded.
Bolan smiled and moved silently, swiftly to the hall door. This was the south wing. He had to get to the main wing, third floor. He hesitated at the door.
“Want me to show you the way?”
“Yes, and be a cover for me.”
“Hey, this could be fun. I want to see Carlo’s surprise when you walk in.”
“He should be in the motor pool by then. Let’s go.”
They moved down the hall, upstairs to the third floor and to a connecting door that led into the main wing. No one was on duty outside the godfather’s sanctum.
Bolan knocked, waited, then opened the door and slid inside, leaving Angela in the hall.
The room looked as it had before. Now there was an unfinished handwritten letter on the desk, and behind it a big chart on a bulletin board.
Bolan stared at it, then studied the names on lines under it. Three assistant chiefs of police were listed, along with Chief Smith and Lieutenant Paulson. At the bottom of the chart were a number of dates, but one had been circled. Tomorrow! On a note beside it was a phrase. “At the Mayor’s State of the City Speech.”
Bolan checked some file drawers and the desk, but found nothing that would be helpful. He decided it was time to haul ass, as he used to say in the army.
He eased open the office door and peered out. A Mafia soldier with his back to the door was talking to Angela.
The Executioner swung open the door, surged out and brought the side of the Beretta down across the soldier’s skull. The man turned and collapsed, out cold. Bolan caught him and eased him to the floor.
“Let’s get out of here!” Bolan whispered.
They ran lightly down the hall, through the access door and into the other hallway. Then they walked past a maid, whose arms were full of rumpled sheets, and a minute later were safely in Angela’s room.
“They’ll find that goon quickly and you’ll be in trouble,” the Executioner said.
She smiled. “Then you’ll just have to take me with you or they’ll do all sorts of ugly things to me.”
Bolan scowled for a moment, then shrugged. “Do you have any pants? It’s easier going out windows and over walls in pants than in a skirt.”
“I’ll have to change.”
“I’ve seen ladies change clothes before.”
“Yes, I’ll just bet you have.” She took a suitcase from a stand and pawed through it, found a pair of tan pants and a tan blouse. She watched him closely as she removed her blouse. When he remained silent, she dropped her skirt, revealing skimpy blue panties. A moment later she shrugged and put on the blouse, then the pants and slipped into a pair of worn running shoes.
“If you want to wait until it gets dark, we could think of something to do to pass the time.”
“Sounds interesting, but I have a deadline. Raise the window and look around. Are they still looking at the cars?”
She raised the window. There was no screen.
“I see only a pair of guards.”
“Figures.”
Bolan stood well back in the room and looked outside. It was going to be harder to leave than it had been to arrive. He had no more diversions. The bombs planted in the house would have to wait for another time. Getting the woman out would make it tougher — unless he used her as a diversion.
Briefly he outlined an idea to her and she giggled.
“I love it! I haven’t had so much fun since I went skinny-dipping in the pool of the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
Watching at the window they timed the rounds of the guards. When the way was clear, they slid out through the opening. Bolan pulled the window shut and led Angela through the shrubs down to the tennis-court trail, where there was a gap in the brush.
They waited in the shrubs until a young guard approached, carrying an Uzi. The timing was critical. As the guard came near, Angela stepped out of the brush.
She jumped with feigned surprise and turned around. In the few seconds it took him to recover, Bolan rose out of the brush and brought the hardened edge of his palm down on the man’s neck. The man dropped and the Executioner dragged him into the shrubbery. Then he and Angela crossed to the far side of the walk, hidden again.
At the path near the fence, Angela sat on a patch of grass in the sunshine and opened her blouse for a little bit of all-over tan. The first guard to approach cleared his throat about twenty feet away. She pretended to be sleeping as she leaned against the wall. The guard walked quietly by, staring. He did not see Bolan rising behind him.
The Executioner swung the Uzi submachine gun he had confiscated from the other guard, smashing it against the side of the man’s neck. His neck cracked loudly. When the criminal soldier collapsed, he would never rise again.
Bolan boosted the woman
over the six-foot block wall, then went over himself. They slumped against the wall, then as a neighbor’s dog barked, they calmly walked to the street and Bolan’s rented Buick.
Three miles away, Bolan pulled to a curb.
“What now?” Angela asked.
“That’s up to you. You’ve escaped. Can I drive you somewhere?”
“No, I like it here with you.”
“I have some work to finish. Do you have any relatives where I can take you?”
“No, just back to Carlo’s castle.”
Bolan turned around, opened the suitcase on the rear seat and slid the Uzi inside. Before he could stop her, Angela grabbed a grenade. She held the arming handle down and pulled the ring, removing the safety pin.
She sat in the passenger side of the car, holding the grenade in her right hand, a strange, wild look on her pretty face.
“I finally remembered where I saw you before. It was at our house the night Jo Jo died. Hell, he wasn’t much, but he was mine! He fathered my children. What am I supposed to do now — live off the goodness of the godfather for the next sixty years?”
She did not wait for a reply.
“No way! I’ll work the streets first, selling my ass! Then here you come, the big killer, the man who made me a widow. At least I remember, and I know I have to do something about it. Guns are hard to use. You can miss when you try to kill someone. But a grenade! There’s no chance to miss. So what if I have to stay here with you to make sure? I just let the handle pop off and I hold it right in your gut and blow both of us all over the inside of this car!” Her eyes were wild and she was breathing fast. She reached down and rubbed her breast. “I’ll blow us both to hell! Better that way. Damn sight better that way. Carlo can raise my two kids.”
Bolan knew she was very near to doing what she threatened to do. He had seen angry women before. He moved toward her slowly, and rested his hand on her shoulder. He patted her gently as she rambled on.
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