The fusillade ended as abruptly as it had begun. Turrin raised his head and stared into the frightened eyes of the white-haired Sergio. Plasky and Seymour were grunting with emotion. The four other men were strewn about the large room in crumpled heaps.
“He knows you now, Father Sergio,” Turrin declared shakily.
The old lips curled back over dully gleaming teeth and a balled fist pounded impotently upon the floor. “Get him!” Sergio hissed. “Get this Bolan! You understand? Get this Bolan!”
7 — The Goof
It was time to be moving on to another billet. The Executioner could not afford to spend too much time in any one spot. He had changed into night-fighter garb of dull black. The .32 calibre pistol had been replaced by a .45 calibre U.S. Army automatic, strapped to his waist. He wore black sneakers and a black beret. He looked at himself in a mirror and laughed. The tight-fitting costume gave him a comic-strip appearance. If he should bump into anyone on the street, they’d probably think him dressed for a masquerade ball. The Marlin and the case of Mafia money were already stowed in the car, along with other personal effects. He went through the small apartment one last time to be sure that there was no evidence of his habitation there, then picked up the bag and departed. It was twenty minutes past two o’clock in the morning. He drove directly to Leo Turrin’s home, arriving there at a few minutes before three. It was a fashionable district of curving streets and upper middle-class homes. Bolan left his car on a street behind the Turrin place, vaulted a fence, and cut across another piece of property to reach the Turrin rear approach. A dog began barking several yards down. Bolan climbed atop Turrin’s garage and lay on the dark side of the sloping roof, studying the house for interior layout. A dim light burned behind a frosted window downstairs, obviously a bathroom. Another faint glow was issuing from a room upstairs. Bolan remembered that there were three Turrin children, and tried to sketch in bedroom details in his mind. The upstairs glow, he decided, was coming from a nursery or at least a child’s bedroom. Again he tried to project the interior arrangement of the home into his mind, but the outside architecture was too unusual to provide any reliable clues to the inner structure. The windows appeared to be of the type which crank open, and all in Bolan’s vision were closed tightly.
Somebody had come out and quieted the barking dog. Bolan thought about that for a moment, then looked around for something to make some noise with. He pried loose a Spanish tile from the peak of the garage roof and hurled it to the patio below. It struck a metal table with a loud clank then slithered across the flagstones with great effect. Bolan’s eyes were straining in the effort to cover all windows at once. He was rewarded. A drapery moved, in a window of a corner upstairs. Somebody was peering out of the window, but this was more a feeling than a certainty. He pried off another tile and repeated the performance. The drapery swung with sudden motion and a light came on in the same room. Bolan caught a glimpse of Leo Turrin hastily turning away from the window and, before the drape could swing closed, a momentary exposé of a dark-haired woman upon a bed, her hand still upon a lamp at bedside. Bolan grinned, imagining Turrin’s consternation when his wife roused and switched on that lamp. He lay still, waited, and watched—and again was rewarded. Turrin, in pajamas, was out in the yard, inching along in the shadows of the house. Apparently he had come out the front door and was making a flanking movement around the side of the house. Bolan smiled appreciatively, and watched. Turrin was at the back corner now, standing very still. Undoubtedly he was armed. They played the waiting game for several minutes, then something sailed across the patio and bounced against the side of the garage. Bolan smiled. Same game, same rules, he thought. Then he lost sight of the prey. He lay still and waited, eyes probing the darkness, thankful for his advantage of height. He was aware, also, of another advantage. A woman and three children, flesh and blood of the adversary, were within that house—a pressure point for the interloper. Bolan wondered vaguely why Turrin had not evacuated the civilians, but there was no time to push on for a decision on the question. Turrin had reappeared at the far corner, apparently reversing his field with a probe to the other flank.
Bolan was once again beginning to respect the Sicilian. At least he was out there, in the open, taking the battle to the enemy, not in there hiding with the women and children. He moved into the open then and said, “Bolan?” in a soft voice. Bolan shook his head and silently clucked his tongue. Turrin was walking toward the garage, very slowly, stopping every couple of steps and pausing momentarily, apparently to listen. There was a gun in his hand, Bolan could see it plainly now. A flashlight was in the other. Bolan considered that for a moment, and watched Turrin pass by the garage and move on to the other side of the yard. Silently Bolan slithered down the sloping roof, dropped lightly to the ground, and boldly stepped off toward the shadows of the house. He heard Turrin’s soft “Bolan?” once again, coming from the far back corner of the property, then he moved quietly around the side of the house and up the steps to the front door. Just as he suspected, the door was standing slightly ajar. He grinned. There were obviously no pockets in Turrin’s pajamas—and if he was carrying a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, it had been a lead-pipe cinch he wasn’t carrying a house-key between his toes—he wouldn’t have locked himself out. Bolan slipped inside the house and stood in the darkened entrance foyer, wondering how much longer Turrin would wander around out there in the yard. He really had not desired to kill Leo from a distance, with a sniper’s bullet. There had been a certain friendship between them—the least Bolan could do was to look him in the eye as he killed him. Irrational, perhaps, he realized that, but then war itself was irrational. The wait was not a long one. Turrin came in only a minute or so behind Bolan, breathing softly. He closed the door and locked it and stood there for a moment, his back to the unsuspected visitor. Bolan wondered about the thoughts occupying the mind of the prey as he stood there silently in the dark at that locked door—what was he thinking?—what were the last thoughts of a doomed man?
Bolan reached forward and placed the muzzle of the .45 at the base of Turrin’s head. “I knew it,” Turrin sighed, exhaling quickly. “I knew you were there the moment I turned that lock.” There was a brief silence, then: “You don’t want to shoot me, Bolan—not until we’ve talked it over.”
“It will be a lousy mess for your wife to clean up,” Bolan said quietly. The darkness was stygian, but Bolan could feel the mask of death twisting the other man’s face. Bolan had seen it before, other places; he had worn it himself, many times, and knew how it felt, the grotesque twisting of all the little muscles awaiting the final clap of doom, the paralyzed diaphragm, the aching ribcage. He did not want to prolong that misery. His free hand reached forward.
“Let go the gun, Leo,” he commanded. The long-barreled pistol reluctantly changed hands. Bolan tossed it behind him and it clattered to the floor.
“I can’t blame you for the way you feel,” Turrin said, his voice tight with emotion.
“You can’t?”
“No. Your sister was a sweet kid, Bolan.”
“You just said the wrong thing, mister,” Bolan said savagely, jabbing the automatic harshly into the unyielding skull. “Now unlock that door and open it, slowly—slowly!”
“Where we going?” Turrin asked, half-choking on the words.
“A tender mercy for the wife and kids,” Bolan said harshly.
At that instant an overhead light flashed into brilliance. Bolan reacted automatically, flinging himself sideways against the wall, the .45 swinging up and around, seeking a new threat. Turrin’s wife stood several feet inside the living room, her face a terrified mask, one hand raised and stretched toward Bolan. He checked the heavy swing of the .45 just in time, his shot gouging into a chair and sending it skittering across the room. Bolan’s eyes were smarting under the sudden candlepower and his ears rang from the boom of the heavy-calibre gun, magnified by the closeness of the foyer; perhaps this is why he did not see the tiny pi
stol in Angelina Turrin’s outstretched hand. The little popping sounds it was making seemed to bear no relevance to the sudden stinging sensations at his shoulder and temple, but he knew instinctively that he had been shot. Turrin had flung himself away and down and was rolling madly across the floor. Bolan squeezed off two shots at the retreating figure as he lurched out the door, routed by a petite woman with a dainty weapon—not only routed but wounded in the process. He could feel the blood running down the side of his neck as he pounded around the corner of the house, and wondered vaguely how seriously he was hit. He got the .45 holstered on the run and cleared the fence without effort, and decided that he could not be hurt too badly although the shoulder was beginning to burn fiercely. He dashed across the other yard and was nearly into the street when he heard the sounds of converging sirens. He hesitated only for a moment, electing to leave his car sit where it was rather than to try outwitting the cops in an automobile at such an hour of the morning. Any car in motion would be a certain target for the cops. He ran on across the street and through another yard, then diagonally across an open field. Distance was what he needed right now—as much distance as he could get on foot and bleeding from two gunshot wounds. Well, he thought, you deserve it, you dumb bastard. He’d tried to fraternize with the enemy. It wouldn’t work. Damnit, there was no such thing as morality in warfare. You drop them when you can and where you can. It is kill or be killed. He’d learned the lesson well in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Why had he chosen to forget it here, in the jungles of the Mafia? He cursed himself for an idiot and hurried on to a distant hulk of buildings, pressing his beret against the head wound to stanch the flow of blood. The entire world seemed alive with screaming sirens. The cops had been waiting for him, of course. They’d staked out his known targets and just sat back and waited for him to strike. Another mistake for The Executioner. He would have to reassess his battle plan. He wasn’t going against the wily Cong now. He was going against the wily Americans, and he wasn’t going to be allowed many mistakes like this one. And, judging from the roaring in his ears, perhaps he would not be allowed even this one. He was shot, and he was bleeding to death, and he knew it. He needed more than distance now. It was a mistake that he got shot, it shouldn’t have turned out that way, but it did, and wars are lost on mistakes. He needed more than distance. He knew that. He needed a place to lay his head, a place to rest his wounds, a place to stuff back in the precious lifeblood. The Executioner needed a sanctuary. Or else the wrong person was going to end up being executed. It was as certain as death. The Executioner had goofed.
8 — Sanctuary
A bleary-eyed Lieutenant Weatherbee stepped from the squad car and walked over to the police cruiser that was swung into the intersection just above the Turrin residence. He nodded tiredly at the uniformed cop who stood at the open door of the cruiser and said, “How soon after the gunshots did you get this street sealed?”
“Must have been less than a half-minute,” the officer replied. “I was on station two blocks down. Soon’s I heard the shooting I came right on up, and I’ve been here ever since. Only thing I’ve seen is our own people.”
Weatherbee grunted, stared down the street for several seconds, then returned to his car. The plainclothesman behind the wheel gave him a sympathetic look. “Slipped through, didn’t he,” the man said quietly.
Weatherbee sighed. “I’m sure he did. Turrin says he was dressed like a commando, all in black. Said he moves as soft as a cat, and just about as fast. That Turrin is a mighty lucky boy, and doesn’t he know it.”
“You have to admire that Bolan guy,” the officer commented.
“Maybe you have to.” Weatherbee grunted. “I don’t.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Al. I just meant—well, you know, he didn’t even return the Turrin woman’s fire. I mean, he could have taken her easy, we both know that. Instead, he elected to break off and run.”
“Maybe he panicked,” Weatherbee mused. “She thinks she hit him. Just because we couldn’t find any blood … A wounded man isn’t going to run too far, Bob. I’m going to get about twenty more men on foot in this area. I’ve got to stop that guy before …” He picked up the radio microphone and smoothly passed instructions over the special net, then he told his driver, “Okay; let’s get over to the eastern perimeter and work back this way.”
The man nodded, wheeled the squad car about and speeded eastward on the city arterial. “We shoot to kill, right?” the man said under his breath.
“You damn well better,” Weatherbee replied glumly.
They turned onto a north-south residential street and immediately went into a slow cruise. Weatherbee released a short-barrelled shotgun from the rack and inspected it for readiness. The driver unholstered his revolver and placed it on the seat beside his leg. “Well, it’s a lousy way to make a living,” he muttered, sighing heavily.
“Hell, you’re talking to an expert on the subject,” Weatherbee said. “Look …” He stiffened suddenly. “Somebody just opened a door down there in those duplexes. Cut your lights!”
Bolan’s legs were getting rubbery and each breath he took was becoming sheer misery. He had reached a more modest neighborhood and was painfully making his way across an open expanse of well-kept lawn bordering an apartment complex when he saw a window light up on a ground floor in the curving row of buildings. He dropped to one knee and examined the gauze pad he’d thrust in between his blouse and the shoulder wound. It was not bleeding quite so badly now, he decided—or maybe he was just running out of blood. He made a wry face and felt gingerly with fingertips the scratch at his temple. He’d lost a bit of skin on that one, and that was all, and the blood had started to clot pretty well, but it still hurt like hell and he had a headache that wouldn’t quit.
He threw himself prone suddenly and rolled into a clump of hedges; automobile headlights had swept around the curve in the street downrange from Bolan’s position and almost at the same instant a door had opened in a building slightly uprange. The headlamps winked out immediately and Bolan knew a sinking sensation as he noted that the car was still moving forward slowly in his direction. An outside light flashed on, up at the open door, and a woman stepped outside. She was wearing a housecoat and something was tied about her head. She was calling out something in a soft voice; to Bolan’s exhausted consciousness it sounded as though she were whispering, “Titty, titty.”
The automobile glided past within spitting distance of Bolan and stopped opposite the woman. She recoiled back toward her door and a man’s voice, from the driver’s window of the car, sang out briskly: “Police, lady. What’s the trouble?”
Bolan could hear the woman catch her breath then giggle nervously. She walked halfway across the lawn toward the curb, remaining well within the glow from the porch light, then halted as the door on the opposite side of the car opened and a huge bulk of a man stepped out and addressed her over the top of the automobile. “I’m Lieutenant Weatherbee,” he said genially. “We are looking for a man. Would you mind telling us what you are doing out here at this time of night?”
“Well, I’m not looking for a man,” she replied, laughing breathlessly. “My cat woke me up yowling, and I thought I’d better bring her in. There’s a big mean tomcat around here that just—”
“Yes, ma’am—well, there is a dangerous man in the area. We’d just better check it out.” Weatherbee had moved around the rear of the car and was standing on the sidewalk, a shotgun cradled casually in one arm. The other officer got out of the car and was looking about nervously, peering into the darkened areas to either side of the building. The trio was near enough that Bolan could hear the woman’s flustered breathing.
Weatherbee had requested permission to look inside the house, and the woman had consented. “Stay here with the young lady, Bob,” the lieutenant said, and went cautiously down the walk and into the building.
The other officer had leaned inside the squad car and was now directing a spotlight along the sides of the buildin
gs. Weatherbee reappeared, then went out of sight again in the shadows. Something brushed against Bolan’s cheek; he checked his reaction in the flashing recognition of purring cat fur, and quietly curled his good arm about the animal and stroked it lovingly. The cat settled there in the crook of Bolan’s arm, curled into a contented ball.
Weatherbee showed up again, walking into the brilliant spot of the police car light, stepped quickly out of it, and approached the couple at the curb in a tired amble. “Did you find my cat?” the woman asked.
“No, ma’am, nor mine.” Weatherbee replied. “You’d better let the cat go for now. Go on back inside and lock your door. We will wait here until you’re safely buttoned up. And thank you for your trouble.”
The woman said something Bolan did not catch, laughed lightly, and ran to the door, turned and waved at the policemen, then went inside and closed the door. The porch light went out. A moment later the headlights of the police car flashed on and it moved on down the street.
Bolan clung to the cat and ran to the building in a low crouch, then harshly ruffled and pulled the cat’s fur, holding it against the screen door. The cat screeched and clawed at the screen, fighting to loose itself from Bolan’s grasp. Almost immediately the door cracked open. Bolan flung the screen door aside and stepped in, thrusting the cat into the arms of the stunned woman.
“I brought you your cat,” he said, grinning. He closed the door and leaned against it. “Please don’t raise a fuss. I’ll leave if you insist.”
She was looking at him as though it were all too unbelievable, and as though she expected him to vaporize or disappear into the thin air he had sprung from. Her eyes took in his weird costume, the gun at his waist, the blood-soaked shoulder. “You’re hurt,” she mumbled.
War Against the Mafia Page 10
