He fought because he could, because he had to, sure. It was his duty to correct the wrongs he saw around him, to expunge the evil that imperiled decent men and women in their daily lives. He could no more desert his post than he could give up breathing voluntarily.
The Executioner was in for the duration, yeah.
Identify.
Isolate.
Annihilate.
It was search and destroy, just like Nam. Just like Pittsfield.
Just like always.
But he would need some intel on the local scene, and Little Artie had had sparse information. It could be that the aging mafioso knew no more than he had said, or that for reasons of his own, he had been holding something back.
No matter.
Either way he had provided Bolan with a glimpse inside the maze, and there were other ways to map its many corridors.
The soldier had some other sources of battlefield intelligence, all ready at his fingertips in time of need.
One source of information was as close to Bolan as the nearest telephone. He only had to drop a dime and tap into the reservoir of knowledge that was waiting for him at the other end.
The other source would cost him more, in terms of risk and danger, but it might pay off with all the answers necessary to complete phase one of his campaign.
If he was cautious and did not overplay his hand.
If nothing unforeseen arose to take him on his blind side.
If he could make it through the first lap intact. Alive.
The phone call first, before he risked it all on one roll of the dice. He needed something more to go on before he put his head into the hungry lion's mouth.
And Bolan could already feel the hot breath on his neck. It raised the small hairs, made them tingle with apprehension, warning of peril close at hand.
It felt like danger.
And it smelled like death.
6
The filling station had seen better days. Its pumps were cobweb covered, and the shelves inside the building were stripped of anything that might invite a thief. A faded cardboard sign, hung crookedly on the inside of the plateglass door, proclaimed it Closed Til Farther Notis.
Someone had forgotten to remove the pay phone tucked at the rear, and Bolan parked his rental back there, alert to any sign of danger as he stepped inside the dusty booth.
He dropped some coins into the slot and punched up a long-distance number from memory. Allowing for the difference in times, his contact should have been awake, or even sitting down to breakfast now. The soldier waited patiently through half a dozen rings until the deep, familiar voice came on the line.
"Hello?"
"Long distance for La Mancha."
"Uh... he isn't in right now. You got a number there so he can call you back?"
He read the pay phone's number slowly, waited while it was repeated to him and broke the connection.
In Baltimore his contact would be grumbling about the early-morning hour, but preparing all the same to go out and return the call, as arranged in their established code. It would require some time for him to reach a safe phone, far enough from home to guarantee the line was secure, but Bolan could afford to wait.
His contact was a mobster named Nino Tattaglia, a "made man" in the Mafia with years of street experience behind him. In his early thirties, Nino was an up-and-coming lieutenant in the family of Don Carlos Nazarione, the East Coast's grand old man.
It had begun for Nino with a murder bust that would have meant the end of his career, his life outside of prison walls. Hip deep in the assassination plot, he took a look around and realized he had only one choice, really. So he "turned," becoming an informant in exchange for guaranteed immunity from prosecution. Anytime that someone on Hal Brognola's staff could spot a lie in his covert reports, they merely had to dust the old indictment off and pick up with the game where they had left it — one step short of trial and sentencing. There was no statute of limitations on murder, and Tattaglia was theirs, damn right, as long as they had need of him.
He had replaced a dedicated infiltrator, Leo Turrin, who was a "first" for Justice in his day, their only man within the inner councils of the Mob. When Turrin had revealed himself, providing epic testimony in a string of trials, then quietly submerging into Bolan's Phoenix Team, to fight the terrorist wars beside his oldest, closest friend, it had been vital for Brognola to secure a functioning replacement in the ranks as soon as possible.
And then came Nino.
But he was more, in Bolan's mind, than just a "stoolie," bought and paid for with a bargain made in judge's chambers. At first Bolan had been skeptical of opening his business up to someone he had never seen or heard of before — and someone who was raised inside the hostile camp, at that. But time had proved Tattaglia to Bolan's satisfaction.
Like the fact that Nino still provided him with solid information despite the fact that Bolan had become a renegade, completely severed from the workings of the Stony Man and Justice teams.
And like the fact that Nino clearly was uneasy now with some of the arrangements other mafiosi had been making on their own, the power plays and politics of murder tucked away behind the scenes. He had begun to show compassion and there was nothing in his secret contract with the government that forced the guy to care.
It had to come from inside, and Bolan was impressed.
Impressed enough to put his life in Nino's hands each time he dropped a dime and made a call to Baltimore. The little mobster could have turned him in at any time these past few months, collecting rich rewards from both of his employers — government and Mafia — but he had kept their secret locked away inside himself, and he was still available, when Bolan needed battlefield intelligence about the inner workings of the Mob.
A quarter hour passed before the pay phone rang, and Bolan did not let it have a second chance.
"La Mancha."
"Hey, I guess that makes me Sancho, huh?"
The mafioso's voice was shrunk by long distance, but his sense of humor came through loud and clear.
"So how's the action on the river?" Nino asked, attempting to sound casual.
"It's heating up. I need to get a solid handle on what's happening."
"Uh-huh."
A hesitation on the other end, as Nino pulled his thoughts together, running through the memory banks for useful information on St. Louis. Bolan waited patiently through almost a minute of dead air before the husky voice filled his ear again.
"You know Giamba?"
"Well enough. He owes me one. I've got a shaky line inside his house."
"That's good... except the top brass at La Commissione aren't talking to him much these days."
"Is he cut off?"
"It's not official, but they've got a lot of other problems cooking now, you know? Long Island left a lot of families without a man on top, and they've been scrambling like mad to fill the vacancies. I hear that California's trying to secede."
Long Island was the site of a recent Bolan blitz against the Mafia, and he had wiped no fewer than a dozen dons, along with Augie Marinello's bastard son and heir. That kind of vacuum at the top created chaos in the Mafia until each family found a strong man to assert control and bring the drifting troops back into line.
"I wish them luck," the soldier told his friend. "All bad."
"You just might get your wish. So anyway, the families who lost somebody at Long Island are tied up right now, and some of them are starting to look sideways at the bosses who weren't there."
"Like Artie?"
"Bingo."
"Last I heard, he wasn't even asked."
"So true. But you're still thinking logically, all right? I'm talking paranoid."
"Okay. Goon."
"So maybe no one thinks Giamba set it up. He hasn't had that kind of weight behind him now for years. But still, they don't quite trust the guy, ya know? He wasn't big with La Commissione before the shit came down on Marinello's head, and now..."
"What have you got on Vince Scarpato?" Bolan asked.
"A Marinello soldier. Anyway, he was. Word is, Ernesto sent him west to do a little midnight annexation for the family, you follow? Only you took out Ernesto, and now Vince is like a guy without a country."
"How does he stand with other families?"
"They haven't started blaming him for anything, so far," Tattaglia replied. "Right now, the heat's divided up between yourself and Don Ernesto's memory. As far as Vincent goes, they're playing Wait and See."
"What happens if he manages to put down roots.
"Well, that depends. He's got the Marinello taint right now, but if he found himself a territory far enough away and let things cool awhile... who knows? It may be months before they have a voting quorum at the headshed, anyway. A lot of things can happen in that time."
"So there's a chance that he could be confirmed." Bolan felt the pieces beginning to fall in place.
"Why not? If he can make some friends, convince them that he's not a threat to anybody, sure. They wouldn't miss Giamba — you can bet on that. Most of them never met him, anyway. They're not real big on strolls down memory lane these days."
"Nobody wants Scarpato then?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Does he know that?"
Another heartbeat's hesitation, as Tattaglia read the meaning behind Bolan's words. "I'd say he's guessing now, like everybody else," the inside man replied. "He should be pretty nervous, what with his communication and supply lines cut the way they are."
And Bolan knew he had his handle.
He only had to get a grip and turn it, open the latch.
Tattaglia seemed to read his thoughts. "You plan on going inside this one, guy?"
"I thought about it."
"Watch Scarpato, eh? He's razor sharp, they tell me. And he's not alone."
"I'm counting on it," Bolan told his friend.
"Just so you know. And don't put too much faith in Artie, either. He's a fossil. Bob Pattricia's the engine in that Model T."
"I'll make a note."
Bolan thanked his contact and hung up swiftly retracing his steps to the rental car.
The soldier was looking forward to his meeting with the razor-sharp Scarpato. If the guy was operating on his own, as Nino had said, then logic told the Executioner that Scarpato would be running short of money, weapons, men.
And time.
The clock was running down on Marinello's expeditionary force. Each passing day would bring them closer to resolving the chaos that was gripping La Commissione, and that much closer to the possibility of intervention by another hungry family, which could field more troops, more guns. The longer Vince Scarpato stalled, the smaller chances for a victory became, and any soldier worth his salt would have to recognize that fact.
It was the kind of pressure that leads to paranoia, to mistakes. The kind of situation where the Executioner could work, providing he was smooth and fast enough to pull it all together in a strangler's knot around Scarpato's neck. If he could make his way inside...
And it was risky, but that had always been the name of Bolan's lethal game. He knew the odds against him going in, and he had played those odds before.
"He's not alone."
Tattaglia's words came back to Bolan now, reminding him that he was up against a hostile army once again, one that had already lost perhaps a dozen soldiers in its first engagement with the Executioner.
Scarpato would be wondering, by now, what had gone wrong with his attack upon Giamba's palace.
The mobster from Manhattan would not have the troops to waste, and every man he lost was one more strike against him. He could not do the job alone, and if he failed, there would be no place left to go, nowhere to hide.
Scarpato would be wondering how Little Artie had repelled his strike force. He would be questioning his own security, looking for a leak, a traitor in the ranks.
It was time for Bolan to take full advantage of Scarpato's paranoia. He might not have a better chance than this again.
A chance to foil Scarpato's plans for empire in St. Louis.
A chance to guarantee, at least for now, that there would be no drastic changes in the river city Mafia.
A chance, perhaps, to die, if he made a single slip along the way.
The odds were long, but the stakes were too damned high for him to let the opportunity slip past. He had to seize the time and make his living moments count while they remained.
The Executioner had never shied away from risk, from danger, and he was not starting now. The action lay with Vince Scarpato, in the hostile camp, and the doomsday warrior was going where the action was, carrying the fire.
He would be living large until he died, and if the moment came today, then he would give it up and pass the torch to the other hands.
Mack Bolan would keep fighting in the only way he knew, against the cannibals and savages who preyed upon the decent people of the world.
And he was going where the action was.
Inside.
7
The gate man was in uniform, as if he might have been on duty at a country club instead of on a middle-ranking hit man's payroll. All spit and polish topped with cool efficiency, he did not raise an eyebrow as the sleek red Vette nosed into Vince Scarpato's driveway.
The gate man had not seen his face before, and so he took his time about approaching the Corvette, consulting his clipboard as he eyed the license tag suspiciously, making a show of his mundane routine.
The sportster's driver was a hardman, by his looks. Expensive threads could not conceal his muscular, athletic build, and there was confidence, determination in the face. And the gate man was certain that the mirthless smile the stranger wore did not reach the eyes, invisible behind mirrored sunglasses.
"Can I help you, sir?"
The guard's tone was distant, cautious, as he gave the man behind the wheel a second look.
"I'll bet you can," the driver answered, frozen smile in place. "I need to see Scarpato. Like, right now."
Another riffle through the clipboard's sheaf of papers. Nothing matched the date and time.
"Are you expected, sir?"
"I hope not."
And the gate man was still puzzling over that one when the driver of the Vette produced a laminated card, extending it in one big, manicured hand.
It was an ace of spades.
The sentry swallowed hard, thought better of examining the clipboard once again. He held the death card gingerly between two fingers, studying its mute design, and finally passed it back as if afraid it might transmit some lethal germ through contact with his flesh.
"I ought to call the house," he said.
The driver's smile was slipping. Going... going... gone.
"So call."
The cordial tone had left his voice. It blew across the gate man's nerves now like a graveyard breeze and set his teeth on edge.
"Well... no, I guess that won't be necessary," he decided, stepping back a pace from the Corvette. "Just let me get the gates."
Bolan watched the gatekeeper's back as he retreated toward the little sentry hut and stepped inside, one nervous index finger jabbing at a button that controlled the gates. Another moment and the broad gates started rattling and creaking open, riding on their hidden tracks.
He drove through without a second glance in the direction of the guard. The guy might well have second thoughts, announce him to the house in spite of his original decision but it didn't matter either way. Not now.
He was inside, and there was nothing left to do but play the cards that he had drawn, whichever way they fell. By passing through those gates he had consigned his fate into the hands of Chance.
Role camouflage had been a Bolan speciality since Vietnam, when he had learned firsthand that human beings do not always see what may be placed before their eyes. The mind was part of visual perception, too, with all its preconceived ideas and expectations. It could color and distort what people "saw" until the p
hysical reality was lost, illusion in control.
By putting on an attitude, a set of clothes, Bolan could become a member of the hostile camp, and they accepted him as if he were another cannibal invited to the feast.
The anonymity surrounding the Black Aces, the Mafia's one-time gestapo, assisted Bolan in his penetrations of the Mob. The Aces changed their names, their appearances to suit the occasion. Within the Mob, this elite corps spoke for La Commissione directly, and their word would often pass unquestioned, even by the ranking dons.
It was too good a situation to resist, and he had used it more than once. But each time he put on the Omega mask, each time he showed the death card, Bolan risked exposure as a fraud. And there could only be one penalty to fit the crime.
A death as slow and agonizing as his enemies, collectively, were able to devise.
The risks were even greater now, he knew, with the Ace's ranks dwindling, in general disfavor with a number of the bosses coast to coast. A real Black Ace might very well be treated to the same reception as Bolan if the Ace turned up in the middle of a family intent on staking out a future of its own.
The sword could cut both ways, damn right... but at the moment it was all he had. And he would take the risks, without allowing premonitions of disaster to distract him from the task at hand.
He powered the Corvette along one hundred fifty yards of curving driveway, finally arriving at the mansion that Scarpato had selected as his base of operations in St. Louis. Once the home of an eccentric oil tycoon, the place had gone to seed, but it was still maintained with more attention to detail than Art Giamba's aging west-side palace.
Bolan marked the floodlights mounted at the corners of the second floor. Closed-circuit television cameras focused on him as he parked the Vette out front, not far from carbon-copy Cadillacs.
And he had seen their mates last night, at Little Artie's. He had been driving one of them when he dispatched the hit team's backup gunners. If Vince had brought a fleet of them along with him from New York, his stock was being whittled down.
Missouri Deathwatch Page 4
