The warrior wasn't fighting to destroy, but rather to preserve a way of life, a system that was better, even in decay, than any of the grim alternatives. The goddamned guy had made himself a living sacrifice, surrendering his future in a bid to make the system run the way it was supposed to. And he was a single-handed wrecking crew, intent on trashing anyone who tried to soil the dream.
Tom Postum wished that he could help... and knew that he could only try to bring the soldier down. No matter what had passed between them in another place and time, the captain saw his duty now, and he would act on it when the opportunity arose.
It was a goddamned shame.
The smoky atmosphere inside was working on his eyes, his sinuses, and Postum stepped outside to clear his head. The short lieutenant stayed behind to huddle with the man from homicide, and Postum could imagine what the two of them would have to say about him when his back was turned.
No matter.
It was simply caution, a demand for certainty, which made him question Bolan's presence here. It would not be enough to know the guy was guilty, if they could not prove it in a court of law.
But Postum knew that it would never get that far. No way. They hadn't built the jail that could contain Mack Bolan, or protect him from the army of assassins who would stalk him inside the walls.
Mack Bolan was a dead man, and had been from the day he took up arms against the Mafia.
But at the same time he was more alive than any other man Postum knew.
The strike-force captain would have given almost anything for just a fraction of the Executioner's vitality, his strength of will and purpose as he fought alone, against the odds. Instead, it was Tom Postum's job to throttle that vitality, to make damned sure no spark remained behind to kindle other fires.
The sour taste was back in Postum's mouth, the burning in his eyes, and smoke had nothing in the world to do with it. Hell, no. The veteran cop was sickened by the thought of facing Bolan, killing him.
Because he knew the guy would not surrender... any more than he would violently resist arrest. If it came to that, he would complete the sacrifice that had begun so long ago and far away. It would be Postum's task to wield the sacrificial knife.
And it would be his curse to live with that through every: waking moment of his life.
15
Vince Scarpato had been trying desperately to hit Giamba and his allies where it hurt the most — directly in the wallet — and the Executioner derived a certain pleasure now from paying back the New York thug in kind.
Already he had cost Scarpato thousands on the warehouse and the powder factory alone. The damaged limousines were running up a separate tab, and never mind the cost of trying to replace the soldiers he had killed. For Vince Scarpato in St. Louis, there were simply no replacements to be had.
New York's estranged ambassador was hurting, sure, but not enough to satisfy the Executioner. He would not rest until Scarpato had been crushed, humiliated. Not until he had surrendered Bonnie Newman. The warrior would be satisfied after he had stripped Scarpato of his hostage, of his budding empire and his life.
But not just yet.
Bolan needed cash, for working capital and to support the secret strongbase manned by brother Johnny back in Southern California. It was poetic justice that his enemies should finance Bolan's war, and hence their own destruction, with the funds that they had stolen from so many innocents throughout the years.
His target was a combination betting room and booking "office" that Scarpato ran downtown, concealed behind a well-appointed bar and grill. The "bank" was going strong, by all accounts, and it was overdue for an encounter with the Executioner.
He circled twice around the block and satisfied himself that the pedestrians he spotted on the street were only that, and nothing more. A parking space downrange had opened between his first and second pass; he slid the rental into it and killed the engine, double-checking the Beretta's load, his extra magazines, before he locked it up and ambled back in the direction of the bar.
Inside the place was dark and cool — a drinker's bar, where food would be a mere distraction from the main event. It took a moment for his pupils to adapt, and then he struck off toward the rear in the direction of a door marked Private. Bolan scanned the clutch of half a dozen customers against the bar, ignored the barkeep with his quizzical expression, concentrating on a solitary hard-eyed type who manned a table near the private office door.
The sentry had him spotted, and the guy was pushing back his chair now, rising to his full, impressive six foot six. His jacket was unbuttoned, providing easy access to the shoulder holster underneath. As Bolan closed in, the watchdog took a sidestep, interposed himself between the new arrival and the office door.
"The crapper's over there," he growled, an index finger jabbing off to Bolan's right, to indicate an archway open on a lighted corridor behind the bar.
"No thanks. I'm looking for the banker," Bolan said.
"I guess you got your wires crossed, dude. You can't make no deposits in a bar."
The Executioner put Arctic edges on his tone. "I haven't got the time to dick around while you go through a stand-up comedy routine," he snarled. "I've got a message for the banker and it's urgent, straight from Mr. Stone."
It was a risk without his ace in hand to back it up, but Bolan saw a flicker behind the gunner's eyes. Stone's name had power here, perhaps enough to see the warrior through and out the other side alive.
"I'll have to check," the sentry told him grudgingly.
"You do that, guy." The soldier made a show of glancing at his watch. "And when the Feds show up to bust this dump, I'll tell 'em that you're busy jerking off."
He had the goon's attention now.
"What Feds? Nobody told me anything about no raid."
Bolan feigned surprise, commingled with disgust. "Well, shit. We're damn near out of time already. Are you gonna let me in there now, or do you wanna tell Scarpato that you let a raiding party take his main back office by surprise?"
The gunner spent another heartbeat chewing on it, then he stepped aside and used his pass key to admit the Executioner. Still unconvinced, he stuck with Bolan, tailing him inside the combination betting room and counting house.
One wall consisted of a giant tote board bearing names of horses and athletic teams, together with the odds applied to any given race or game. A bank of telephones was ranged against the opposite wall, with half a dozen men assigned to field the nonstop calls from bookies and assorted private bettors in the field. A cage of welded steel and chicken wire had been positioned in the center of the room, and Bolan's full attention focused on its occupants, the stacks of currency arrayed on the folding tables before them.
And he had found Scarpato's counting room, damn right.
There must have been a cool half million on the tables, and it was early yet. Toward evening, as the action heated up, there would be twice as much — perhaps three times — all ripe and ready for the picking.
But he didn't have all day to wait around. It had to be here and now, or not at all, and Bolan thought that half a million dollars ought to be enough for now.
Enough to put a dent in Vince Scarpato's war chest, anyway.
Enough to make his point, and let the warlord from New York find out how costly Bolan's brand of private war could be.
He moved in the direction of the cage, his tail in place, and he was halfway there before an agitated banker intercepted him. The guy's eyes behind the horn-rims were suspicious, darting back and forth between the sentry and his unidentified companion.
"Can I help you... sir?"
Uncertain of himself, the banker wasn't taking any chances. He could afford the phony courtesy for now, and ditch it in a hurry if the unexpected visitor turned out to be a grifter or a hungry cop.
"I'd say you better help yourself," the Executioner replied. "You haven't got much time."
Another glance in the direction of the sentry, and Bolan felt the hulking gu
nner shrug beside him, stepping back a pace to let the new arrival stand alone.
"I don't believe I understand," the banker said.
"You got a call," the warrior told him. "Feds are on the way. Stone sends me down to see if you're ail squared away, and here I find your operation running like there's no tomorrow. Now / don't understand what's taking you so goddamned long. You got a death wish here, or what?"
The banker gaped at him in silence for a moment, searching for his voice. Then, the guy recovered his composure and dredged a whisper up from somewhere in his bowels.
"I got no call," he told the warrior stiffly, tugging at his vest with trembling hands. "I don't know anything about a raid."
"Well, you can read about it in the evening papers if you don't get moving. Look for pictures of yourself and Cleo here in jail."
The gunner stiffened almost imperceptibly, but he was not about to move on Bolan now.
"If I could just confirm this with my supervisor..."
"Sure. Take all the time you need. I'd say you've got at least five minutes left before they hit."
The banker checked his watch and blanched. "You said that you were sent by Mr. Stone?"
"That's right. I'm s'posed to bring him back the morning's take or let him know the reason why." He flashed a chilling smile. "What was your name, again?"
The banker swallowed hard. "Laurentis. John."
"You named your beneficiary, Laurentis John?"
"I don't..."
"You'd better think about it, guy. You cost the man that much, he's gonna hang you out to dry."
"I never got a call!"
"So, maybe there'll be someone hanging out there with you, huh? They'll keep you company."
The banker broke. "There may be time," he said. "We'll have to hurry. Follow me."
Inside the cage he started barking orders to the startled clerks, and Bolan watched as they began to load the larger bills in matching bags which had materialized from somewhere underneath a cluttered desk.
While they were stuffing both the bags with currency, a nervous clerk was circulating through the room and spreading the alarm, together with instructions for dismantling the office in a rush.
As Bolan watched, the telephones were disconnected, dropped inside a steamer trunk and loaded on a mover's dolly for evacuation from the scene. A garden hose was played across the tote board, wiping out the names and numbers that had been recorded on the giant slate in colored chalk. A crate of betting slips was dumped into a fiftygallon metal drum and set afire, the smoke dispersed by ceiling fans.
And by the time they had completed loading up the bags, there would be nothing left to prove that this had ever been a Mafia bank at all. It might have passed for storage space, the central cage reserved for stocks of liquor which the bar's proprietor could not afford to lose by theft.
The soldier had to give them credit for their efficiency. It looked as if they might have run the drill a hundred times. A pair of clerks were designated runners to dispose of all the coins and singles that he couldn't carry, bagging them and heading for the exit doors in back before he finished double-checking the valises with their load of cash.
Bolan realized he could not afford to hang around the counting house a moment longer. If they tumbled to his game while he was still inside, if Stone or Vince Scarpato called before he left...
The soldier didn't want to think about the grim alternatives. He hefted the valises with their precious load and struck off for the alley exit with the banker on his heels. A pair of gunners flanked them for security.
"You'll pass on my apologies for the confusion?"
There was worry in the banker's tone, and Bolan knew the guy was sweating.
"No need to mention it," he said. "You met your deadline pretty well, all things considered. I'm impressed."
The banker did a cautious double take and then began to smile. A touch of color was returning to his cheeks, and there was just a hint more animation in his stride as they approached the exit and the alleyway outside.
A gunner had arrived before them, scanning the deserted alley with a submachine gun in his hands, alert for any sign of federal raiders closing in upon them from the rear. He stepped aside to let Bolan pass, and the Executioner hesitated on the threshold, turning to the banker once again.
"You'd better clear your people out as soon as possible," he said. "No point in taking chances with a shakedown bust."
"Of course, sir. Right away."
"Good man."
It took an effort to suppress the smile as Bolan turned away from there and made his way along the narrow alley, toward his rental car. He half expected someone in the bank to shout a warning, and he was braced for flight, aware that there was no place to hide inside the dirty tunnel of the alleyway.
If they should suddenly discover their mistake, he was a sitting target for the sentry with his stutter gun, the others who were still inside and itching for a chance to see what they could do.
The banker's phones were disconnected, but there were others in the bar out front, and runners who could take a message from Scarpato's headshed if he called.
The soldier cautiously increased his pace, resisting the desire to break and run for daylight. But he had to play it out, refrain from tipping off the opposition by his own behavior while he was within their view.
A lifetime later, Bolan reached the sidewalk, turned hard right and left, the sentry's prying eyes behind him in the shadows. He was free to breathe, and free to race the last dozen strides until he reached the rental car, unlocked it, stowed the two valises safely in the trunk. He was behind the wheel and pulling into traffic when he finally knew that he was clear, the neighborhood saloon a dwindling image in his rearview mirror.
And he had sent another message to Scarpato, although it might be some time before the word reached home. He could imagine the Manhattan thug's reaction, and the soldier wished he could have witnessed it in person, sure.
But that would have to wait.
He still had other stops to make before he faced Scarpato once again. More cages left to rattle in St. Louis, different pressure points to lean on, sending home the word that he was still around and still determined to recover Bonnie Newman safe and sound.
He knew it was a gamble, but it was still the only open game in town. Scarpato might decide to call his bluff, or simply crack beneath the pressure, panic, hit the girl and make a run for parts unknown. The Executioner was ready for a range of grim alternatives, with his responses predetermined by the circumstances of the case.
If Vince Scarpato killed the girl, there would be hell to pay and Bolan would be calling in the tab. Scorched earth for all concerned, damn right, and there would be enough of the responsibility remaining for himself when it was done.
But the Executioner still had a war to fight, perhaps to win, and every ounce of concentration would be needed if he hoped to come out on the other side of it alive.
Scarpato and his sidekick, Stone, were waiting for him at the moment, and he could not well afford to disappoint them now. He had a rendezvous with death, and only time would tell if it was theirs... or his.
16
Scarpato watched as storefronts flickered past outside the tinted windows of his armored limousine. Despite the bullet-proofing and the gunners wedged in on either side of him, the would-be capo hunched in his seat, determined to present as small a target as was possible if someone should decide to open up on them. As crazy as it seemed, he knew that it was not beyond the realm of possibility. Not here. Not now.
The meet had not been his idea. He had resisted it, insisting that the others come to his estate, but they were adamant, refusing to be shaken from their downtown roosts and relative security. Because they held the power to destroy him if they should defect en masse, he had agreed to their condition of a meeting place on neutral ground.
And he regretted it already.
He didn't like the way his handful of associates had coerced him into me
eting on their turf, their terms. Scarpato would remember it, oh yes, and when he had finally disposed of all his enemies, there would be time enough to deal with those fainthearted "friends."
Another thing he didn't like was leaving Stone at home, in charge. He did not suspect the Ace of anything specific... yet... but Stone had demonstrated that he could not make the grounds secure against invaders, and Vincent hated to think what might be going on while he was soothing ruffled nerves among the downtown dissidents.
If Stone allowed another breach in their security, Scarpato vowed that he would kill the Ace himself, and never mind repercussions from the rest. Without their leader the rest were merely button men with an exaggerated reputation, right. They would be smart enough to fall in line once they had taken time to weigh the odds.
Perhaps.
But what if Stone was actually behind the problems that Scarpato had encountered in St. Louis? What if the Aces as a group were moving toward founding a territory on their own?
Nah. Vince was in control, goddammit. He had been dispatched by Ernie Marinello to incorporate St. Louis with the New York family, and now that fate had placed him on his own, he meant to claim it for himself.
But first he had to make his flanks secure, and if that meant exposure to the hostile guns well, he had faced the heat before and doubtless would again.
The limo slowed, the driver changing lanes, and they were sliding in against the curb, outside a high-rise tower of steel and glass that housed Scarpato's largest front, a paper real-estate concern that served him as a holding company for varied interests in St. Louis.
His wheelman left the engine running as the gunner on Scarpato's right went EVA, remaining close beside the open door and scanning both sides of the street, the windows overhead, before he signaled for his capo to proceed.
"It's clear."
Scarpato hit the sidewalk, made a beeline for the glass revolving doors and did not slow his pace until he was inside the air-conditioned lobby, surrounded by his small phalanx of gunners. They reached the elevators and huddled there, waiting until the doors hissed open on an empty car.
Missouri Deathwatch Page 11
