The elevator whispered to a hall, its sliding portals opened on an empty corridor. Scarpato's office occupied a corner of the topmost floor and a burly gunner led the way, securing the hall and nodding to Scarpato that the way was clear. Another twenty strides and they were in the office proper, where the would-be capo finally let himself relax.
The others would be waiting for him in the conference room, and he was almost looking forward to their meeting now. They had commanded his attendance here, and he would let the nervous bastards have their money's worth. Before he finished, they were going to regret that they had called on him at all.
They were defectors from Giamba's camp, overcautious merchants of the underworld who had decided they would rather switch than fight. They rallied to Scarpato's standard when the war of nerves became a war of fire and steel. Together, they had fattened up his war chest, made him strong.
And he could not afford to lose them now.
No more than he could let them dictate policy and tell him when to come and go.
They were important to him, sure, but they were still subordinates. And it was time to freshen up some memories in that regard.
There were a dozen of them waiting for him in the conference room, and they were on their feet, all jabbering at once, the moment Scarpato entered. Smiling reassuringly, with confidence he didn't feel, the mafioso raised his hands for silence, stolidly refusing to respond until he reached his seat and all others had settled quietly in their padded chairs. When they were seated, Vince spent another moment staring at them, each in turn, enjoying how they squirmed and could not meet his eyes.
He felt the power coming back, and knew that he was in control. They might not know it yet, but they were finding out, and fast.
"So what's the big excitement all about?"
His question hung between them like a curtain, separating men from frightened boys. The local operators were already glancing at one another, clearly wondering if this had been a bright idea or something that could sour on them in a hurry.
A pimp and part-time dealer named Bellomo found his voice before the rest of them.
"You know we're getting hit here, Vince. It's murder on the streets." A little murmur of assent from several others, strong enough to urge Bellomo on. "We wanna know what you an' Stone are gonna do about it."
A chorus of questions from the others ran around the room and Scarpato waited, letting them run out of steam. The silence seemed to stretch forever, but he knew that it was only seconds ticking by.
"I know we've got a problem," he informed them coolly, rocking back and looking casual in his swivel chair. "The fact is, I was working on it when I got your call."
"So what's the answer then?" Bellomo challenged, glaring at him from the far end of the conference table.
"You're lookin' nervous, Sal," Scarpato chided, offering a smile devoid of warmth. "We knew that Artie wasn't gonna just roll over and play dead now, didn't we? You shifted sides because you saw which way the wind was blowing. Each and every one of you was banking on the winning team."
"Seems like the wind has changed directions, Vince. It's blowin' up a shitstorm where we live, and I ain't sure that Artie's at the bottom of it."
Scarpato felt the short hairs rising on his neck. He fought the anger down and managed to restrain himself from banging on the table with his fist.
"Okay," he said, when he could trust himself to speak. "So, if it isn't Artie, then who is it? Anybody got a name to hang on all this rotten news?"
Bellomo leaned across the table, and the sudden motion of his hand made Vince Scarpato flinch involuntarily. He immediately disguised the reaction by raising a hand to scratch one ear. A small, metallic object sparkled, spinning in the light from tinted picture windows, landing with a clink beside Scarpato's other outstretched hand.
He stared at it, uncomprehending, for a moment. Finally he recognized the marksman's medal, knew precisely what Bellomo and the rest were driving at.
"The bastard left that with the foreman at my powder factory this morning. Wasted half a dozen guys and burned the building down with maybe half a million dollars wortha shit inside. You recognize that medal, Vince?"
"I do," Scarpato answered. "And I know that you can pick 'em up for fifty cents apiece at any swap meet in the country. Whatsa matter, Sal, you seein' ghosts?"
A numbers banker named Aguirre swiveled toward Scarpato, peering at him over wire-rimmed glasses.
"It wasn't no damned ghost that wasted Ernie Marinello, Vince. A devil, maybe, but it wasn't no damned ghost."
"So maybe this finnochio is still alive, an' maybe he was in New York... how many weeks ago? That doesn't put him in St. Louis now. You're looking for a boogeyman."
"I'm lookin' for a way to stay alive," Aguirre countered, color flaming in his cheeks. "You know Giamba teamed up with this Bolan once before. It's like the two of 'em were friends or somethin', Vince."
"That's ancient history," Scarpato growled. "Unless you've got a damn sight more than just this hunk of tin..."
"I've got three bodies, Vince."
"An' I've got half a dozen more," Bellomo snapped. "How many does it take to get you off your can?"
Scarpato stiffened, felt the hot blood rising to his face. Bellomo saw that he had gone too far and slumped back in his chair, one pudgy hand extended in front of him as if to block a blow.
"Awright, so I was outta line. But listen, Vince... we're gettin' killed out there. You gotta help us out before we lose it all."
Scarpato's voice grated with anger when he answered, speaking to them all but pinning Sal Bellomo with his eyes.
"I told you I was working on it, and I am. Right now, I've got an operation in the works that ought to see us rid of Little Artie by this time tomorrow."
"Yeah?" Aguirre looked incredulous. "So how's that gonna work?"
"I wouldn't wanna bore you with the details," Scarpato replied, "but le's just say the long arm of the law is reaching out for Artie an' it's gonna knock him on his ass."
"The cops? Hey, what the hell..."
"It's in the bag," Scarpato told them, smiling now, but cautiously. "I've got a man with leverage inside. They should be moving on Giamba's joints tonight. I figure the indictment can't be more than days away."
Bellomo didn't sound convinced. "Okay," he snarled, "so le's suppose that Artie goes away. I'll buy that part awright. But what about the rest of it? It wasn't Artie burned my factory down and wasted all those boys."
Scarpato raised a soothing hand. "With Artie gone, it's over, Sal. Supposing that he has this friend you're all so hot about. So what? If Bolan's trying to protect Giamba, then it's over once we get him in the joint."
"And if it's not?"
Scarpato frowned. "And if it's not, we handle it ourselves."
"You ain't been handling it very well so far," Bellomo snapped.
"Goddammit, Sal..."
But Salvatore Bellomo was no longer listening. Together with the others, he was spinning toward the picture windows, where a sudden cracking sound attracted their attention and a fist-sized hole had magically appeared, exactly in the center of the tinted pane.
Bellomo, startled, had begun to stand, one hand outstretched and pointing at the strange phenomenon, when suddenly his florid face began to undergo a ghastly transformation. Nose and teeth and lips and all were caving in, and the force of the implosion threw Bellomo back across the conference table, wallowing in blood and brains and sliding up against Aguirre's chest before the numbers banker had a chance to pull away.
Scarpato knew exactly what was happening, and he was already seeking cover underneath the heavy table when he heard the distant echo of a rifle shot. Above and all around him, men were cursing, screaming as the picture window shivered, shattered, raining down upon the carpet, and the big-game rounds were sizzling in on target, seeking human flesh.
Aguirre took the second round beneath his chin and it decapitated him, the headless scarecrow body sitting upright in i
ts chair for just a moment, jets of crimson pumping from the ragged stump of a neck before it slid beneath the table with a kind of boneless grace. Scarpato had a worm's-eye view of its arrival, and he watched the dead heels drumming futilely for several heartbeats, seeking traction in a race with death that was already lost.
Another round, another... and the local honchos were disintegrating before his very eyes, their essence staining walls and drapes and carpeting and pooling up against the baseboards. Scarpato watched them die, and wondered how he came to be alive himself.
One of his gunners burst into the conference room, an automatic in his fist. Vince was shouting at him to get down when a giant fist impacted on the gunner's chin, obliterating face and all before it bounced him off the nearest wall. He slithered into a crouching posture, leaving traces of himself along the way, and Vincent felt his meager lunch returning on him in a sudden, acid rush.
The spasms gripped him, shook him as a hunting dog might shake a rat, and it was only when they passed that he became aware of sudden, ringing silence in the conference room.
A graveyard silence.
And it was over just as suddenly as it had started, the echo of the gunshots fading on an errant breeze outside. Scarpato knew that it was finished but he took no chances, crawling underneath the table across the conference room, ignoring all the wetness under there and thankful only that the blood he wallowed in was not his own.
Someone had tried to kill him here, downtown, in frigging daylight.
No.
The marksman who had wreaked this havoc all around him could have taken Vince Scarpato out as he had taken Sal Bellomo, with the first shot of his fusillade. Scarpato had been spared deliberately... but why?
Because it was a message.
A warning from his enemies.
They wanted him to know that he was vulnerable to them, anyplace and anytime they chose to strike.
Scarpato reached the entrance to the conference room and wriggled through the doorway on his belly, kicked the tall door shut behind him, closing off the chamber of the corpses from his view. Surviving gunners rushed to help him up, all sympathy and courage now that death had passed them by.
And Vince Scarpato read the message. He read it loud and clear.
That didn't mean that he was listening, however. And it didn't mean that he was giving in.
The would-be capo from New York had come too far to see his dreams go up in smoke when they were so damned close to being a reality. If it was war his enemies desired, then he would give them war. They would be sick of war and killing when he finished with them.
New York's ambassador was far from finished yet. And it was just beginning in St. Louis.
The end would be a long time coming, and it would be written on the streets. In blood.
17
Bolan found a pay phone near the offices of Federal Express and dialed the San Diego cutout number from his memory. It changed at weekly intervals, but he was always kept informed. The landline was a lifeline, connecting Bolan to his sole surviving family, a portion of his past that he had given up for dead, and only lately rediscovered, risen from the ashes with a new vitality that had surprised and gratified the Man from Blood.
Some fourteen hundred miles away, the telephone connection tripped an automatic-relay switch and rang another different phone in Johnny Bolan's Strongbase hideaway. If Johnny was at home, he would be on the line within another moment now.
The "kid" was Johnny Gray to all his friends, of course. The Bolan name had been discarded all those lives ago, when brother Mack was on the run and hunted by the law-enforcement agencies of every state and half a dozen foreign countries.
Sure.
The first time he had been a fugitive.
The younger Bolan was a liability, a weakness for the soldier in his everlasting war. He was a pressure point the enemy could utilize to snare the Executioner... if they could find him.
But when the name had vanished, so — apparently — did brother John.
Adoption was the answer in those days when Bolan's lady love, Val Querente, felt the primal urge to build herself a life complete with home and husband and a son whom they would cherish as their very own. The husband was Jack Gray, a working federal agent, and the news had come to Bolan in the aftermath of his original St. Louis skirmish with the Mafia.
He had, of course, agreed.
As far as Bolan could foresee, the family name was dead. His brother had a chance to lead a separate life, to walk a different path, without the stench of death and burning in his nostrils day and night. The kid deserved his chance to live in peace, and that had always been the essence of Mack Bolan's war: to give the innocent a chance.
But Johnny had grown, and he had made some choices of his own along the way. When duty stirred inside him, he enlisted as a bold United States Marine, and he had served his time amid the hellgrounds of Beirut. He had been tried and tested, bloodied on the battlefield, and when he came back to civilian life, the kid had been determined to secure a front-line posting in his brother's everlasting war against the cannibals.
At present, he was more rear echelon, a powerful support for Bolan's one-man mobile force, but John had seen his share of action, too, most recently in Hollywood. And Bolan knew that he could count on Johnny, damn right, for anything he needed, anytime and anywhere.
They were alike that way.
"Hello?"
The distant voice was casual, cautious and intensely hopeful all at once.
"Hello, yourself."
And he could almost feel the kid relax, the spring-steel nerves unwinding, slowly.
"I understand you've got some stormy weather there."
"It's getting mean, with a potential for ugly." Bolan answered. "Any word?"
"Strictly negative here. Able Team is committed through this time next week. There's no way they can reach you in time."
"And Wonderland?"
"I touched base with your friend. He sends apologies and says his hands are tied."
"I understand."
"I wish I did."
"It's duty, John. The man has his, I have mine."
The "friend" was Hal Brognola, liaison officer between the Oval Office and the Phoenix Project, which had formerly incorporated Bolan's style of one-man war against world terrorism. When the Executioner had cut his federal ties, Brognola had remained behind to work within the system, salvaging the remnants of a good idea that had been torn apart by treason from within. And he had made it work.
The fighting men of Able Team and Phoenix Force were carrying the fire against their enemies, and Bolan stayed in touch with them when it was possible, without endangering their covers or their lives. Officially he was beyond the pale, but they had formed enduring bonds that only death could finally sever.
They were soldiers of the same side, right, and none of them would lay their weapons down until the final battle had been won, or they had fallen at the front.
"There should be something he could do."
His brother's voice almost surprised Bolan, brought him back to here and now.
"Forget it," he advised. "I should be finished by the time his people could respond."
"Is it that close?"
"Could be."
"Well, listen, I could catch the next flight out, and..."
"Negative." The soldier's voice was stern, uncompromising now. "I need you where you are. You've got a parcel on the way, should be there by tomorrow."
"Another contribution to the war chest?"
"Vince Scarpato sends his compliments."
The gentle, so-familiar laughter lugged at Bolan's heart and briefly made him long for home. He pushed the moment back where it belonged, among the dusty, cobwebbed memories, and concentrated on the task at hand.
He was already home, of course. And home was where the hellgrounds were, damn right.
"I may be stopping by there in a while," he offered, knowing as he spoke that he might never have a chance to ke
ep his word, avoiding any promises he might be forced to break.
"Well, I'll be here."
There was reluctance in the young-old voice, tempered now with recognition of a duty unfulfilled.
"Any word from Baltimore?" Bolan inquired.
They had a contact there, a man inside the local Cosa Nostra family, and Bolan knew that Johnny had been tapping him for information on the coast's reaction to Scarpato's recent Missouri moves.
"New York is sitting on its hands. They've got enough to deal with on their own, and Vinnie isn't winning any popularity awards these days. He's got the Marinello odor, and the families are turning up their noses. Same out here, from what I gather off the street."
"You been getting any rumbles on an Ace called Stone?"
"I couldn't place the name," Johnny replied.
"On any Ace at all?" Bolan persisted.
"It's generally assumed that Ernie had them in his pocket... something like a personal gestapo. They're not too popular with La Commissione right now."
"What about Giamba?"
"Everybody's got this attitude of 'wait and see.' If Artie manages to take Scarpato out, there won't be any tears," Johnny informed his brother.
"And if he doesn't?"
"I suspect the families will try to coexist, unless Scarpato still looks hungry when he's done."
"From what I see, it wouldn't do to underestimate his appetite."
"I'll pass it on."
"Can't hurt. Say, listen, John..."
The silence stretched between, hollow, empty, finally broken by that distant voice.
"You there?"
"Forget it. I'll be seeing you."
"I hope so."
"Yeah."
The warrior cradled the receiver gently, spent another moment in the booth, eyes focused on a distant point beyond the fly-specked glass.
How do you tell your sole surviving brother that you may be seeing him, providing that you're still alive next time the sun comes up? And do you bother searching for the words when he already knows the dangers that you face from day to day?
How do you live with knowing that your brother — all that's left of flesh and blood and family — has chosen to pursue your hellfire trail to grim, inevitable death?
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