How do you keep from breaking down and screaming with the pain of it, so sharp that it cuts through your heart like tempered steel?
Bolan threw the folding door back with a force that made it rattle in its frame. He reached the rental car in three determined strides and slid behind the wheel, relaxing slightly as the engine growled to life.
The kid was not a baby anymore, hell no, and he had made a man's decision on his own. He had deliberately weighed the costs, examined all the odds, and in the end, he had responded to a primal call that he could not resist.
It might be something in the blood, Bolan thought. Or even in the genes. But even as he formed the thought, he knew that he was wrong.
It would be something in the heart, and in the soul that motivated Johnny, sure. A passion to eradicate injustice, rooted in the ashes of a family destroyed by savages. The younger Bolan had responded to a call that he could not ignore, and he was giving it his all, without regrets.
Already the friendly ghosts had brushed him with their trailing shrouds in Hollywood and San Diego. But Johnny Bolan would not turn away.
No more than his embattled brother could desert the field of combat in St. Louis, though he recognized the odds against him, knew that he was fighting now on borrowed time.
A young girl's life was riding on the line. A family, already strained, would be torn apart if Bolan failed to bring her back alive.
Another ghost, perhaps already ranked among the others in his mental closet, waiting to reveal itself when Bolan least expected it. He might already be too late. But if he was...
Scarpato had already tasted hell, the merest hint of fire and brimstone to acquaint him with the consequence of failure to return the girl alive. If he was unconvinced, if he was blind enough or mad enough to call the warrior's bluff...
Bolan knew that he could kill Scarpato... could have killed him twice that day, in fact. But he had spared the man so far, had given him a second chance — this one specific opportunity — to partially redeem himself. And if the mafioso failed, then killing Vince Scarpato would not be enough.
It would be necessary to destroy the mobster and his works, eradicate all traces of him from the earth. He would be purged with fire and steel, together with his Aces and his button men, the infantry and laborers who kept him on his fragile throne.
A firestorm was already building in the skies above St. Louis, tinting scattered clouds the crimson orange of sunset as another day burned down westward, darkening the heavens with a velvet pall. Tonight, the river city would survive its trial by fire, or it would be consumed in cleansing flames.
The Man from Blood had already lit the fuse, and now he wondered if he could control the fire, direct it toward his enemies without allowing it to run amok. He knew the fearsome power of the flames and realized that they could turn upon him in an instant, greedily devour him, if he should lose control.
So be it, then.
He would retrieve the girl, restore her to her family... or die in the attempt.
And if he spent his life this night, the Executioner would not be going out alone.
There was a chance that he could still outwit Scarpato, slip through his defenses and secure the hostage first, before he launched an all-out frontal rush against the mobster's battlements. It was a risky proposition, granted, but it was the only game in town.
It would require that he touch base with Art Giamba one more time, call in his markers with the thug and hope that he could trust the information that the ancient mobster gave him.
If Artie had the answers Bolan needed, right.
If he had not already lost the contacts it would take to find a needle in the urban haystack of St. Louis and environs.
If Giamba cared enough about his life to answer Bolan honestly, to violate the grim omerta code.
If not...
Bolan did not want to think about the alternatives. Without a lead, he would be flying blind, a human missile wired to detonate on impact with self-destructive force.
Without Giamba, he could only hope to win by pure, dumb luck. Without a handle, he could never hope to find his way inside the maze.
He killed the rental's engine, started back in the direction of the corner phone booth. There was one more call to make before he brought the curtain down, and Bolan was already running out of time.
18
The phone rang twice before a gravel voice responded at the other end.
"Hullo?"
"Put Artie on the line."
Resentment in the voice across the line, and anger smoldering, about to spark. A gunner, for sure. "He'll wanna know who's calling."
"Tell him it's the guy who saved his ass last night. Unless he wants to lose it now, he'll take my call."
A sudden distance, tempered with uncertainty, the anger slipping into second place, outstripped by caution now.
"Hang on."
The line went hollow for a moment, and then Giamba's voice filled Bolan's ear.
"I been expectin' you," the little mobster said. "You've had a busy day."
"It isn't over yet. I need your help."
"Okay."
The hesitation had been marginal, a heartbeat at the most, but it had registered, and Bolan felt the mafioso running through his options silently, prepared to cut and run if the soldier went too far.
"Scarpato's hurting, but he isn't finished yet. He's got a hostage who can hurt you, and I'm trying to get her back."
Giamba was confused. "What hostage? Who the hell... Did you say her?"
"Stow the questions, Artie. Let's just say that Vince is going to have the heat behind him all the way unless I get the lady back. Tonight."
"Well, shit now, lemme think. There is one place..."
"I'm listening."
"A kinda safe house, you know? He's used it once or twice before to cool off his hit crews. I always meant to storm the place, but hell..."
"The address," Bolan pressed him.
"Huh? Oh, sure. Hang on."
A muffled conversation now, as Artie huddled with another member of his family, out of earshot. When he came back on the line, there was a tension verging on excitement in the little mobster's voice. He rattled off an address in a residential district, waiting while the Executioner repeated it for confirmation.
"I got a coupla boys run by the place from time to time, you know, jus* keepin' an eye on things. They tell me that Scarpato's got a woman out there now. A looker. Young. That ring a bell?"
"Could be. How solid is their information?"
"Hey, they lie to me, they're history. They say Scarpato's got a broad in there, it's good enough for me. I couldn't say for sure that she's the one you want. You'd haveta check that out yourself, I guess."
The bait was out there, dangling on the hook, and Bolan circled warily around it, searching for a hint of double-cross beneath the angler's nervous tone.
"You feeling lucky, Artie?"
"Huh?"
"You're taking quite a gamble."
"I don't follow you."
"This tip. If it turns out to be a suck..."
"I wouldn't try to shine you on, guy, I swear."
"If I took time to check it out and found out someone had been stringing me along..."
"No way. It's straight, an' you can count on that."
"If Vinnie's boys were waiting for me, say..."
"How could they be?"
"I hold a grudge," the soldier told him needlessly. "You might say it's a speciality of mine."
"I hear you, man."
"I hope so."
"Listen, why'n hell would I be tryin' to set you up? You saved my ass, for cryin' out loud. Little Artie never shits his friends."
"We're not friends, Artie."
There was ice in Bolan's tone, and it was audible, the whisper of an arctic wind.
"Okay, whatever. Anyway, I owe you one. No, make that two."
"Remember that," the Executioner advised him. "And remember that Scarpato has you by the sh
ort hairs, Artie. Right now, I'm the only one in town who has a chance to break his grip."
"I know that, guy."
"Don't forget it, Artie. If Scarpato's boys get lucky, your ass is on the line."
No answer from the little mafioso now.
"And if you try to set me up, I'll see you later, when I'm done with Vinnie."
Silence on the other end.
"I hope you're listening, Artie."
"Yeah, I hear you."
"Good. I'll be in touch."
He cradled the receiver, turning back in the direction of the rental car. Giamba understood him well enough, all right, but there was still no guarantee he would play it straight. If Artie saw a chance to play Scarpato and the Executioner against each other he would not miss the chance. Mack Bolan knew his adversary well enough to understand that truth and live with it... if he got the chance.
He still had value in Giamba, and the hostage news had shaken Little Artie to the bone, despite its vagueness. Bolan had a lever now, in dealing with the mafioso, and he realized that Artie's own self-interest would prove to be a stronger motive than his gratitude for Bolan's rescue of the night before. A cunning predator like every member of this brotherhood, Giamba would dispense with gratitude immediately if he saw a chance to seize the upper hand. With Vince Scarpato still at large, the aging capo of St. Louis needed Bolan as a buffer. When Vince Scarpato was removed it would be time to deal with Little Artie, right.
But Bolan had more pressing problems on his mind right now. Like Bonnie Newman, and the possibility that he might find her locked away inside Scarpato's safe house in the suburbs.
Given half a chance, he might be able to release her from her captors. If not, he could avenge her, right, and let Scarpato have a sampling of hell before he sent him on to face the main event.
He could do that, in any case, damn right.
And later, he would make the time to deal with Little Artie and his team.
Providing that he lived that long.
Mack Bolan cranked the rental's engine into life and put the car in motion.
Toward the suburbs.
Toward a lady in distress.
Toward Vince Scarpato's safe house, and a rendezvous with death.
* * *
Giamba listened to the hollow dial tone for a moment, finally cradled the receiver, rocking back into the cushions of his armchair, feeling dizzy. His heart was thudding in his chest, and Artie wiped his sweaty palm along the fabric of his trouser leg.
The Executioner had seemed to reach inside his mind and haul out every secret thought Giamba had been nurturing among the shadows there. The guy had known what he was thinking, dammit.
And Artie had been thinking just how easy it might be to put a hit team on Vince Scarpato's safe house, ready to annihilate the soldier when he showed his face. It was a passing thought and nothing more.
Because Giamba still had need of Bolan's martial skills. The guy was like a jug of nitroglycerin, for sure. If you were careless, your ass was history. But if you took your time and knew what you were doing, then you could move a frigging mountain.
Or a would-be capo from New York.
Giamba knew there was a reason for the Executioner's appearance in St. Louis now. The guy had helped him once before and here he was again, prepared to deal with Artie's enemies and asking nothing in return.
It didn't figure, but Giamba never made a point of questioning good fortune. There was bad news enough to go around, and he had learned to seize an opportunity and wring it dry before he let it slip away.
Another time, he might have cursed Bolan's presence in St. Louis, but a kind of providence had sent the guy now, when he was needed most. If Artie could use the Executioner and string the goddamned guy along until Scarpato was a memory, there might be time to reevaluate the situation, sure. But at the moment Bolan was his ace, and Art Giamba was prepared to play his winning hand.
He wished the soldier luck with Vinnie's safe house, even though he did not understand Bolan's mention of some hostage and the heat Scarpato had behind him. If Artie's adversary had devised a way to activate the law, to use it as a weapon in their running war, then it was all the more imperative that he be done away with now, before he got the chance to put the wheels in motion.
But Artie wasn't counting on the Executioner to do it all, hell no. The mafioso still had more than one trick up his sleeve, and Vince Scarpato hadn't seen them all, not by a long shot. There were some rude surprises still in store for the New York ambassador, and Artie was looking forward to the moment when he could unveil them personally.
Let Bolan break the ground, and then Giamba would be free to plant the seeds of what he hoped would be a new and stronger empire for himself and Bob Pattricia. The kid would be beside him all the way — he owed Jules that, God rest his soul — and when the sand ran out for Artie in due time, then Bobby would inherit all that they had built together in St. Louis.
Lately, Giamba had begun to think about taking back what had been his before the other families began to feed upon his borders. That Augie Marinello was the worst, and Artie hadn't shed a single tear upon receiving news that Augie's boy was dead in the ground.
To hell with him. To hell with all of them if they believed St. Louis was a happy hunting ground for any macho bastard with a gun and half a dozen soldiers at his back. The time had come to teach them all that Little Artie wasn't quite as little as he seemed.
He still had legs, and he was capable of standing up against the worst that they could throw his way. Scarpato had been lucky, taking Jules that way, but now the shoe was on the other frigging foot, and soon the boys out west, back east, wherever, would be speaking of Giamba with a new respect. They would be wondering exactly how they could have been so stupid all these years, taking him for granted like some kind of half-assed whipping boy.
The wind was shifting in St. Louis, and for once it would be blowing Artie's way. The change was overdue, and he was looking forward to the next few hours, with an anticipation that he had not felt in years.
It would be good to kick some ass again, to gain the old respect that was his due. If everybody played his cards right, he might not insist on too much tribute from the families that had wronged him through the years. But then again...
He thought about Mack Bolan, and what the Executioner had told him on the phone. I( might go wrong at Scarpato's safe house, but any problems there would not be Art Giamba's fault. There would be no way that the man in black could blame him if the roof fell in... if he was still around to put the blame on anyone at all.
Giamba had some business of his own to handle, and never mind this crap about a woman hostage and the heat. While Bolan spent his time pursuing skirts and tying down a number of Scarpato's guns, Giamba would be taking full advantage of the situation, using the diversion as a smoke screen while he put his troops in striking range.
Scarpato wouldn't even know what hit him in the end... until Giamba looked him in the eyes and told him just exactly who had pulled his rotten house down. And he would tell Scarpato that, before he pulled the trigger.
It was only fair.
The bastard was a member of the brotherhood, and he deserved the courtesy of formal execution, after all. It was his right.
And it would be Giamba's pleasure.
19
Scarpato's "safe house" was a two-story ranch style on a corner lot, with windows facing both directions on the intersecting streets. The drapes were drawn now, preventing prying eyes from glimpsing what went on inside. A six-foot-high cinder-block wall surrounded a backyard complete with swimming pool and overhanging trees, and an LTD was parked inside the carport.
A simple recon told Bolan ail that he could learn about the building from a distance. To verify the presence of his quarry and her captors he would have to get inside, something that could only be accomplished from the back of the property.
If there were soldiers waiting indoors, he would not survive a trek across the
broad front lawn, exposed to massive picture windows and an unobstructed field of fire. He would be cut down long before he reached the door, and Bonnie Newman's hopes would perish with him.
So it would have to be the rear, and that posed problems of its own. To the west, dusk was purpling the sky, an angry bruise that spread by slow degrees to leach the power of the sun and paint the heavens in a range of dark hues. Already lights were showing in the other houses up and down the quiet street, alerting Bolan that the neighbors were at home and might be watching for any stranger's suspicious moves.
There was no time for deep reconnaissance, the kind that might attract attention from the neighbors to a strange car trolling on the street. He had to find a drop, and quickly. He could not afford a second pass.
The narrow residential street curved on beyond the safe house, and Bolan wheeled along reluctantly, his target dwindling in the rental's mirror. Then he spied the unattended house another sixty yards downrange.
The porch was littered with the uncollected daily papers of a week or more, and days-old mail protruded from the mailbox set beside the door. The carport was abandoned, had been for quite some time, according to the fallen laves that lay there undisturbed. Bolan kept his fingers crossed and pulled his rental in beside the residence.
He sat there for a moment, heard the engine ticking as it cooled, and scrutinized the houses ranged along the street, across from his position. No one stirred in any of the lighted windows, no one opened any door to challenge him or jot his license number down. The soldier breathed a silent prayer of thanks for urban apathy and set about preparing for his penetration of Scarpato's safe house.
He was counting on the dusk, coupled with audacity and grim determination to succeed to pull it off. Provided that the girl was here at all. Provided that the soldiers were not waiting for him now, already sighting down the barrels of their weapons in anticipation of a shadow movement in the yard. If they had been forewarned...
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