Lyons did so, and a moment later declared, “I—I’m okay.”
Bolan fed a fresh clip into his .45 and pressed the gun into Lyons’ hand. “She’s ready to roar,” he warned him. “I’m going up front now. We could get into a firefight yet. If you hear someone whistling Yankee Doodle, that’s the one you don’t shoot at.”
Lyons chuckled weakly and said, “You’re always thinking.”
“Until I die,” Bolan assured him, and hurried forward to send the vehicle on its way.
Yeah, Bolan was thinking. He was thinking that all the rotten carcasses on that mountain were not worth one of the gutsy cop’s fingers. He’d had his sights on San Francisco, and had stopped off at funnytown only to get in on the skim action and appropriate a few bucks for his flattened warchest.
But now he was getting the impression that a lot more was transpiring behind the glitter of Vegas than a bit of lighthanded juggling of casino profits.
As soon as he could get Carl Lyons into competent hands, the Executioner intended to take a look behind that tinsel curtain.
Yeah, the dice were rolling—and from on high, it seemed.
Bolan was not a warrior to disregard directions from offstage.
And, in his combat-conditioned mind, the tussle for tinsel-town was already underway. The Executioner was closing on Vegas.
3: BOLAN’S BLOOD
For ten minutes the warwagon ran without lights, nosing quietly along a network of dirt roads and precarious trails, often coasting without power in the descents, halting frequently for a quivering recon of the surrounding terrain.
Not until they had completely quit the heights and rejoined the state road was Bolan satisfied that there was no pursuit. Puzzling over this conclusion, he set a direct course for Vegas and announced to his passenger: “Looks like we’re clear.”
A feeble acknowledgement of the situation came from the rear of the van.
“You okay?” Bolan asked.
“Guess I’ll live. And … Bolan …”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Bolan smiled and said, “Sure.”
There was no need for thanks. Bolan knew that. And Lyons knew it. Bolan would have hauled the weakened man out of that mess even if he’d been a total stranger—even if he’d been a Mafioso. There was no easy intellectual explanation for this facet of the Executioner’s character. As a man given to deep introspection, he often puzzled over this seeming inconsistency of his survival instincts. And he understood only that sometimes—even sometimes in the heat of a firefight—an inner command would cause him to spare a particular life rather than take it. Bolan had long ago learned to trust his instincts, and normally he followed those inner urgings, as he had done back there on that mountain road, even though, at that moment, he had been entertaining the possibility that the prisoner was simply another Mafioso being “disciplined” by his own family. Even though, at that moment, Bolan’s longshot for survival was pinned to a very precise game of numbers.
So once again he had followed inner direction, and again it had proved out right. But … would it always be so? Could this “inner command” be nothing more than an inherent and growing weakness, a flaw in the combat character which would eventually destroy him? Could it represent a deeply stirring rebellion against the hell and “thunderation” which had so characterized his life these past few years? A shrinking from his own fate? … A whimpering reach for sweetness, mercy and absolution?
Bolan grunted and flung away the idea. Introspection, a review of one’s deeper motivations, was a good thing up to a point. But too much questioning of one’s self could send a finely tuned mind into disarray, also—and what greater flaw could there be than that? Hell, he had known what he was getting into when he declared this lousy war … he was no greenhorn in this business of impossible warfare, and he’d known that he was renouncing all the good and simple things that made life worthwhile.
He had not, of course, expected to survive this long. He had overestimated the enemy and underestimated his own life expectancy. His last mile, he’d called it—and what a long, grim and bloody trail that last mile had become. What a lonely one. Yeah, that was the worst part—the enforced aloneness, the total isolation from the things that made life good.
He had learned to live with blood and thunder, with constant jeopardy and the ever-present specter of sudden and violent death. If he should live that long, would he ever become accustomed to the role of total outcast? Of course not. And, he realized, he had no right to even expect it. This was part of the price he’d accepted, and this was the “life” that he would push to the absolute outer limit, to the last staggering step of that final bloody mile.
The life? Wasn’t every strike against the enemy a lifetime of its own? Sure. Sure it was. The Executioner had certainly lived more lives than one. And, as part of the tab, he had died many deaths. His first death had been back there in Pittsfield; he’d died first with Mama and Pop and Cindy. He had died again with Chopper and Flower Child, Whispering Death Zitka and Bloodbrother Loudelk and Boom-Boom and Gunsmoke and Deadeye Washington—that fantastic Los Angeles death squad—and he’d lived to die again with Doc Brantzen at Palm Village, with the little soldada in Miami and the cute kid who’d become a Mafia turkey in New York. Deaths, yes, very real deaths for some very real and dear people, and deaths of the soul, also, for Mack Bolan. And how many deaths could the soul survive?
And how about those others—the symbolic deaths—those very real lives which Bolan dared not approach again for fear of carrying his plague to them? Johnny Bolan and Val and all the one-life friends he’d picked up and hastily dropped off along that bloody mile of survival—one-lifers who must forever remain in the shadows of Bolan’s multi-life form of existence.
Even Lyons … even a tough cop like Carl Lyons … Lyons had a multi-life existence of his own to worry about.
Bolan sighed and lit a cigarette.
“You want a smoke, Sergeant?” he called back.
“I quit,” came the weak response. “Haven’t you heard that it’s hazardous to your health?”
Bolan chuckled. His “guest” was sounding more like his old self. It would take more than a bit of pummeling around to put down a cop like Carl Lyons. He took a deep drag from the cigarette and sent the smoke toward the rear of the van. “Lots of things are hazardous to health,” he commented.
Sure, lots of things. War, for example. And trying to cram too many lifetimes into a final, bloody mile of dying.
The enemy blood did not bother Bolan. He lived for their blood, and for nothing else. Hell, he was dying for it. Intellectualism aside, there was but one way to beat the Mafia, and that was to play their game—their way. Up to a point, of course. The game changed only in those rare moments such as Bolan had experienced back on that mountainside when, during an orgy of bloodletting, he had abandoned his battle plan to drag a dying human back into the ranks of the living.
Uh-huh, and there was the intellectual explanation. It was the name of the game. Beat them with their own methods … but don’t join them. In Bolan’s mind, this was the sole differential between himself and his enemies. He was still a human being. How long, he wondered, could he remain so—and continue to play the game? How many more deaths could his rotting soul survive? There would, of course, be one final death … the one written in his own blood. But … would the man himself die in the interim? Would his soul depart, somewhere in there, from the onslaught of repeated interim deaths, leaving behind a deranged and half-human jungle beast to prey indiscriminately in an unrestrained exercise of the Mafia game?
Bolan chewed the idea and knew that this was one price he was not willing to pay for his war. Why replace one evil with another? Better to have it end now, tonight, and let his blood and his soul flow out together.
As though sensing his rescuer’s thoughts, Carl Lyons spoke up from the darkness of the van and told him, “You’ve grown a lot since our first meeting, Bolan. But even with the fac
e job I knew it was you at first glimpse. Or should I say at first blast. How the hell do you keep it going?”
“It becomes a way of life,” Bolan muttered. Sure. Just commit yourself to unending warfare, then kill quicker and run faster than the other guy. He smiled and asked the cop, “What do you mean, I’ve grown?”
Lyons was gingerly sliding into the seat beside Bolan. “I mean you’re not the same wild-ass warrior I faced in L.A. More class, or something.”
Bolan sighed and replied, “Well, we keep learning, don’t we? You feeling that good, to be sitting up here?”
The policeman winced and shifted about, seeking a more comfortable position. “Not really,” he said. “But there’s some things I guess I have to tell you before you drop me off.”
Bolan nodded his head. “Fair exchange,” he said.
“You remember the Washington wheel in the Pointer Operation?”
“Harold Brognola,” Bolan replied unemotionally.
“Yeah. He told me he talked to you at Miami. Listen. Washington has an interest in this operation I’m on now. Brognola again. We discussed you briefly during our last contact. He said you made too many waves in New York. And Chicago was the final straw. A congressman from Illinois is really laying the pressure on the Justice Department. A couple of others, too, with plenty of clout. They’re saying the FBI is dragging its heels on this deal, that they could’ve brought you in months ago if they’d really been trying.”
Mildly, Bolan said, “You’re not telling me anything new, and it’s costing you too much. Go on back and lie down.”
“No, listen,” Lyons went on raggedly. “The mob is in high gear, too. They’ve got a Bolan watch on, nationwide—hell, worldwide I guess. Just waiting for you to pop up somewhere. Well, you’ve popped. This town will be crawling with headhunters before dawn, bet on it.”
“I’d already bet on it,” Bolan told him.
“Double the bets then. The Taliferos are personally leading the head parties.”
“We’ve met before,” Bolan pointed out.
“You’re not the only guy who’s learning, you know,” the cop replied. “Those guys have been sieving through every step of ground you’ve covered, and licking their own wounds all the way. By now they probably know you better than you know yourself. And they want your blood, Bolan.”
“They’ll have to take their place in line,” Bolan replied, scowling.
“Not these guys,” the cop insisted. “Even a Capo walks lightly around the Talifero brothers.”
Bolan’s scowl became a faint smile and he said, “Okay, I’ll walk lightly too. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
“No. Brognola says you can forget his offer.”
“I forgot it a long time ago.”
“The point is, Bolan, he can’t even offer you a prayer now. The heat is on and all pots are boiling. Brognola says it’s go for broke now, get Bolan. Forget personal feelings and past debts, just get Bolan.”
“Is that what you’re doing in Vegas?” the Executioner calmly inquired.
“Well no. I’m on something entirely different. But … Brognola said.…”
Bolan crushed out his cigarette and said, “Yeah?”
Lyons coughed and clutched at his belly, then said, “The feds are springing with the Taliferos.”
“What’s that mean?”
“They figure the mob’s Bolan watch is better than theirs, and they’re keying on the Talifero brothers, constant surveillance, phone taps, the whole bit. So when the world rolls over on you, Bolan, your nation’s government will be right there stomping the mutilated carcass.”
The man in black shrugged his shoulders and absently reached for another cigarette. “I’ve not been expecting exactly the medal of honor,” he said quietly.
“Well … you watch it. When the national enforcers hit the scene, the feds will be right behind them—or amongst them. I wanted you to know that. Also, I.…”
Bolan lit his cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. “Also what?”
“Brognola said something else. This, uh, is pretty rotten, Mack. He said—if our paths should cross—I should tell you thanks for past favors. And then I should gun you down.”
Bolan’s eyes flicked to his passenger. “You’ve got the weapon,” he observed coldly.
“What weapon?” The Colt slipped into the seat between Bolan’s legs. “He said it would be the kindest thing we could do for you. He says you’re a dead man, looking for a place to rest in peace. I don’t believe that, Bolan.”
“Thanks.”
“I believe you’re the livingest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen. And that’s what I want you to know … not just because you saved my life back there … but because I couldn’t have much faith in a world that couldn’t make room for a Mack Bolan. Okay?”
“Okay,” Bolan replied, tight-lipped. “I uh … thanks, Lyons.”
“Sure,” Lyons said solemnly. No thanks were necessary, Lyons knew that. And Bolan knew it.
But that familiar tight feeling in the Executioner’s chest was beginning to dissolve, and Bolan understood that also. The soul was still intact, and it could still respond to a simple act of human friendship.
“Thanks,” Bolan said again.
“I said sure.”
Bolan chuckled and returned the Colt to his friend the cop. “These, uh, feds. They’re after blood too, eh?”
Lyons sighed. “Unofficially, I understand, the order is to shoot on sight.”
Bolan frowned at his cigarette and put it out. “The mad-dog treatment, eh?”
“That’s it,” Lyons replied quickly. “And they’ll consider it an act of mercy, if they can get to you first. The Taliferos, my friend, have some hideous programs in mind for you. Need I, uh, say more?”
No, the shadow from the Executioner’s other lives needed to say no more. Bolan knew very well what to expect if he should be captured alive by the “brotherhood of blood.” And the city of chance lay just ahead. This would be as good a place as any to face that wriggling finger of fate which Bolan felt crawling through his bloodstream.
The time had come to live again … to stride boldly through the valley of death. San Francisco could and would keep. Las Vegas was ready and waiting.
And let all souls beware … even the Executioner’s own.
4: THE RED CARPET
“Here’s what you do, Joe,” instructed the crisp voice on the long distance telephone hookup. “First of all, you take every measure to see that our VIP enjoys his stay in your town. That means you attend to every detail. Airlines, buses, trains, private flying outfits, car rental agencies, cabs—anything that moves that he may wish to use, you see to it that he gets first class service. And don’t forget to pass the word around to any place within fifty miles that may offer him accomodations, and I mean all the hotels, motels, casinos, clubs, bars, cafes, service stations, everything. Don’t let one stone go unturned if it could possibly be used for his comfort. Is it clear?”
“Yes sir, that’s pretty clear,” Joe Stanno assured his boss. “And please tell the commissioners that I’m sure sorry about that slip-up. I mean, sometimes you take every precaution, you know, to extend the proper hospitality, and still a person manages to pop in unexpectedly. We, uh, just didn’t have a chance to get a reception ready, that’s all.”
“Forget the spilt milk, Joe. Just see to it now that our VIP remains comfortable until the official delegation gets there. You attend to all those little details, eh?”
“Yes sir, I’ll see to them personally.”
“Right. And avoid direct contact if it’s at all possible. Let’s not take any chances on another slip-up. Just keep him comfortable until we arrive.”
“Don’t worry,” Stanno replied, “he’ll be comfortable.”
“Fine. Now, I’m sending you some help, so all the highways leading out of that town will be thick with personnel. Any direction he may think of taking out of there in a private car, he’ll still get the same war
m hospitality. So just worry about your own immediate area, we’re taking care of the rest. You have enough local personnel to cover everything, right?”
“Yes sir. I’m tapping into the freelancers just to make rare. Don’t worry, there’s no place he can touch down in Vegas that he won’t be well met.”
“Fine, Joe,” the national enforcer said warmly. “We’re depending on you to handle things until we can get there. One of the commissioners is wondering about that finance team that’s visiting you. He wants to know if the project is stymied for sure.”
“For the time being, yeah,” Stanno said, his voice dropping a pitch. “Our VIP took the deal over clean. I’m sorry I—”
“Don’t be sorry, Joe, just be efficient. I’m sure we can persuade your VIP to return the matter to our hands. It would be a shame if we couldn’t, though. This commissioner tells me the thing was cleared all the way. It’s going to be, uh, embarrassing to have to back out now.”
“Well what’s the most important? The deal or the guy? I mean the VIP. What should I be—”
“It’s one and the same, isn’t it, Joe? Make the guy comfortable, we’ll get the deal back. Right? Lose the guy and you lose the deal. Right?”
“Yes sir, I guess that’s right,” Stanno muttered. “Okay. I’m keeping that finance team right close by—I mean standing by … you know. If we can turn things back our way again, then we’ll be all ready to go as if nothing had ever happened. Right?”
“Right, Joe,” Talifero purred. “And this commissioner here says somebody had better hope so. He says a quarter-mil is a lot of deal. I think he’s right, Joe.”
“Don’t worry, so do I,” Stanno quietly agreed. “Okay. How long before I can expect you?”
“They’re getting the plane ready now. Say, uh, about four hours.”
“Great. I’ll try to have the thing in good shape by the time you get here.”
Vegas Vendetta Page 3