Satan’s Sabbath
The Executioner, Book Thirty-eight
Don Pendleton
This book is dedicated to the
hardcore faithful who have been
in measured step behind the man
since that terrible moment at
Pittsfield when his Awakening
and his War began.
To all of you, to each of you,
our gratitude and respect.
My friends, these people whom you see,
are the last obstacle which stops us
from being where we have so long struggled
to be. We ought, if we could, to eat
them up alive.
—Xenophon, Anabasis
God himself took a day to rest in, and
a good man’s grave is his Sabbath.
—John Donne, Sermons
Forget it; this Sabbath has been
claimed by the devil. Let’s just go
eat them up alive!
—Mack Bolan, The Executioner
PROLOGUE
The final page from Mack Bolan’s war journal:
It is an entropic universe, therefore life itself is a paradox. So I guess it is not so strange that the large events of an individual lifetime are themselves paradoxical. Such as death. This final event should be a dissolution, an entropic spread, a final loss of focus. Yet, poised at this moment upon my final threshold, I am aware that my life is focused as it has never been before. I am now at the pinpoint of all that I have ever been, done, desired, feared. It is a painful focus, yes. But I can bear it. I must bear it. It contains all that I am.
CHAPTER 1
ROLES
It was a misty, blustery morning in midtown Manhattan when the tall man in the hot Ferrari sports car cruised slowly past the UN Plaza and circled via FDR Drive to an apartment complex overlooking the East River. He left the vehicle at the curb in the portico of a luxury highrise, snapped icy eyes at the doorman and handed him a twenty dollar bill, growled, “Watch the car,” and went inside to confront his destiny.
The confrontation came in a tenth floor, riverview apartment. Present were Leo Turrin—until recently underboss and de facto head of a western Massachusetts crime family, now a rising power in the administrative arm of La Commissione, central governing body of worldwide Mafia operations; one Billy Gino, once Captain of Arms (Head Cock) for the now defunct Marinello Family which, at its height, controlled the city of New York and, by logical extension, all crime territories everywhere; Johnny Grazzi, an up and coming challenger for strutting rights in the Brooklyn territory; plus a nervous retinue of bodycocks and tagmen who had accompanied their respective lords to the secret parley above the East River.
The tall man with the icy eyes had developed a fearsome reputation as “Omega”—one of the nameless, faceless “super enforcers” of the international gestapo who carry playing cards as their only identification—aces all—and Omega was an “Ace of Spades”—the death card—a man who, it was rumored, could hit even a capo on his own authority, if such drastic action could be defended before the ruling council of crime kings.
Billy Gino was one of those middle-generation Mafiosi who could remember the good old days of fealty and brotherhood within Mafia ranks, a man given to nostalgic wishes and romantic impulses. He virtually worshipped Omega as a symbol of those lost days. On this occasion, he could barely restrain himself from kissing the hand of this awesome Black Ace; in fact, he did, though symbolically—kissing his own as a substitute courtesy, perhaps unconsciously, as he greeted the great man.
Grazzi knew Omega by reputation only, having just recently ascended to the ranks of power within the decimated organization—decimated by the relentless warfare of a one-man army named Mack Bolan. In a sense, then, Grazzi owed his present status in the outfit to Bolan. But it was a debt which could be paid only with Grazzi’s own blood … and he knew that Bolan would be only too happy to accept the payment. It was this knowledge which had brought Grazzi to the meeting above the East River. Mack Bolan, it was said, was coming back. With blood in his eye. Another Bolan assault against New York would mean one of two things for Johnny Grazzi: either Grazzi would die … or he would rise even higher in the new power vacuum produced by Bolan’s third sweep of the New York territories.
Johnny Grazzi was not ready to die.
So he was very happy indeed to be invited to this secret meeting with the legendary Ace of Spades, though he probably had as much to fear from Omega as from Mack Bolan.
Leo Turrin was his usual, noncommittal self—a handsome man in his early thirties—apparently relaxed but generating an inner tension which could be felt by a perceptive observer.
The four repaired to a conference table behind locked doors—leaving the assortment of gunbearers to gaze suspiciously at one another in an outer room—and Omega called the meeting to order with a terse announcement: “We’re going to keep it simple and to the point.”
“Only way to go,” replied Turrin, speaking around a fat cigar.
“Just what is the point?” inquired Grazzi, shifting his gaze in an effort to encompass all three of his companions.
“Ask Billy,” said Omega.
Billy Gino bit nervously at his lower lip as he locked gazes with Grazzi. “I’ve had it,” he intoned solemnly, “with legless bosses. Present company excepted, there’s not a man left in the outfit with real legs to stand on. I don’t, uh, include myself in that ‘present company’ bit, of course. I’ve never been a boss and I’ve never wanted to be. But it’s guys like me that get chopped up in the service of legless bosses. The thing has been going to hell steadily since Augie Marinello lost his legs in Jersey. And it fell apart completely, far as I’m concerned, when he lost the rest of his body at Pittsfield. Now you all know what I went through with David Eritrea. I’m just here to say that I don’t intend to go through something like that again. Especially not if Mack Bolan is looking us over and licking his chops again. That’s all I got to say.”
“Well said,” commented Turrin, nodding his head.
Grazzi quietly asked, “Who says Bolan is looking at us again?”
Omega took that one. “We’re being told that common sense says it. We’re asked to look at the pattern. Today is Saturday—right? The Chicago combine bought it on Monday. Los Angeles fell on Tuesday. Wednesday was the desert fiasco. Thursday, Florida. Baltimore yesterday. What did I say it is here in New York?—Saturday?”
Grazzi shifted uncomfortably on his chair and said, “You can’t tie all that to Bolan, can you? I mean—okay, the guy is hell on wheels—but he’s still a human being. Right? How could one human being raise all that much hell in just five days? I mean—let’s be reasonable. How could he do it?”
“With a little help, maybe,” said Omega, quietly.
“From who?”
Omega shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette, relaxed into his chair, blew smoke at the ceiling. “I can tell you that someone we all know was in the desert on Tuesday. That same someone was in Baltimore yesterday. And I happen to know that this same Mr. Coincidence was tied in on the Colorado thing, way back, and that he had his fingers in the jam at Los Angeles.”
Grazzi frowned and said, “Your Mr. Coincidence is also known as Marco Minotti?”
“The same,” Omega confirmed, sighing.
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m just wondering, Johnny. As we all should. Things being as they are.”
Turrin observed, “Marco came a long way in a short time. We all know that. Not to compare with you, Johnny. You’ve been solid for a long time—with good legs and feet under you for as long as I’ve known you. But what was Marco when Augie bought it? Huh? He was peddling numbers in the Bronx for his
brother, Frank.”
“And Frank,” Billy Gino added, with disgust in his voice, “went down in Augie’s crash. Nobody yet has been able to sift through all that hanky-pank. We still don’t know exactly who did what to who.”
“Or why,” Turrin said sourly.
Grazzi, with furrowed brow, drummed his fingers on the table and said, “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that Marco got his legs from … from Mack Bolan, f’God’s sake?”
No one replied to that, for a moment. Then Omega turned his gaze to the window and said, very quietly, “We haven’t said that, yet, Johnny. We are saying that some one should be wondering about it. Especially now, with Marco beating new drums about another Bolan sweep.”
“We mean,” said Turrin, “like … maybe this Bolan has been greatly overrated. Purposely, maybe. Maybe he’s been getting a lot of credit that he doesn’t really own.”
“Like, maybe,” said Omega, “you’re right, Johnny, and the guy could not possibly have hit Indiana on Monday, Los Angeles on Tuesday, White Sands on Wednesday, Florida on Thursday, and Baltimore on Friday. But we all know that all those territories certainly did get hit. And we’re wondering—like you, Johnny—we’re wondering if one man could have done all that. We’re wondering, even, if this Mack Bolan is still alive.” Omega sent another blast of smoke toward the ceiling. “Or if he ever was.”
Grazzi got to his feet and went to the window, hands jammed into pants pockets, his face darkly troubled.
“Did you ever see the guy, Johnny?” Omega quietly inquired.
“No I never did.”
“Do you know anybody who ever did?”
“No I guess I don’t, at that.”
Billy Gino said, “Well, of course, beg your pardon but the guy never left any walking wounded behind. Them that saw him didn’t live to tell about it.”
“Billy’s right,” said Turrin. “But not a hundred percent. You’re forgetting, Omega, that Bolan started out with me. I’m not that anxious to remind everybody how I got suckered by the guy but I have to say that I knew him like a brother and that he actually exists. Or did.”
“That was a long time ago,” Omega pointed out.
“That’s right, it was.”
“Could the guy have lasted this long? Any guy. With a million dollars in bounties on his head and with every cop in the country after his ass? We need to ask ourselves—and right now—”
Turrin interrupted to say, “My uncle Sergio was the first boss to bite Bolan’s dust. He used to rage and storm at us, when Bolan was making us all look like a bunch of saps—Sergio used to say to us that one man alone could not be doing all this. He thought the feds were behind it all. He thought they’d invented Mack Bolan just as a cover to hide behind—that he was really many guys, all feds. They couldn’t get to us legally so they were doing it with a myth. Of course, he was wrong. Bolan hit the Most Wanted list right away and he’s been there ever since. But I have to wonder, too, Omega … could the guy be long dead and buried somewhere in a cement coffin. And could someone else now be using his reputation to cover all the shitty things that have been happening to us lately.”
“So,” said Omega, “we’re back to where we started. I said that we should keep it simple and to the point. Johnny wanted to know just what was the point. So this is the point. Marco says that Bolan is going to hit us again. Today, maybe. Soon, for sure. So says Marco. And he says that we should all rally to his banner. The question I’m asking is simple and to the point. Should we do that? Should we all put our guns and our lives into the hands of Marco Minotti? That’s about as pointed as I can get. Is Marco the new Boss of Bosses?”
Grazzi returned to the table and took his seat. He placed his right hand on the center of the table, palm down, and very quietly said, “Marco is not Capo di tutti Capi.”
Leo Turrin placed his right hand atop Grazzi’s. Billy Gino, with only the slightest hesitation, added his own to the stack.
Omega, instead, got to his feet and went to the window. From there, he told them, “You know that I can’t add my hand to that pact. I serve the Blessed Thing, not the men who make it. You men make it blessed again. And I will serve it again.”
Billy Gino wept openly.
Johnny Grazzi had a faraway look in his eyes, thinking perhaps of glory days ahead.
Leo Turrin just looked solemn. With good reason. Leo was a long-emplaced federal undercover operative as well as close friend and loyal ally to Mack Bolan.
Omega looked solemn, also, with even better reason. Omega was Mack Bolan.
CHAPTER 2
IDENTIFICATION
Mack Bolan was a human being, yes—not a killer robot nor a perpetual-motion military machine. Even in the real war zones—those hell-grounds called Southeast Asia—Sergeant Bolan, for all his splendid military achievements, had been regarded as nothing more than a dedicated warrior and superb militarist. Though he earned there his nickname, The Executioner, not once during two full combat tours behind enemy lines was there an accusation or even a hint that the death specialist was “out of control” or tainted in any way by military excess.
Indeed, Sergeant Bolan earned another nickname among the villagers of those wartorn lands who called him, in their own tongue, the equivalent of “Sergeant Mercy”—a name which became legend among forward medics and Special Forces teams who were the first to move into “pacified” areas where Bolan had been operating.
He had initially entered the combat theatre as an armor specialist and volunteer advisor in the effort to equip and train the fierce Montagnard tribesmen. Eventually he found himself with a small team of American specialists who worked with the Montagnards in an operation called “Project Backburn,” designed to counter VC hit and run terrorism in the no-man’s-land regions of Vietnam. Later, due to his experience with Backburn, Bolan was selected as the first experimental “death specialist,” provided with a five-man support team, and charged with missions to pursue enemy terrorists into sanctuary areas (though these assignment rarely found their way into the official record). This group, officially but loosely attached to the Ninth Infantry as “Penetration Team Able,” became the prototype for other operational groups which, it is said, later evolved into (or became synonymous with) the “Black Berets” or LRRP’s (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols). Whatever the official organizational line, PenTeam Able survived as a separate entity, for all operational purposes, and Sergeant Mack Bolan became a quiet legend among military and civilian communities alike. It is said that there is more to the Mack Bolan story in secret CIA files than in any military record—and it seems likely that Sergeant Bolan would have died a quiet hero’s death somewhere in the steamy interiors of Vietnam or Cambodia (considering the nature of his work) except for the intervention of tragedy at home.
Bolan was sent home on compassionate leave to bury his mother, his father, and a 17-year-old sister—and to arrange for the care of an orphaned 14-year-old brother.
He never returned to Southeast Asia.
Sergeant Bolan had found a larger war, much closer to home, and a far more menacing enemy than anything encountered in the savage jungles of Vietnam. Sergeant Bolan found the Mafia. And he declared war everlasting upon them.
The details of this new war are not buried in secret CIA files. They are a matter of public record, because Mack Bolan quickly became a public figure. His own unique brand of blazing and unrelenting warfare was not to be contained by governmental policies, not for this war, nor was it to be confused by conventional morals or politics. Bolan had found, also, a “higher morality” and “political sanity.” Stripped to its essentials, this new understanding simply stated that savages shall not be allowed to dominate civilized peoples and that no “cure” is too harsh to insure a solution to the problem.
Mack Bolan had a “cure” for the Mafia problem.
It would be impossible to say, with any certainty, just how much of this philosophy was bred in the hellgrounds of Vietnam or how much was inspired by Bo
lan’s personal confrontation with the savage reality of Mafia power. It should be noted, however, that Sergeant Mercy prowled the same hellgrounds as The Executioner, at one and the same time, in the same mind and body—and it is a matter of public record that no innocent victims fell to The Executioner’s guns in this new War Against the Mafia.
He was not, as some charged, a deranged or embittered casualty of the Vietnam experience, too restless at home and too insensitive to humanitarian ideals to allow the American justice system to run its natural course.
There was, he knew, no way to handle the Mafia problem under the American system of justice.
The savages were winning … until Mack Bolan came along.
But he was a human being, yes. He bled like other men, wearied like other men, wept like other men—and he killed, as other men have done down through the ages when they became convinced that the cause was right and desperate.
Mack Bolan was a human being.
He was one hell of a human being.
CHAPTER 3
THE DEADLY GAME
It had been a gross exaggeration, of course. Marco Minotti was not now and had never been a legless wonder but was a vicious shark in Mafia waters from his earliest beginnings as a gunbearer for his brother, Frank, a lieutenant in the old Marinello outfit. Nor had he merely “peddled numbers” in the Bronx but had taken that territory for himself in a bloodless coup which sent two older mafiosi into premature retirement in Florida.
True, Marco had used his brother’s name as a lever for many of his early successes with the family business—but by the time of Augie Marinello’s death, it had already become quiet speculation, among those in the know, as to just how much longer it might be before Frank, himself, was packed off to a retirement condominium in Miami. Bolan’s execution of the elder brother had merely advanced the inevitable to an earlier date—and Marco had lost no time consolidating the remnants of Frank’s little empire into a conglomerate pirated from the surviving bits and pieces of the Marinello consortium.
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