Satan’s Sabbath

by Don Pendleton

  “God, she looked terrible. I couldn’t drag her out here and lay her on the grass. They would have had her inside an ambulance in nothing flat. I figured you wouldn’t want that.” Nola saw the storm coming. He shuffled his feet in a nervous little dance on the grass and added, “He’s an Ace, Mr. Minotti. Said he would take care of her. Hell I’m sure—”

  “Bullshit the Ace!” Minotti raged. He reached out with both hands and shook the little man like a rag doll, then threw him to the ground. “Bullshit the bomb, too, you fucking dummy! He suckered you, dammit! He came to snatch the Kid! All the rest of it was just for cover! So don’t try to tell me …!” He kicked at Nola and missed, and that served only to increase his rage.

  Nola rolled away and scampered to his feet, trying to find solace behind a bodyguard. The bodyguard slapped him and threw him back into the arena.

  Minotti took a step forward, hand raised to smite the cringing Nola, then he checked the swing and swerved about to stalk off toward his limousine.

  The retinue took station around him, one of them jogging ahead to slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine.

  Nola sagged onto a bench, arms folded across his chest, breathing raggedly and watching the departure with wild eyes.

  A police car pulled alongside just as the limousine was about to get underway. A big cop in street clothes stepped out from the passenger side and went around to a rear window of the limousine for a word with Minotti. A bodyguard lowered the window and the cop leaned in for the eyeball parley.

  “That you, Marco?”

  “Hi, Captain. Things must be getting pretty tough to bring you out on a call like this.”

  “I was in the neighborhood. This one of your joints?”

  “I own the building.”

  “Uh huh. Who you got mad at you, now?”

  “You know how it goes, Cap’n. A nut in every woodpile.”

  “Maybe. But, then, there’s this awful rumor. I guess you’ve heard it.”

  “What rumor is that?”

  “Grapevine has it that Mack Bolan is back in town.”

  Minotti smiled and said, “Who is Mack Bolan?”

  The cop did not give that response the dignity of any reaction whatever. He smiled back and said, “I wasn’t really in the neighborhood. Actually, I’ve been holed up over at SWAT headquarters since midnight. Just waiting.”

  “Sounds very boring,” Minotti replied quietly. “Waiting for what?”

  “First blast, let’s call it.”

  “But you’re not there, now.”

  “That’s right. Looks like the wait is over, Marco.”

  Minotti snickered and said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do.”

  The cop swept his gaze to encompass all the strained faces in that vehicle, then he stepped back, touched two fingers to his forehead in a relaxed salute, and watched the car lurch away.

  “Smart bastard!” Minotti fumed.

  “Maybe good news, though,” observed the head bodycock, from the front seat. “Sounds like they’re going to be all over the guy’s ass, this time.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” the boss growled. “I’m starting to wonder if maybe those guys have started sleeping with the bastard.” He took’ time to light a cigar, then told the bodycock, “Stop at the first phone. Get ahold of Matty. Tell ’im about the red Ferrari. That thing should stick out in any crowd. What a goddamned … who would’ve thought?—we got every damned spot in town covered like molasses, just waiting for the bastard to show his face. So he shows up at Roman Nights, of all places. And what I want to know is, how’d he know about the kid? Huh? How’d he know?”

  “You think it’s Bolan for sure, then.”

  “I think we better think that way, at least ’til we know for sure.”

  The wheelman interrupted that conversation with a tense interjection, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. “Isn’t that a red Ferrari back there? ’Bout a block back?”

  All heads swivelled to the rear.

  “It’s a red something,” said the bodycock.

  “The nervy bastard!” Minotti said quietly, the voice a bare whisper.

  “Forget that phone stop!” the bodycock commanded the wheelman. “Take the next turn into the park! All you boys get ready!”

  “The nervy bastard,” Minotti repeated. “He brought us to him.”

  But it was a prayer, not a complaint.

  Marco Minotti, the hopeful Boss of all the Bosses, could not have asked for anything sweeter. Mack Bolan’s head would serve as the new banner under which all the boys everywhere would joyously gather. And that head was about to fall into Marco’s sack.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE STRETCH

  Some minutes earlier, Bolan had transferred the still unconscious girl to a bunk in the Warwagon and instructed April Rose: “Contact Hal and get some quiet medical attention for this kid. If hospitalization is considered necessary then let’s do that quietly, too, and with maximum security. If not, I want her kept in some sort of protective custody.”

  “Who is she?” April wondered.

  “I have no idea,” Bolan told her. “And I don’t know what her situation is. Maybe just a runaway. And maybe not. I have a gut feeling about this kid and I want her handled with all delicacy. Be sure Hal understands that.”

  “Hal,” of course, was Harold Brognola, No. 1 man in the federal war against organized crime. He was also Bolan’s staunchest supporter within the establishment. He was in town, also, with a large force of federal marshals, standing-by to lend whatever covert assistance possible in Bolan’s final campaign against the Mafia. Tomorrow, hopefully, Bolan would be in Washington to receive an official, if quiet, remission of sins and to launch a new “quick reaction” capability for the U.S. against outside threats to the national security.

  Bolan knew fully that, at this moment, Hal Brognola could not care less about the underworld threat in New York. His overriding concern was to keep Mack Bolan alive and healthy until official government sponsorship began. The chief fed had been very much opposed to the six-day finale to Bolan’s domestic campaign, had gone along with it most grudgingly, but had committed himself and the full resources of his office to a successful conclusion.

  And not just because they were friends but also because the man in the White House had so ordained it. Too damned many ragtag radicals in far too many third and fourth rate nations had joined the sport of pulling Uncle Sam’s whiskers, secure in the belief that the mightiest nation on earth would not risk powderkeg confrontations which could engulf the entire world in cataclysmic warfare. Bolan had been perceived, in Washington, as the perfect solution to that sort of problem. But the proposal had presented a moral dilemma for Bolan himself. He had sworn upon his dead parents’ graves to eradicate the Mafia from the face of the land—not as an act of vengeance but as recognition of the greatest evil in American life—and, though he had never expected to actually succeed in that promise, he had pledged his very life toward the attainment. So it was with some surprise that he had to agree with Washington’s secret assessment of his cumulative effect upon the organized crime problem: the families were crumbling everywhere, suffering from a staggering attrition at the top, their influence waning in the political and business communities, financial fortunes disappearing in huge chunks under Bolan’s relentless determination to hit them everywhere it hurt.

  Brognola had carried a personal message from the White House to the blitzing, blacksuited warrior. “The President is a very moral man, Striker, so he naturally abhors the need for violent reaction. But he is also a realist. And he understands your kind of war, that type and level of commitment. Right now he is facing a frightening dilemma, very much like your own, on the international scene. The problem there is almost identical to the crime problem here. These terrorist organizations operate in direct contravention to every precept of international law and morals. They are, in every sense of the word, criminals. And
they use our own moral sense against us, the same way the mob has always done. The mob hides behind constitutional guarantees. Terrorists hide behind international law, secure in the belief that the U.S. is chained by moral restraint and world-wide public opinion. They’ve even begun taunting us about our impotency and flaunting their hatred and disrespect before television cameras and in Third World forums. The implications of all this are really frightening, because it’s the sort of thing that feeds on itself and builds its own momentum. Next thing you know, there won’t be an American consulate anywhere outside the western world. The ultimate consequence will be a total alienation between west and east, racial hatreds unsurpassed in written history, maybe even a holy war to make all the present World War Three scenarios look like war games. Right now Pakistan is building nuclear weapons. India already has them. Non-proliferation treaties to hell, the nuclear club is no longer an exclusive one. If these tensions keep building then sooner or later—probably sooner—some minor power is going to start trying nuclear blackmail. That’s as certain as death. So you can see the dilemma. What the hell can we do to reassert American prestige? How do we prevent the half-civilized world from dominating the responsible powers? The answer, the only answer within reach, is that we have got to stop the terrorism before it reaches epidemic proportions. It may already be too late. We cannot invade those countries which shelter the terrorists, even though we know that in many cases the terrorists are carrying out the will of hostile governments. So—and this is the President’s own thinking—we need your brand of solution, Striker. Direct action, forceful and effective, dramatically focused directly onto the perpetrators of crimes against the United States. We cannot bomb a city of a million innocent souls to get at a hundred or so international criminals. But we could do it your way. The President wants you. He wants you immediately.”

  That was the message.

  But the President had found it necessary to accept a compromise, in recognition of Bolan’s own moral imperatives. Brognola had carried back the response: “Striker respectfully accepts the commission, sir. But he has a dilemma of his own. He is not fully convinced that the mob is down for the full count. He wants a six-day delay in reporting. He feels an obligation to go the second mile.”

  “The second what?” inquired the President.

  “Like in the Bible, Mr. President. If a man asks you to walk a mile with him—”

  “Go with him twain,” quoted the President, sighing.

  “Yes, sir. You see, back in the beginning, when he first declared this personal war of his, he thought of it as the last mile of a condemned man. Never really thought it would go so well. But, as we all know, that ‘last mile’ has encompassed the globe. He still can’t believe that his war is won, though. And he wants an official commitment by the government. He wants our solemn pledge that we will never again allow the Mafia problem to get out of hand. I gave him that, in your name.”

  “But he still,” said the man behind the oval desk, “insists upon this second-mile effort.”

  “Yes, sir. His plan is to hit the remaining power centers, six territories in six days. It sounds like a hell of a bite, I know, but I think he just might manage it. I will give him all possible covert support. And, uh, of course we will have to bend the law a bit, here and there, to do so. But I regard it as a justifiable trade-off. On that, I would be willing to take my chances before a responsible jury of American citizens.”

  “So would I,” the chief declared, smiling solemnly.

  “Does that mean I have a go, sir?”

  “It means,” said the President, “that you are to deliver the man to this office one week from today, alive and well. Use your own discretion as how best to accomplish that. We, uh, cannot give him a public pardon, of course. We cannot even publicly acknowledge his official presence in government service. But we can re-create him. And I fully intend to do so. Give him my personal assurances, in that regard.”

  Brognola had given Bolan just that, along with a full account of the official conversation.

  And, yes, Bolan knew that the staggering families of the New York crime council were very low on Brognola’s list of priorities. But he also respected Brognola’s professional ethics and felt confidence in the calibre of support which could be expected. So he’d left the ailing waif on Brognola’s official doorstep with no misgivings whatever. Then he’d returned directly to the firing line, hoping that Minotti the Wolfman would venture there, also.

  And, of course, he had.

  Bolan paced the Ferrari into a calculated track, inviting attention, and he knew immediately when it came. The big limousine swerved ever so slightly, drifting briefly across the centerline then leaping back to the proper position. A good wheelman would never drive so carelessly with the boss aboard, not unless severely distracted by something larger than the usual driving responsibilities.

  So, yes, Bolan knew that he had been spotted, even before that other vehicle lunged east on 96th and into Central Park. He pressed ahead, then, hoping to reach that intersection before the other car could lose itself in the winding park roads. But they were not running away, that much quickly became obvious. They did not wish to lose that red Ferrari, it seemed. When Bolan rounded the turn into Central Park, the limousine was idling near the first intersection inside. As soon as he appeared, they accelerated and turned back south on the park roadway.

  Bolan stomped the accelerator and pressed on, smiling grimly and threading a silencer onto the Beretta. This was not really his style, going for hot contact in an uncontrolled environment, but it was an extraordinary time and he felt that the opportunity for a quick score was too important to dismiss out of hand. If he could find some combat stretch—meaning, a clear zone free of innocent bystanders—then certainly he had to press the attack. If not … then he would dog their trail and play the ear. But the chances for combat stretch seemed excellent. It was not that great a day to encourage idling in the park. Sporadic rain, mists, and blustery winds were all working in Bolan’s favor. A few joggers were out; here and there a cyclist—but no throngs or even clusters.

  He found the stretch near the western extremity of Central Park Lake, where wind-driven mists would discourage the most persistent parkers, and leapt forward quickly to within fifty feet of the cruising limousine, then extended the Beretta from the open window and sighted through the windshield to send a silent round into the left rear tire.

  It scored, he knew, because he could see the pop of moisture leap from the rubber, but there was no effect.

  Bullet-proof tires, uh huh. Which probably meant that the entire vehicle embodied one of those new, lightweight protective systems which had recently become so popular in this age of terrorist activity.

  Unlike the armor-clad behemoths of yesterday, so weighted down with heavy steel panels, these new armored cars were much more secure and not at all obvious. Bolan had some of the stuff incorporated into his own battle cruiser, and he knew its strengths as well as its weaknesses.

  The Ferrari, of course, was nothing but weaknesses all the way, in a contest such as this.

  But now was the time, and perhaps the only place of this day.

  He had to go for it.

  And so he went.

  CHAPTER 6

  TO KILL A TANK

  As they made the turn at 96th, head bodycock Joe Salerno was making all the decisions and setting the strategy. At such times, this was not only his right but his charged responsibility. No matter how streetwise a boss may be, it simply made better sense to have a specialist see to such things. A boss could, of course, override the bodycock and take charge for himself—but such bosses were not known for longevity. So Marco’s protest was feeble and perfunctory when Salerno ordered the vehicle halted and Minotti out.

  “Cut back through the park to the avenue, Marco,” he advised. “Jimmy will go with you. Get a cab and go to the quiet spot. Well contact you there.”

  The maneuver was accomplished smoothly and well before the red Ferra
ri showed up again in the rearview. Minotti and his personal bodyguard disappeared into the shrubbery, the limousine idled along to the next intersection, and then the payday action began.

  Counting his own, Salerno had four hot guns inside that car. It was a veritable tank of the boulevards. Tires, gas tank, and all the glass could handle a sustained assault by a dozen machine guns. The body was virtually impregnable, even the underside. There were protected gunports in the rear seat area and in the passenger side up front as well as special defensive and evasive systems to neutralize pursuit—though, of course, there was now no desire to discourage pursuit.

  The wheelman growled, “Here he comes.”

  The Ferrari was starting to crowd the rear.

  Salerno winked solemnly at the left rear gunner. The guy opened his gunport and slipped the muzzle of an Uzi submachine gun through the portal.

  “He’s got a bean shooter,” said the other gunner, noting a pistol that had appeared outside the Ferrari.

  Salerno snickered as a pencilflame appeared back there and a barely noticeable pop came from a rear tire. “Silencer, yet,” he observed. “Come on, guy, you can do better than that.”

  The wheelman tensely inquired, “Should I hit the oil slick?”

  “Hell no!” Salerno quickly replied. “Make him come around!”

  “He’s coming!” reported the left gunner, like an echo. A second later: “Well shit! What’s that?”

  The window on the passenger side of the Ferrari was down. A strange looking weapon with a barrel wide enough to shoot golfballs was resting in the open window.

  “That’s a grenade launcher!” the wheelman cried.

  “Easy, easy,” Salerno growled.

  These boys did not really know how secure this car was. For that matter, neither did Salerno. He’d read all the engineering reports, of course, and knew what it was designed to with-stand but there had never been an acid test with Joe Salerno inside.

  Salerno himself would have greatly desired a proof run with someone, anyone, other than Mack Bolan doing the proving. But here they were. And there was the guy the whole mob had been itching for since forever. Joe could see him as clear as looking into his own mirror. And he’d seen that face before, sure, somewhere. An involuntary tremor traveled his spine and tickled both ears. The red Ferrari was coming around, the guy driving with one hand while the other extended that impressive weapon through the window opening.