Friday’s Feast

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan was up and running with the first overhead sizzle, plunging from fifty yards out toward the hole which he knew would materialize in that forward defense. A pretty voice from his shoulder urged, “Be careful!” as he hit the smoke and whirled on through to the goodies inside.

  But she would not really desire that he take time for “careful” on these hellgrounds if she really knew the score.

  A stone-imbedded body lay motionless twenty feet inside the wall. He leapt over it and threw forty flaming millimeters of eager HE into a window of a garage apartment, following through with an immediate five-second burst of 5.56 fleshseekers into another.

  People were scampering about and yelling all around him as he flipped out a smoke canister, and added that little confusion factor to the erupting pandemonium.

  A wild-eyed guy with a double-barrel shotgun came charging around the back corner, and immediately pulled both triggers straight into the ground at his feet. The guy tumbled down screaming, shy. a foot; Bolan sent him a zip across the chest to finish neatly what the poor guy had started sloppily for himself—then whirled to confront another movement through the smoke on his flank.

  A guy whom he instantly recognized as a La Carpa lieutenant was running full tilt at the head of a pack of four, coming in from the front wall in ghastly appreciation of the event that obviously all had been awaiting.

  Bolan was glad that he had not disappointed his hosts.

  He dropped to one knee and thumbed in another HE round, letting it fly at the same instant that the lieutenant halted his headlong flight with the brakes to the floor, mouth agape and arms flailing as he tried to signal those behind him that dreadful fulfillment lay dead ahead. Too late, though, came the horrified realization. Those guys were in collision and falling all over one another when the HE joined their little gathering. Bolan did not pause for an evaluation, but whirled again and lobbed a short-fused grenade through a downstairs window as he jogged on into hell.

  The front door disintegrated under the pummeling assault of another forty flaming millimeters, and Bolan ran through without pause.

  If pandemonium was the word for outside, then frantic panic was the tag for that scene in there.

  Robert Damon lay just inside the shattered doorway with one side of his face missing, the body still twitching in the death throes. Another shattered man lay beneath him. A fire was raging in the old parlor, and a flaming body had toppled out of there into the foyer as Bolan entered. La Carpa and two of his boys were falling back from that unsettling scene in a pell-mell retreat toward the rear hall.

  One of those guys danced around and popped a couple of quick shots from a revolver, neither of them coming anywhere near Bolan. He sent a quick floral wreath from the M-16, which wrapped itself in a figure-eight onto all three, and they ended their retreat in a bloody slide to nowhere.

  Some unseen gunner with a chopper cut loose from the head of the stairs, chewing up a wall down below and raising hell with one of the rickety old couches, firing at God knew what—like, maybe, throwing a shoe at a phantom on the bedroom wall.

  Bolan leaned into the stairwell and tossed a grenade up there, then went on into the study.

  Mario Cuba lay in there with a long knife protruding from his chest; he’d been dead awhile. Billy Garante and one of La Carpa’s crew bosses lay nearby, dead from gunshot wounds—also awhile in their demise.

  So, yes, the enemy apparently had engaged itself in at least some brief dissension within the ranks.

  The sliding panel to Santelli’s “vault” was open. Carmen Reddi stood nervously in the opening, peering at something inside.

  He felt, rather than saw Bolan’s presence, turning to face him with frozen countenance and slumping shoulders. The “head waiter” clothing was no longer immaculate, but was now disheveled and bloodstained. The guy had a big welt running the width of his forehead, and his lower lip was puffed.

  Mario, maybe.

  But brute strength, as usual, apparently had been no match for ruthless wile.

  This one, though, had no wiles left. The frozen face melted into sheer terror as those zooming eyes locked onto the imposing figure of Mack Bolan at war.

  Frankie the Ace in blacksuit tossed a marksman’s medal to the floor at the house boss’s feet.

  Carmen said, “Uh … uh …” and it was his final song. The ’16 zipped him from hip to opposite shoulder, flinging him on into the master’s, retreat, and sprawling him to his knees at the master’s bed as though in bedtime prayer.

  Larry Haggle came out of there damned quick, a set of books clutched to his chest, panting in terror. He leaned into the wall at the edge of the sliding panel, bulging eyes staring uncomprehendingly at the little medal, which lay in that doorway.

  “Can I be of service, counselor?” inquired Frankie the Ace.

  “Aw … aw … aw, hell, Frankie.”

  “Wrong. Not Frankie. Try again.”

  “We already heard, yeah. A body in Lauderdale …” Those hot eyes could not, would not, contemplate the sight of what had come for him. They flung themselves to the more comfortable sight of his own hands as he thrust the precious books forward with stiff arms. “Here are the books,” he gasped.

  “You already gave me the books.”

  “Second set. Copy. My own.”

  “You trying to cop a plea, counselor?”

  “Call it what … okay, sure, whatever. These … real books. Not forty. Fifty … fifty million. Shipped fifty …”

  “You cut yourself in.”

  “Sure. Wouldn’t you?” The consigliere was beginning to sound like, at least, a shadow of his old self—the voice becoming more confident, the training and habits of years reasserting some semblance of dignity. “Be sensible. All this money. We could own the world. Whole fucking world.”

  “We?”

  “Sure. Who’s to know?”

  “Santelli wouldn’t know.”

  “Even alive, no. Fuckin’ dummy. Couldn’t manage a personal checking account. This is big time, Frankie—uh, whoever.”

  “You can say my name. It doesn’t hurt. So Santelli wasn’t the robber.”

  The guy laughed—a sobbing, hysterical, dying sound. “Tommy couldn’t rob himself. Playing around with his hole in Florida. What a sap! Like you … uh, no, I mean like you said Frankie said … I mean …”

  “Romance,” Bolan suggested frostily.

  “Exactly. Crazy. Hole in the ground for God’s sake. For what? For romance. Pirates and all that. Secret passageways to nowhere. For what? For dope? Come on. Come on now, Tommy! You want dope? We got the world by the ass, man. One poor sucker in a thousand wants dope. Every son-of-a-bitch in the whole crying world wants gas. Service is power. Gas is the ultimate power.”

  “Wrong,” Bolan quietly told that guy.

  “No. Not wrong. It’s—”

  “Romance.”

  “Huh?”

  “The dream is the power. The faith. The spirit, counselor.”

  “Bullshit, no. Here. Look at this.”

  The guy was thrusting the books stiffly forward, offering the keys to a bitter kingdom.

  But he was offering them to the wrong guy.

  The M-16 flashed the only response possible, a full fresh magazine feeding the spray, which laced out of there to disintegrate those books and punch on through into the spirit of depravity beyond.

  Bolan followed the dancing body into the master’s chamber, and kept on spraying until that magazine was empty.

  Then he dropped another medal and muttered, “Long live the king.”

  For sure. Time had played its final trick at this joint.

  The king was finally dead.

  EPILOGUE

  The flaming old wreck lifted herself in a final convulsion, borne aloft in fiery pieces by the demolition charges in her historic cellars.

  Bolan killed the optics monitor, and sent the warwagon into quiet withdrawal.

  His lady crouched behind him, arms about his neck and that
smooth face pressed warmly against the warstained hide of his own.

  “I’m going to wire you for sound from now on,” she told him in a warm little voice. “And for video, too, if I can figure a way to rig it. I just love the sight and sound of you. Even at war. But especially at your dirty rat’s best.”

  “Am I a dirty rat?”

  “Dirtiest I ever heard. I mean the soft penetrations. Never hath a man spake with so forked a tongue. Oh, by the way, I have some videotape which might interest you. Sticker identified the subject. He says it’s the New York boss, Marco Minotti.”

  “Where’d you find Marco?”

  “Right out here. But not for long. He turned tail and split damned quick when he saw all the fireworks. He came in a three-car convoy, big limousines, New York plates.”

  Bolan commented, “Maybe that explains the Baldaserra brothers.”

  “That was Leo’s reading.”

  “Leo?”

  “Sticker schmicker—go to hell, Striker piker. I’m onto your damned games.”

  Bolan pulled abruptly to the side of the road and dragged the lady into his arms.

  “I have games you haven’t dreamed of, kid.”

  “Prove it.”

  “You really want me to prove it?”

  “I really do, yes. I want you to prove it.”

  By all means, he would do that. The way time had shrunk … it had been amazingly short day in hell. Twenty more minutes would take care of the rendezvous with the mobile feds and the final wrap-up for Friday.

  Saturday, of course … Saturday would be another day, and probably a damned long one.

  “Is this still Friday?” he asked his lady.

  “Of course, it’s still Friday. Why?”

  “It’s the day of the feast.”

  “Really? What’s on the menu?”

  God, this kid was really asking for it. And he would, by God and thank God, give her everything she had coming … for as long as heaven might last.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Executioner series

  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.”