Friday’s Feast

by Don Pendleton

  “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 Bolan’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 inevit
able 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.

  In effect, Marco had succeeded Marinello. Augie had been the boss of bosses. Ergo, Marco should now wear that crown. He had, in fact, been acting as though he did.

  Which accounted for Billy Gino’s unhappiness with the guy.

  As for Johnny Grazzi, certainly he did not share Billy’s assessment of the new boss of Manhattan. It was common knowledge, moreover, that Grazzi despised and feared Minotti with passions that spanned the years. So although he did not buy the favorable comparison between himself and a feared enemy, it must have felt nice to get his fur stroked in such strong company. Evidently the stroking had proven sufficient to provoke a commitment of sorts. That was all Bolan had been going for—a state of mind which would be conducive to later manipulation.

  It was, after all, a damned game.

  A deadly serious one, to be sure—and a terribly important one—but a game, nevertheless. The conversation in that riverview apartment had been numbingly accurate, in at least one detail. No one man could have ever hoped for such extravagant successes against a worldwide organization of savages such as this one. Unless that one man happened to be a damned good gamesman—and unless he could pick up a few strong friends along the way.

  Bolan had been fortunate in both departments. He’d been trained as a gamesman, by experts in the biggest game of all, and he had indeed been joined in the game by some of the largest friends a man could have.

  “With a little help, maybe,” he’d suggested to Grazzi.

  Mack Bolan had received a damn lot of help, and he knew it, and it was an item of pride with him.

  Not every “human being” in Mack Bolan’s world had elected to roll over and play dead for the bully boys. That was, yes, an item of considerable pride.

  But it was time, now, to get on with the game. The first move was Bolan’s. And he knew exactly where to begin.

  Bolan touched a small selenium dot embedded in his left lapel and said to it, “Are you on me?”

  April Rose’s voice murmured back via a small, thickened area in the frame of his sunglasses. “Loud and clear, Striker. Your wires are firm.”

  Which meant that every word spoken in that apartment had been preserved on tape in the Warwagon’s intelligence console.

  He told his helpmate: “Track loose. I’ll be taking a bath on Central Park West.”

  She would understand that. And the big GMC motorhome would orbit that next check-point, listening to transpiring events and maintaining a support posture in this deadliest of all deadly games.

  He smiled grimly to himself and put the Ferrari into the traffic flow.

  The last day of the last mile was underway.

  The Roman Nights “bathhouse and spa” took pride in the fact that it was open 24 hours a day and that it employed “New York’s most beautiful attendants.” It was a “private club” which sold memberships in the lobby to anyone with the price—and, of course, all major credit cards were gladly accepted.

  The guy at the counter was not particularly beautiful, nor even attractive. He showed Bolan a hideous smile and told him, in a gutteral monotone, “You came at a good time, sport. Day shift just came on, fresh and ready, so you get the choice of the house. You a member?”

  Bolan flashed the death card at the guy and said, “Better than that, sport. Is he here?”

  The phony smile stayed but the gravelly voice undertook a new strain as the guy replied, “He’s never here this early.”

  “That’s the problem,” Bolan said, his gaze roaming the empty lobby. He wore a black raincoat over a $500 sharkskin suit, a snapbrim black hat, yellow-tinted lenses in white bone frames, and a face to chill Antarctica. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Lou Nola,” said the growler, nervously. “I manage the day shift. What’s wrong?”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Just me’n the girls, Tony and Jake.”

  “Who are Tony and Jake?”

  “You know, the muscle. What’s wrong?”

  “No customers?”

  “Oh sure, it’s early but we got a few. What’s wrong?”

  Bolan grabbed the guy by an arm and pulled him from behind the counter. “Let’s go.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Inside. Quickly. Move it.”

  The guy moved it, leading Bolan up a curving staircase to where the action was while growling over his shoulder, “What the hell is going on?”

  Bolan showed him a solemn smile as he replied, “Right now, Lou, I want a look at your customers.”

  Nola was beginning to enter the spirit of the thing, whatever it was. His eyes were dancing with excitement as he led Bolan into the second floor lounge. “You never been here before, sir?”

  Bolan assured him that he had not.

  “Well this’s the hots room. The customers can meet the girls here and look ’em over if they don’t already have one in mind. We get a lot of repeat business, of course. Class joint. Best girls in town. And we get a classy trade. No ten dollar hand jobs in this place, bet your ass.”

  The “hots room” had a stale atmosphere, poor lighting, a small self-serve bar in one corner, several large couches, soiled harem pillows strewn about, and a large-screen projection TV being fed nonstop porno from a video tape player.

  But the girls were not so bad. Two of them, rather loosely draped in thigh-length garments which probably were supposed to be togas, were at the bar with an arrogant looking muscleman who had to be either Tony or Jake. He wore pants too tight to sit and a red T-shirt with “Get Screwed” emblazoned across the chest.

  Nola called the bouncer over and told him, “We’re checking the johns. Where are they?”

  Tony or Jake, whichever, replied, “Two in the whirlpool with Janie and Paula.” He curiously eyed Bolan as he added, “Wilma’s balling one upstairs. What’s the problem?”

  Bolan asked, “How many girls on duty right now?”

  “They’re all here,” the muscleman said coldly.

  “Twelve,” Nola hastily added, with a rebuking frown at the other.

  Bolan commanded that other, “Round up all the unattached girls and take them out of here. I mean all the way out, across the street, to the park. On the double quick and just as they are.”

  “I can’t take them out there like that, with their asses hanging out! What the hell is—?”

  “Just do it!” Bolan snarled, giving the guy a hard shove for emphasis.

  Nola cried, “Well wait, I—”

  Bolan halted that nervous protest with a throaty growl and a hard look. But the voice was coldly controlled as he told that guy, “This joint is wired to go up in flames. I don’t know when. It could be any minute. Show me the baths, then you scout around and make sure everybody gets out of the building.”

  “A bomb?” Nola gasped.

  “Don’t waste time with dumb questions. Do like I said!”

  “Hey, if the joint’s gonna go …!”

  The guy wanted to just run away, and to hell with everyone else. Bolan grabbed two fistfuls of shirtfront and slammed the reluctant manager against the wall beside swinging double doors. “You do exactly like I said!” he commanded. “Make sure everyone gets out!” He jerked his head toward the doors. “Are the baths in there?”

  “On through the locker room!” Nola replied, choked with fear and with Bolan’s big fists buried, as it were, in his throat.

  Bolan flung the guy away with a disgusted growl and went through the swinging doors.

  The locker room was clean and antiseptic smelling. Varnished wooden benches lined a double row of lockers. A stack of towels and a large carton containing disposable footwear stood on a table beside a door labelled “Private.” At the other side, a single swinging door led to the baths.

  In there, three large sunken tubs provided the focus for relaxed frolic, around which
were scattered massage tables and miscellaneous toys of the erotic variety. A small room beyond contained a wall-to-wall water bed, at floor level.

  On almost any night of the week, these “baths” would undoubtedly be wall-to-wall living flesh, a “spa” in every sense of the word for those who enjoy communal sex and are willing to rent partners. Bolan had no particular grudge against the concept nor took any particular pleasure in disrupting the fun of the two “Johns” who were presently cavorting rather self-consciously with the busty young ladies in the center tub.

  But it was Saturday and this was New York—and the larger game had already begun.

  He threw a stack of towels at the foursome and gave them the message. They departed with proper dispatch, fleeing soundlessly on naked feet and clutching their towels about them. Bolan followed them to the locker room door, then gave it a five count and opened his raincoat.

  Affixed by a spring-clip gadget strapped to the outer right leg just above the knee was a specially modified M-79, a 40mm grenade launcher. In its normal configuration, the ’79 looked like a short, fat shotgun, the 14-inch barrel accounting for only half the overall length of the weapon. This one, with a cutdown stock, measured only 20 inches overall. The rear leaf sight had been removed. Now it looked like a long, fat pistol.

  The M-79 does not hurl a “hand grenade” but fires a 40 millimeter exploding round which may contain buckshot, flare, gas, smoke or high explosive. The high explosive or “HE” round can be quite devastating, especially in contained areas. In a readybelt at his waist, Bolan carried six HE and several smoke rounds. He backed into the locker room and held the swinging door with his hip as he thumbed in a round of HE and let it fly toward the tubs, releasing the door in the same moment and dancing back to avoid the shock wave.

  The floor moved, in there, and windows exploded. He kicked the door open once again and sent a smoke round to the wall beneath the shattered windows, then moved swiftly through the locker room and into the central lounge.