“I wanta tell you somethin’,” Fontenelli hissed.
“Make it quick.”
“You know ’bout my old lady and her screwin’ around while I was in ’Nam.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“We got two kids back in Jersey.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“If I don’t make it, I want my bucks to go to my kids. To the kids, not to Miss Hotpants.”
“You’ll make it, Chopper.”
“Yeah, but if I don’t …”
“Okay, don’t worry—I’ll take care of it.”
“Maybe you won’t make it either. Tell Bolan, on the radio.”
“Tell him yourself.”
“Can’t. I lost it.”
“You lost your radio?”
“Yeah. Somewhere back there in those hedges. Damn harness came loose.”
“Stay close to me then.”
“Yeah. Tell Bolan, eh?”
“Okay. Now shut up.”
Fontenelli moved silently away. Andromede watched him drop to the ground and crawl into the hedges; then he lost sight of him. Chopper’s concern had momentarily unnerved the young Puerto Rican. What the hell—they were all fully aware of the chances. That was the name of the game, wasn’t it? Live until liberation. Liberate the other guy before he can liberate you. That was the game. Andromede shivered involuntarily. He was not yet quite ready to end the game, despite all his bravado concerning life and death. Liberation was much easier to contemplate when it was happening to the other guy. Andromede cleared his mind of the unessentials, kept his ears open for the signal from Bolan, and cast his contemplations toward the liberation of others.
Then a distant, double cra-aack of twin high-powered rifles firing simultaneously split the calm and froze Andromede’s contemplations. Someone at the far side of the house was yelling. The cra-aacks were coming in rapid succession now, and men were running about excitedly in the yard next door, cursing loudly and calling to one another.
Andromede smiled grimly and tensed at the trigger, his ear bent to the small radio. The liberation was on.
Julian DiGeorge did not like the attitudes of some of his nephews. Some of them seemed more worried about their standing in the community than about the threat to the family. And it seemed that everybody wanted to talk about the forthcoming police roustings more than they wanted to plan for the already established threat to Mack Bolan. Leonardo Cacci, the smooth, college-educated nephew at DiGeorge’s right hand, was on the board of three banks, he was coming up big in local politics, and he was very unhappy with the thought of taking up a gun and taking on a fight that was obviously so far beneath his personal image.
Cacci’s ivory smile might charm the female voters of his congressional district, but it sometimes made DiGeorge want to throw up. DiGeorge’s underworld earnings had provided the money that built the braces that had kept the ivory in that smile. Cacci was a nephew; it was one thing to put on legit airs in public, quite another to try to snow Uncle Deej with “one’s” responsibility to “one’s” community. DiGeorge wondered just how far Leonardo would survive without the constant propping of family money. “One” would not survive far, that was certain.
Then there was Johnny Trieste. Yes, there was always Johnny Trieste, it seemed. He sat at DiGeorge’s left, a great, hulking pig of a man who had never found it possible to become a “one.” Johnny had been around for as long as DiGeorge could remember, and he’d never changed one hair, not one fat wrinkle. He spoke English with the overtone accent of a nightclub comic, and he had never learned to read it or to write it—but he could count American bucks. Yes, he could certainly count American bucks.
Johnny had never been anything more than a bagman, but he’d been the best bagman in the business. And nobody could complain about a man who’d become the best at anything—if that was all he wanted to do. But Johnny was sort of embarrassing, at times, to be around. He did not blend into the new environment, the new circles—he did not even blend into the family any more. He had been a loyal Maffiano, though, loyal to the very core. And he’d been around long enough that he had a certain influence in the family councils. Right now, Johnny Trieste was terribly concerned over the possible police harassment. Johnny had been dodging a murder conviction for thirty years. He had made a courtroom escape in New York just moments before the reading of the death sentence and had made his way west and enjoyed the protection of the family all these years. Still, each potential contact with the police sent him into tremors. DiGeorge felt a sympathy for the old Maffiano, but … business was business, and the family came first.
Johnny Trieste was hunched over the table, staring into a glass of wine, and Leonardo Cacci was regarding him with one of those phony ivory smiles. DiGeorge was saying, “Look—first things first, Let’s talk about—”
And then something had happened to the back of Johnny’s head; it seemed to just burst open for no apparent reason. At that exact moment, Leonardo’s smile disappeared in a shower of ivory and frothy blood. For a startled instant, DiGeorge thought that Johnny’s shattered head had flown over into Leonardo’s mouth. Johnny’s huge bulk settled onto the table in a way that left no doubt in DiGeorge’s mind that the thirty-year-old death sentence had finally been executed. Leonardo’s head had jerked back suddenly, the body following and rocking the chair onto its rear legs; then over he went, chair and all. Only then did the twin cra-aacks announce the reason behind it all.
All others sat frozen in the immediate reaction to the inexplicable behavior of Cacci and Trieste; then two more at the table were flung violently about, even as the initial gunfire reports reached the assembled ears.
DiGeorge let out a loud yell and found that long-dormant instincts were still strong enough to propel him into a wild sideways fling toward the floor. The distant soundings of the high-powered rifles continued incessantly, and men and bodies were flying about in all directions.
“Turnitover turnitover! Turn the goddamn table over!” DiGeorge screamed, scrabbling desperately at the leg of the heavy oaken piece. The table crashed to the flagstones. DiGeorge scrambled behind it on his belly, one edge of his reeling consciousness aware of the litter of bodies behind him, another edge taking note of other men running in all directions. He saw two of them lurch suddenly as though stricken by some sudden paralysis, then crash to the ground.
“Good, God, good God, it’s a slaughter,” he moaned, his breath moving painfully through a constricted rib cage. Thunder and lightning, indeed, had found their way to Julian DiGeorge. And he had only the faintest idea whence it came.
“That’s right, baby, run straight,” Deadeye Washington muttered. He squeezed the hair trigger and was already swinging toward a new target before the thundering convulsion of the big gun had spent itself against his shoulder.
“Okay—evaluation!” Bolan snapped, speaking even as his partner’s weapon thundered again.
When Washington hoisted himself off the eyepiece, Bolan was sitting upright, legs folded, holding the binoculars to his eyes with one hand and massaging his shoulder with the other.
“Damn thing jars hell out of you,” Bolan muttered.
“Yeah. What’re they doing down there now?”
“Flopping about like headless chickens. Some are starting to look our way now. Give ’em a couple more rounds, Deadeye. See if they can spot your flashes.”
Washington grinned and bent once again to his eyepiece. He fired two quick rounds into the heavy glass at the front of the house. Bolan, peering through the binoculars, smiled. “Believe you dropped about ten with that burst,” he said.
“I just shot out the window,” Washington replied, chuckling.
“And brought on ten heart attacks,” Bolan said, chuckling along with him. He sobered abruptly, then smiled. “Yeah, they saw us. Here comes a guy with a Thompson, running hell bent for election. They’re running for the lower wall.” Bolan’s smile grew. “Are they actually going to return our fire?”
A poping
and crackling arose from the distant estate. Washington turned to Bolan with a broad grin and said, “Shi-iit.”
Bolan tossed the glasses to Washington. “Now watch the fun,” he told him. He thumbed the button on his transmitter and said, “Now, Flower, go!”
A loud, faraway blast echoed Bolan’s words. He grinned at Washington. “Damn, he was primed, wasn’t he? What’s the reaction?”
Another blast sounded. “They were all running up from the rear,” Washington reported. “Now they’re standing and gawking at each other. Now they’re starting back, but slow—damn slow.”
“Let’s keep them see-sawing,” Bolan said. He was making good use of the rifle as he spoke. The grenade blasts were coming at ten-second intervals. The DiGeorge grounds were in pandemonium, flames sprouting up here and there, puffs of smoke drifting aimlessly about, men running everywhere. Bolan squeezed off calculated shots down the long range, and Washington joined in.
Minutes later, the heat from Bolan’s rifle was becoming decidedly uncomfortable for the flesh of his face. Deadeye Washington stopped firing and pushed himself away. “This is worse than ’Nam. This is just jail. I lost my stomach for it, Mack.”
Bolan raised off the hot rifle, his face set in grim lines. “The mighty Mafia,” he intoned soberly. “Okay, Deadeye. Break the pieces down. It’s time to get out of here.” He spoke into the radio. “Horse. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” came the immidiate response. “One call on the general net and then nothing. It smells. Hardcase is silent.”
“Break off!” Bolan snarled. “Stand by to track!”
“God damn!” Schwarz cried. “I been ECMed!”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Get rolling out of there!” Bolan commanded. “Move it! All units, break away and forget the track!”
“Negative,” came Zitka’s cool tones. “I’m on one and I’m sticking.”
“Blue movement, coming up south,” Loudelk’s calm whisper announced.
Washington had the rifles in his arms. His eyes were flaring with excitement. Bolan jerked his head toward the crest of the hill, and his partner moved out immediately.
“More blues, coming west,” Loudelk said, “and I’m breaking.”
Bolan was sprinting up the slope behind Washington. Zitka’s voice was coming through the small speaker. “Route Three, it’s a line-up. This’s paydirt. Suggest break and re-form on me.”
“All who can,” Bolan added. “But evade blues at all cost.”
“I can’t find Chopper,” Andromede declared woefully.
“Break, Flower! Get the hell out!” Bolan had reached the road and was transmitting as he ran for his vehicle.
“Chopper doesn’t have a radio. He don’t have the word!”
“Get … the … hell … out!”
“Goddammit, goddammit.”
DiGeorge had made a hasty and careful check of the dead. Eight of the family had fallen, and there was unbelievable carnage among the hired hands. Only four of the twelve nephews who had come to the council survived, and still the raining bullets were richocheting off the flagstones, tearing through the table and slamming into the cement blocks of the back wall. And now a new note had been added—the explosions and the chattering of machine guns out back.
“Get out of here!” DiGeorge screamed. The four survivors of the ruling council turned frightened eyes onto him. “Through the house! Call your boys and blow! You hear? Blow!”
“Where we gonna go, Deej?” Zeno Varone whined.
“Get to Balboa! I’ll meet you. But get going! Through the house!”
Varone nodded meekly and dragged himself across the flagstones. He had been nicked in the arm and was bleeding. The others quickly followed after him. “Now get to Balboa!” DiGeorge shouted. “And dig in, dammit, as soon as you get there!” He waited until they had cleared the patio; then he scrambled to his feet and zigzagged in a low crouch to the protection of the cement wall. He stepped through the shattered glass window and ran toward the rear of the house, colliding with his personal bodyguard, Lou Pena, in the kitchen. “What’re you doin’ in here?” DiGeorge snarled.
“There’s a nut walkin’ around out there with a machine gun,” Pena declared breathlessly. “I come in ta get the lights.”
DiGeorge snatched the pistol from Pena’s hand, pushed him aside, and stepped out the back door, then dropped to a crouch and made a run for the garage. When he was halfway there, all the lights went out. DiGeorge swore under his breath, then flung himself to the ground as a machine gun began chattering nearby. A cloud of smoke was drifting toward him; from out of the cloud stepped a squat figure wearing a black outfit and carrying a spitting machine gun. DiGeorge raised Pena’s revolver and fired three rapid shots. The guy slumped to his knees without a sound, still holding the big gun. It continued to spit sporadic flame, but now it just chewed up the ground. The gunner was trying to bring the muzzle up, but it kept dropping lower and lower until it was resting on the ground. It ceased its chatter, and the guy dropped back onto his butt, then slumped forward.
DiGeorge scrambled to his feet and resumed his trip to the garage. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The guy in the black suit was still sitting there, a shadowy blob in the darkness, still trying to pull the gun out of the dirt.
DiGeorge tugged frantically at the garage door. There was no telling how many more guys like that one were wandering around his grounds. Beverly Hills had ceased to be a safe place for Julian DiGeorge. There was a better place. He had to get there—and the sooner the better.
Andromede had fired his first grenade even before Bolan’s signal had been completed, and he was reaching for his third reload when he heard Chopper’s chattergun go into action. Groups of Maffianos were racing madly about the DiGeorge grounds, shouting curses and instructions. One of them had yelled, “On the wall!”—and that was when Chopper cut loose.
Andromede could see the steady muzzle flashes licking out from Chopper’s weapon, and the screams and shouts that immediately arose beyond the hedges told of his effect. The Puerto Rican had just fired his fifth round, when he saw that Chopper’s muzzle flashes were now beyond the hedges and advancing.
Andromede screamed, “Chopper! Get back! Chopper!”—knowing, even as he did so, that his voice was lost in the explosive confusion of the DiGeorge grounds. He loaded his sixth grenade, leaped to his feet, and ran to the end of the wall. He had Chopper in sight now. The squat Italian was walking slowly but steadily across the grounds, firing from the chest in short bursts and scattering the enemy in a panicky retreat. Andromede could count about twelve men running toward the large house, their backs to Fontenelli—in full flight. He raised his grenadier, sighted beyond the heads of the fleeing enemy, and let it fly. The flame and smoke of the explosion momentarily obscured the landscape directly in front of Fontenelli. He halted and turned back toward Andromede.
“Get back!” Andromede shouted, rising to his toes and frantically waving an arm.
Fontenelli sent a figure-eight burst in Andromede’s general direction, then spun about and disappeared into the smoke. Andromede slung his weapon and launched himself into the air. He cleared the hedge and hit the soft ground of the DiGeorge estate with a jarring impact just as all the lights flashed off. He paused to get his bearings, then had just stepped off in the direction Fontenellli had taken, when his radio came alive. He continued a cautious advance and listened to the exchange between Bolan and Schwarz, then stopped stock still at Bolan’s “Break off” command. All was silent about him. A vehicle was gunning down the curving driveway, heading out in a squeal of tires. A muted burst of fire that sounded much like Chopper’s weapon sounded from the smoky darkness ahead. He moved on, calling out softly for his partner.
“Evade Blues at all cost,” Bolan’s voice was telling him.
He punched his transmitter button and cried, “I can’t find Chopper!”
“Break, Flower! Get the hell out!”
Bolan commanded sharply.
“Chopper doesn’t have a radio. He don’t have the word!” Andromede protested.
“Get … the … hell … out!”
“Goddammit, goddammit,” he said despairingly, then released the transmission switch and yelled, “Chopper! Break off, dammit. Regroup!”
A string of vehicles was whining along the drive now. Andromede wavered, then ran into the smoke.
He found Fontenelli seated on the ground about halfway between the street and the house. He was slumped forward and leaning on his weapon, the muzzle of which was dug into the turf. The front of his nightsuit was warmly wet and sticky, and his eyes stared unseeingly toward the ground. Andromede’s quickly exploring fingers found three chest punctures. He laid his friend down alongside his weapon, closed the glazed eyes, and quickly walked away.
Chapter Fifteen
GRAND SLAM
The Porsche was careening down the hill, Washington behind the wheel, Bolan leaning against the opposite door with the radio in his hand.
“That’s Bloodbrother, dead ahead,” Washington pointed out.
Bolan jerked his head in a nod. “Stay on him,” he said; then he spoke into the radio. “Horse! Dump and bail out! You have no chance in that jobby!”
“We got a better idea,” Blancanales’ voice reported. “We’re gonna try a D and D.”
“Negative,” Bolan snapped. “Jump ship! Let it go!”
“Sorry, Sarge. It’s a D and D. Our decision.”
“What he talking about?” Washington asked, rolling his eyes toward Bolan. He quickly swung his attention back to his driving chores as the Porsche leaned into a sweeping ninety-degree turn.
“Dummy and Divert,” Bolan muttered. “They’re trying to lead off the blues.”
“Think they can do it?”
Bolan sighed. “I don’t know. They’re gonna get themselves racked out, that’s what. Just might swing the track from everyone else, though.” He spoke again into the radio. “Where away, Horse?”
“Route Two and leveling. Gadgets found their new web. Stand by for intel.”
Death Squad Page 14