Bolan had scouted the place earlier, during daylight, from a distance. And although he had spotted Carl Lyons strolling the grounds in the company of two keepers, there had been no other guards visible at that time. Now the place was crawling with them.
Which only made the job harder, not impossible.
But it would have been a hell of a lot simpler and surer if he had gone in while the boys were engaging themselves at Juliana Academy.
The cabin was emplaced on level ground in a relatively isolated setting. The Percy Priest Reservoir was a huge body of water, a major recreational area with a couple dozen parks hugging its shoreline. During daylight hours, the entire area had been busy with people. Not now. Now the whole world seemed deserted.
Except for that little cabin nestled in the trees.
There was activity in there, all right.
And silent sentries posted all around. Most of them carried sawed-off shotguns. They would be repeaters, bet on it. Two guys were hefting submachine guns. They were the anchor men—close in.
And there was a rover with nothing but a side-arm worn in a big shoulder holster. He was the most vulnerable. Therefore he would be the first to go.
The rover died without knowing it. A silent wraith in black stepped from behind a tree as the guy passed by. A razor-sharp stiletto expertly found its mark between the proper vertebrae of the neck and the rover dropped with a sigh.
Bolan quietly bore the body away and searched it. The only thing of interest was a small microradio clipped to the belt. The moonlight was so bright that he could read the PocketCom trademark on the little rig. It looked like a paging device, which it was—but it was also a two-channel CB radio.
A guy took what he could get, yeah.
Bolan took the tiny radio and returned to the hellgrounds. He quietly worked his way to within ten paces of the corner man at the left flank. The guy was wedged between the forks of a tree, about three feet off the ground, all but invisible. Bolan’s thumb found the call button on the PocketCom. A rewarding beep responded from the tree—but the sentry did not stir. So Bolan did it again. This time he caught motion over there, followed by a hushed voice. “Who’d you want?”
The beep sounds for thee, guy.
Bolan had already started his move, taking quick advantage of the distraction.
And the left corner man never got his call.
Bolan left him where he died and went swiftly on. The radio was a godsend. All these guys were wearing them. The whole damn outfit was wired for sound, and Bolan held the sounder. Every guy in that yard beeped when Bolan pushed the button. And he had the entire left flank cleared out before the survivors began complaining.
“Who’s playing with the damn radios?”
“Henny! Has anybody seen Henny?”
“He passed here a couple minutes ago.”
“Get off the damn radios! Quiet it!” Bolan. recognized that harsh voice.
“Someone’s playing with the damn pager, Gordy. Or else somebody’s in trouble.”
“Check it out, Henny. Give me a roger on that.”
Bolan took the rear man with a singing garrote.
“Henny! If you hear me, fire a shot!”
The big silver AutoMag roared into the night and a flanker on the right forty yards uprange spun to eternity.
Another guy up there stepped from a shadow with a chopper poised, craning his neck for a better see. Big thunder erupted again, sending another 240 grains sizzling uprange to splatter that craning neck.
“That’s not Henny! Alla you boys—”
The lights in the cabin went out.
People were in motion in the darkness.
Bolan was one of them, with them. He made the front porch and vaulted the railing, coming down softly on creaking boards. The body count had gone to seven. And he knew that the remaining three outside men had to be between the cabin and the access road.
And he had them coming in.
They were pulling back, cautious and trying to keep their dignity, moving slowly and passing quick signals back and forth in the interest of friendly identification.
All was entirely quiet inside the cabin. No voices, no movements. Which led Bolan to believe that not many were inside. Perhaps only two—one tied to a bed and the other.…
He waited for the outsiders to enter the cleared area at the front of the cabin. Three, yeah. One with a chopper. He took that one first, with a bone-shattering headshot that sent juices spraying into the moonbeams, then tracked immediately onto the other targets. Both shotguns boomed, almost precisely together, the loads traveling God knew where—certainly not toward the cabin—and not even the senders knew to where.
Ten up and ten down.
So how now, bad Gordy?
He fed a fresh clip into the AutoMag and kicked the door open. A revolver flashed at him from the dark interior and a heavy bullet whizzed past as he ducked back to cover.
He called in, “Come on out, Gordy.”
“Who’s there?”
“You haven’t figured it out?”
A moment of silence, then, “I still hate your fucking town.”
Bolan chuckled without humor. “Me too yours.”
He flipped the spent clip from the AutoMag at the window. A shotgun boomed in there and the whole window dissolved.
A moment later: “You still there, Omega?”
“Oh sure.”
“Why’re you doing this?”
“You called me, guy.”
“The hell I did. I’m just trying to make a living.”
“You try too hard, Gordy. You should have known.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right?”
“Maybe so. You feel up to one more venture?”
The guy even sounded like Lou Costello as he asked, “Do I got a choice?”
“Guess not. I came for your head, Gordy.”
“Hell you think I didn’t know that right from the start? Well okay. You’ll have to come and get it, hotass.”
“Is that your final word?”
“It sure is.”
The guy had not changed position during that conversation. Bolan had a pretty decent fix on the location of his voice. He just hoped to God there was only one.
He tried for a final fix. “Nick said I should kiss you first. I told him you’re too damned ugly.”
“Nick is a—”
Bolan would never know Crazy Gordy’s final thoughts on Nick Copa. He’d launched himself with the first syllable of the reply, diving in through the shattered window with a twisting plunge to land bellyup.
The shotgun baloomed almost in the muzzle of the thundering .44, the flash lighting that interior like the single pulse of a strobe, Gordy’s contorted face frozen there in a mask of death as a heavy bullet blasted through clenched teeth and exploding flesh.
Bolan lay panting, knowing that he also had taken some heat, loathe to explore the extent of the damage.
But then a weak voice from the rear came like a candle in the gloom. “That you, Sarge?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Oh they’ve been treating me pretty well here. Exercises in the yard twice a day and—where’s Smiley?”
“She’s okay, Carl.”
“Thank God. Well are you going to lay there and breathe or are you going to get me out of this mess?”
“I’m going to lay here and breathe. How about you?”
“I got no choice.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m tied up, damnit.”
“Do tell.” Yeah, he’d taken some heat. The blacksuit was shredded at the left thigh. And there was some raw meat down there. Nothing big. But another silly millimeter to center and …
He got to his feet and tried it.
“Sure you’re okay?” Lyons asked in that enfeebled voice.
“Guess I’m as good as you,” Bolan replied, sighing. “You ready to go?”
“Hell yes
I’m ready to go. But I’m not walking so well, Sarge.”
“Think you’ve earned a ride?”
“For what? Rest camp? It’s been a breeze.”
Bolan doubted that. Gordy’s plans were too ambitious to risk killing his golden goose before he got what he wanted from him. But there were lots of ways to hurt a man without killing him.
He snapped on the penlight. Mazzarelli was a mess. So was the cabin. A one-room affair—kitchen, bedroom, all in one.
Lyons was lashed to an old iron bedstead, hand and foot.
Bolan found the light switch and turned it on.
The poor guy was black and blue all over. And there were fresh hurts over old agonies. But he was all there. Thank God, all of him was there.
CHAPTER 18
SEALING IT
Grimaldi elevated a thumb and said, “This is getting like an unhealthy habit. Watch yourself.”
Bolan released the seat belt as he told his pilot, “You can relax this time, Jack. It’s all our way, now.”
“I’ll believe that,” Grimaldi growled, “when I’m seeing this joint for the last time.”
“Soon,” Bolan promised, smiling grimly.
He stepped onto the pad at Franklin Place, paused halfway to the house to put down his package and light a cigarillo, and waited for the reception committee.
He sensed people all around him though he could see none. All the lights were on, inside and out. The grounds were lit up like a shopping center parking lot.
But apparently there was to be no formal reception.
He picked up his parcel and went on. The house boss met him just outside the door. Bolan said, “How’s it swinging, Lenny?”
The guy was in a pout. He replied, “Just barely, sir. Mr. Copa ain’t feeling so well, either. He wants you should get comfortable in the garden. He’ll be with you in just a second. Uh, pardon me, sir. What’s in the sack?”
“It’s for your boss, Lenny.”
“Oh, right—right, sir. Uh, can you find your own way? I’m a little short-handed.”
Like hell he was.
But Bolan found his own way to paradise. And this time there were no prop cuties in the pool. No white-jacketed housemen were on hand to fuss over his comfort, either. The whole place was ominously quiet.
He placed the paper bag on the floor of the patio. Then he dragged a chair to poolside and straddled it, arms on the backrest, the cigarillo clamped between his teeth—in plain view from everywhere.
Someone turned on the underwater lights in the pool.
He chuckled and flipped the cigarillo into the illuminated water.
Copa came out a moment later. A large bandage completely covered the crown of his head. He’d lost some hair there, yeah. The face was pained, sour.
“I took a hit,” he explained.
The guy was just standing there, about ten paces out, almost on top of the sack.
Bolan said, “I heard. I’d say you took a lucky one. Hurt much?”
“That’s what the doc said. And, yes, it hurts like hell.”
“All wounds heal quick in paradise, Nick.”
“Don’t talk to me about paradise,” Copa growled. “Right now I got twenty evil demons kicking inside my head.”
Bolan gave a philosophical shrug. No sympathy. “You’ll get over it. And it’ll make a nice chapter for your autobiography.”
The guy scowled and asked, “Is that supposed to be some kind of dig?”
“No. I meant it. You should write that book some day. Change the names, of course.”
“Of course.”
The Lord of Nashville lit a cigar.
“Lenny tells me you brought something with you. What’s in the sack?”
Mack Bolan had always been a man who could command himself. But what was in that sack had taken the strongest command he could muster. “Special gift,” he said coldly. “A token of my esteem.”
Copa bent cautiously over the paper bag and delicately opened it. He stared at the contents for a long moment then straightened up with a twisted smile.
“I like your style, Omega,” he said quietly.
Sure. Bolan had known that he would. And if a guy wanted in the game then he had to be prepared to participate in the rituals. All of the rituals. Still …
He reminded his host, “You snapped your fingers.”
“Damn right I did,” Copa gloated.
He gave the sack a vicious kick.
Crazy Gordy’s bloodied head fell out of it on the first bounce and rolled into the pool. A new decorative touch to paradise.
Bolan lit another cigarillo.
Copa paced around for a moment, glaring at the thing in the pool, then he pulled up a chair close to the bearer of gifts and sat down.
“How many times you been here today?” he asked coldly.
Bolan replied evenly, “This is the third trip.”
The guy chewed his cigar for a moment. “Uh huh. It figures. Never mind how you did it. Just tell me why you did it.”
Bolan smiled soberly. “Call it an inspired act.”
“What inspired it?”
“She did. Said she wanted to help. I believed her.”
Copa snarled, “I want her back here! You hear me? I want her back!”
“The honeymoon is over, Nick. The lady doesn’t want to come back.”
“I want to hear her say it!”
Bolan shook his head. “Too late. We made a deal.”
“What d’ya mean, we made a deal! Our deal—”
“Not you and me, Nick. Me and her. She wanted out. So I took her out.”
“That’s the most outrageous damned—” The guy turned very pale. “Wait a minute! You didn’t!…”
Bolan moved the idea away. “Hey, she’s okay. I just did you both a favor. She’d become a liability to you. Much longer and she’d have become a dead liability. You get my meaning.”
Copa got the meaning. “You did me a big favor, eh?”
“It’s your only loss. Out of it all, Nick, your only loss. Count the possibilities. You could have lost it all.”
A moment later, “How?”
Bolan spread his hands. “Why am I here?”
“You’re here because I let you in.”
“Wrong.”
“Wrong?”
Bolan pulled a playing card from his breast pocket and snapped it toward the lord of Nashville. It sailed through the air and dropped at Copa’s feet. And it did not matter which side came up; the ace of spades adorned both sides.
Copa placed a foot on the card and asked, “Is that for me?”
“It could have been.”
“Why?”
“It didn’t look good, Nick. They were wondering.”
“About me?”
“Trade places. Wouldn’t you wonder?”
The guy showed him a pasty smile as he replied, “I guess so. But they know better, now.”
“They will, yeah. Soon as I get the report back.”
“Well don’t waste too much time doing that.”
Bolan smiled coldly. “Just so we understand it, Nick. The report does have to get back.”
Copa laughed over a private joke. Then he sobered abruptly to ask, “What’s all this have to do with my wife?”
“Nothing,” Bolan told him.
“Nothing?”
“Except from me to you.”
“I don’t get it.”
Bolan got to his feet, nudged the paper sack into the pool with his foot, and returned to his chair. “It’s clean now. Leave well enough alone. The lady helped me. I helped her back. Call it quits at that. Leave her go, Nick. That’s from me to you.”
Lord Copa pulled his chair closer. He was mad as hell. But he was trying to cool it. Presently he said, “Okay. I guess I can live with that. You better hope you can, too. I guess you know what you’re doing. For me, it’s a small enough loss.”
“That’s the way I saw it.”
“Yeh.”
“Did I hear
you say thanks?”
“You heard it. So. Now, what about the Leonetti punk?”
Bolan said, “Just the way we figured it. Gordy was going for the whole pie. He snatched the kid and took him to a cabin out near the reservoir.”
“I never heard of it.”
“Gordy was the kind to keep secret places. Even from his boss. Especially from his boss.”
Copa growled, “Crazy Gordy was a fink.”
“More than that. He was a thief who stole from his own father and brothers.”
Copa said, “He was a rotten shit.” He spat at the pool.
“It was a one shot deal. He never planned to work with Leonetti. He just wanted to rob him. That means robbing you. And your friends. He put the kid on ice while he checked him out. Meanwhile he was working the kid for all he could get.”
“How much was that?”
Bolan smiled soberly. “Not a damn thing.”
“That’s nice. That’s damn nice.”
“The kid checks out clean. He’s got the stuff. It was to be Mazzarelli and Clemenza, not Mazzarelli and Leonetti. But the kid blundered in and spoiled their game. He didn’t like the smell of the deal. That’s why he came. He was trying to get to you when Gordy snatched him away.”
Copa smiled craftily and said, “You knew he was clean all along. When you first came in here, you knew it. That’s why you were cat and mousing me and Gordy. You wanted to see which one would take the break.”
Bolan smiled at the Lord. “You’re a big man, Nick. I’m glad it worked out this way.”
The Lord was smiling back at the Executioner. “Me too,” he said grandly. “You’re not so small, yourself. Well. Well this is just wonderful. It calls for a celebration. We’ll have some—”
Bolan held up a hand and said, “No offense, but I can’t stay.” He stood up. “Leonetti’s at the Holiday Inn. A bit worse for a week of wear with Crazy Gordy but I think he’d probably enjoy a celebration, himself, right now. He’s waiting for your call. The kid held out for a whole week, Nick. Now you and I both know what kind of guts that takes.”
Lord Nick knew, sure. His eyes were shining as he said, “I’ve been looking for a kid with real guts for a long time, Omega. A man has to think of the future. Right?”
Omega replied, “Oh right, right.”
“What’s the kid’s first name?”
“His name is Carlo. They call him Carl.”
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