Bolan had learned much from each of these men—both in Vietnam and later when he’d formed his Death Squad of Mafia fighters in Los Angeles. The LA venture had quickly proven to be a tragic mistake. Of the ten men comprising that squad, only Bolan, Schwarz, and Blancanales survived the Los Angeles war with the DiGeorge Family. Bolan had walked his trails more or less alone ever since, except for a brief job in San Diego with these two old partners.
During the New Orleans campaign, he’d stumbled onto them purely by chance—and luckily so, for them. There was barely a spark of life left between the two of them when Bolan rescued the pair from the torture-interrogation activities of Tommy Carlotti, the self-styled terror of Bourbon Street. As here in St. Louis, they’d been doing an investigative job for a client, and the “client” turned out to be …
Bolan sighed and turned his mind from that. He could not and would not presume to live these men’s lives for them. If they wanted into his world again, for a while, then they were welcome. But, let the devil claim his own. Bolan could not afford the weight of another broken friend upon his soul—he would accept no moral responsibility for what might become of them in his world.
It was their world, too, the moment they knocked on the door and walked inside. The nineteenth-century poet and dramatist, Henrik Ibsen, had once written: “The strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone.” Bolan himself expanded that idea when he jotted it into his journal with the parenthetical note: “Every man who stands, stands alone.”
And a few hours earlier, he had given voice to the idea as he solemnly told his temporary partners: “It’s damn good to be together again. Just remember, though—in this world, togetherness is an illusion. Not one of us can bleed for the other. Every man has to do his own dying. And his own living. So let’s not allow the illusion to defeat us. We stand stronger when we stand alone … and know it.”
Schwarz’s response to that had been: “Sure, Sarge. I learned that years ago. It’s like making love.”
Blancanales scowled at the electronics genius and asked him, “What the hell does what he said have to do with making love?”
“Nobody can do it for you,” Schwarz solemnly explained.
The Politician threw up his hands and told Bolan: “He’s relating it to the only thing he really understands. I’ve never seen such a cocksman. I never realized—listen, this is God’s truth—this guy has five or six women in every town we hit. Right here in St. Louis, already, he has—”
“They’re contacts,” Schwarz said quickly, his face flaming. “Don’t make it sound like—”
“Contacts, my ass!” Blancanales howled. “How come you make all your contacts lying down, Gadgets?”
It was characteristic of those two to turn a sober subject into something to chuckle over—while at the same time conveying an understanding and acceptance of the business at hand. And Bolan was grinning now in the remembrance of that pleasant banter. It was the part of that other world he missed most—the comradeship, the happy brushing with other minds and other personalities in relaxed friendship.
He had gone on, then, to check the guys out on the warwagon’s special systems, then turned it over for their use during the coming hours of intrigue and bloodshed.
Both had been highly impressed with the $100,000 marvel of space-age engineering—Gadgets Schwarz, in particular.
A NASA scientist, working with another genius from a New Orleans-based electronics firm, had moonlighted the sophisticated electronics systems for Bolan, giving him access to the very latest technological wonders of the day. Others had contributed their own specialties and equipment to produce the finished result: a battle cruiser which served as a mobile base camp, command post, field headquarters, armory, spy ship—all packed into twenty-six feet of solid luxury and comfort.
GMC supplied the stock features—the basic body, a slightly modified 455-cubic-inch Toronado engine, automatic transmission with front traction, rear tandem wheels with air-bag suspension—a galley, shower and toilet, bunk space.
Bolan had added one-way glass throughout, allowing 360-degree visibility for himself while shielding the interior from curious eyes. Amidships was a foldaway light-table for running combat plots, a central command console whose functions could be remoted to the control deck forward, a weapons lab and armory with concealed storage for munitions and weapons.
The features that inspired Schwarz to near ecstasy involved the electronic intelligence-gathering gear. The heart of that system was computerized selection and switching circuits which controlled radio pickups, highly sensitive audio scanners, optic selections, plus a special console for synchronizing, time-phasing, sorting, editing, re-recording and storing collected intelligence data.
Pol’s heart had immediately gone to the weapons lab and the cruiser’s heavy punch capability: the swivel-platform, retractable rocket pod concealed in the roof. The system was operated from the driver’s console by highly sophisticated fire-control gear featuring night-bright optics and automatic target acquisition. Upon command, the launcher would rise through sliding panels to the roof, lock into firing position, “acquire” target, and deliver massive destruction over an impressive range.
The guys had happily taken charge of Bolan’s battle cruiser and they’d been out cruising the territory most of the night, consolidating their own intelligence posture and, hopefully, adding to it a few significant items specifically requested by Bolan.
The operation in St. Louis was going to demand some damned tight numbers, unfailing timing, and an incredible degree of “finesse.”
Bolan had still not completely discounted the earlier misgivings concerning the possibility that Ciglia and the entire mob movements in this area were little more than an elaborately baited trap for Bolan himself. Certainly the old men in New York had grown querulously weary of “the Bolan problem.” They had already spent fortunes and moved mountains to end the problem. Bolan’s direct line to La Commissione, Leo Turrin, had sent repeated warnings of supersecret strategy sessions and concerted movements, all directed toward the demise of the man who was shaking their house with ever-increasing ferocity.
It could not go on forever; Bolan realized that. Sooner or later he was bound to make a fatal slip, or the fates would turn their smiles elsewhere, and the brief “problem” of Mack Bolan would abruptly go where all other Mafia problems seemed to go: into nowhere.
But, what the hell, he’d never expected to live forever. He had not expected, in fact, to live this long. That “last mile” which began in Pittsfield—hell, how many eternities ago?—had now spanned the world and seemed to be extending into infinity—but he knew that this also was an illusion.
The “last mile” could not be measured in distance traveled but in blood spilled. How much more could he spill before his own was spent into the final pool? Not much, probably. He was tired, battle weary, soul sensitive. It was why he’d unloaded on Toni that way. It was why he’d gone so somber with Blancanales and Schwarz. The end was near: Bolan could feel it in his bones.
Would this be the final campaign?
He shook his head at that.
Only God could say. And God was a neutral. He created the heavens and the earth, okay. Then he created man, and commanded him to give some meaning to existence.
So men built a hell—and, from that, fought and scratched to construct a paradise.
And for why?
Bolan had no answers for that.
If there was a God, somewhere—a thinking, rational God, with a mind bigger and better than Bolan’s—then surely he saw the whole production with at least the same detachment and understanding as Bolan.
A God who deserved the name wouldn’t despise an old man like Artie Giamba. He might even admire certain things about him.
Was God a neutral?
If a man could care—why couldn’t God?
It mattered, sure. Somewhere the universe wept over each loss and rejoiced with every gain. The whole bloody, savage business m
attered—somewhere.
It mattered to Mack Bolan. And he was somewhere. For a while, anyway. As long as he lived, then, it mattered somewhere whether there would be light or darkness upon the earth. That was reason enough right there for Mack Bolan.
Reason enough to go on living—to go on killing—to keep on wading Blood River.
He’d seen Toni and Giamba safely tucked away. His scouts were out taking a final reading of the situation. The sun was edging into the eastern sky. The die was cast. Ready or not, the time was here and the showdown was near.
For awhile, anyway, old Saint Louie was going to shake, rattle and roll. And then—somewhere—the universe would weep or rejoice.
And yes, Toni, there were devils inside Mack Bolan from time to time. He could not have said, at that moment, just which side he thought the universe may be pulling for.
6: EVERYWHERE
Bolan dropped off his rental car and made the switch to the “Saint Louie Junker”—a five-year-old sedan whose dented body and flaking paint concealed a powerful and finely tuned warhorse for the coming activities. A supply of personal weapons and ammo lay beneath a blanket on the rear floor, the trunk was crammed with munitions, and the vehicle was radio-equipped.
The time was seven o’clock, Saturday morning. The town was quiet—hushed, even—with very little vehicular traffic, stores closed. It was that eerie hour for big cities.
He pointed the car toward Busch Stadium and punched in the pre-set combat channel on the radio.
“North Star,” he called. “What’s the lay?”
Schwarz’s soft tones bounced back immediately. “Snap in Charlie Sector.”
Bolan selected a glass slide from a dash-mounted case and dropped it into a miniature projector which occupied the seat beside him. The slide was a duplicate of one from the warwagon’s console plot. A street map, in sharp detail, covering the city’s riverfront, leapt onto a small screen mounted beneath the dashboard.
“Charlie it is,” he reported to the mother ship.
“We’re at coordinates Delta Five, cruising north, speed thirty.”
Bolan’s gaze flicked to the map display. They were headed up Broadway, from a point just north of Eads Bridge.
“Roger,” he replied. “Tracking from Easy Four.” He swung immediately onto Grand Boulevard and powered northward for an intercept route. “Situation report.”
“Situation is grooving,” Schwarz told him. “Caravan sprung from Stonehenge at zero six forty. Estimate twenty units in three big blacks. Probable destination, Winevat. Instructions.”
Interpreted, the report meant that three crew wagons carrying about twenty guns were running from Del Annunzio’s fortress in Webster Groves on an apparent headhunting mission and seemed to be headed toward the secret hideout of Jules Pattriccia, oldest and dearest friend of Little Artie Giamba. Pattriccia had made his first stake during prohibition days, running juice from a little winery in the Missouri Ozarks, and still carried the tag “Vino Jules.” Annunzio was a frontline gunnery lieutenant under Jerry Ciglia, sharing top honors in that department wth one Charlie Alimonte.
Bolan’s instructions to the warwagon were: “Maintain quiet running until endtrack verified. Report developments.”
“Roj.”
“No more flights?”
“Affirm. Flights everywhere, but most are soft runs. Electronic verified. This one is hard. Also, unusual official activity.”
“Roj, North Star. Maintain.”
“Maintaining.”
Blancanales and Schwarz had “wired” the town long before Bolan’s arrival on the scene—which simply meant that they had located and identified most of the Mafia elements present and had them under electronic surveillance. The special collection gear aboard the warwagon fitted beautifully into that surveillance network, allowing the guys to harvest more intelligence data in an hour than they could have covered all day without it.
Schwarz’s closing report to Bolan reflected the value of that capability. They knew that various head parties were on the prowl but that only Annunzio appeared to have a specific target in mind. Therefore, the Bolan forces could zero in on the paydirt and forget, for the moment, the fishing expeditions.
Also, thanks to the warwagon’s radio scanners, all police frequencies were under constant monitor and provided a rather reliable gauge of “official activity.”
As for the principals, Bolan had the full story on old Jules Pattriccia and his riverfront diggings out past Merchants Bridge. The one he was vague on was Annunzio.
“Give me a read on that caravan leader,” he requested from Schwarz. “Look in File Three.”
“Roj. Stand by.”
Bolan swung onto upper Broadway and continued the chase at a leisurely pace while Schwarz consulted the warwagon’s personnel bank.
The search took about ten seconds.
Schwarz reported, “Age twenty-eight. First Family favorite son, once removed. Six taps in Hardtown through last October, none binding. Present connections via Iron Mike. He’s a soft tiger.”
Sparse though it was, the rundown refreshed Bolan’s memory. The file simply reported that Annunzio was the son of a once-powerful underboss in the Manhattan family of Augie Marinello, that he’d had six felony arrests and no convictions, that his last known job before joining Ciglia was as a commissione gunner under Mike Talifero, and that he was educated and polished but mean as a snake.
And, yeah, Bolan knew more than that about that dude.
“Use caution,” he warned his forward trackers. “He’s a slicker.”
“Understand,” Schwarz replied.
“I am now running true. Acquire and report.”
“Roger,” was the immediate response. “Have you at Delta Nine and tracking true. Range, one thousand meters.”
Bolan was working the backtrack now, deliberately falling behind to scout the rear. “Now falling away to backboard,” he advised the mother ship. He ejected the Charlie Sector slide and dropped in another. “Will attempt a rejoin at Bravo Two Delta. Close your track all possible and advise immediately any deviation to base track. It’s a Code Zebra.”
“Roger, understand,” Schwarz replied.
“Zebra” was an attack code, a Bolan classic when working with allies, tried and proven in the hardgrounds of Southeast Asia and just as appropriate here as anywhere. And, yes, Schwarz would certainly “understand.”
Del Annunzio was a “soft tiger,” all right.
Bolan was taking no chances whatever with that guy.
The squawk line from the communications center carried the report to Lt. Postum: “There’s a couple of weird mobile radios running around out there. I’ve heard every kind of CB-band roadcode there is, and this is nothing like that.”
Postum looked up from his planning sheet and fixed the intercom with an interested gaze. “What do you make it?”
“I don’t make it, that’s the problem. Sounds sort of like military, but it’s the wrong band for that. I thought at first it might be a couple of boats on the river, but they’re moving too fast for boats. I’m getting a good plot, now, and it’s definitely overland. Too slow for aircraft except helicopters, and there’s no mistaking a helicopter carrier.”
The lieutenant surged to his feet as he called back, “I’m coming in for a listen.”
He reached the comm center just in time to overhear another of the “weird” exchanges.
“North Star, we’ve got a bandit back here. Mark him at one hundred meters off my head. Acquire and verify.”
Postum’s hackles went to full rise. That voice …
“See?” the technician was commenting. “Sounds like military aircraft, doesn’t it. But it’s not. I even considered a National Guard exercise, but that’s out, too.”
“Affirm, Backboard, I have acquisition, true and running one hundred meters off your head.”
The technician was frowning. “It’s a mixed jargon. Truckers talk that way sometimes, passing warnings on speed traps and s
uch, but I—”
“It’s not truckers,” Postum said sourly.
“Give me a separation count,” that damned voice commanded.
“Separation is one two zero zero meters, Backboard.”
“Good enough. I am clearing the backtrack.”
“Tally ho, Backboard.”
“Commencing run. Backboard out.”
The technician grinned. “Sounds like a torpedo attack on the Goldenrod, doesn’t it?”
“Let’s see your ADF plot,” Postum quietly ordered.
An automated wall display came alive with computerized light sequences superimposed on a grid map of the metro area. “River route, north,” the tech needlessly pointed out.
Postum growled, “Yeah. Okay. Something’s definitely going down. Route a replay of that to the lab. I want a voiceprint comparison with the telephone tape I sent in awhile ago. I want it quick.”
The technician was busy at his console. “Pretty cagey guys, whoever they are. Tight radio discipline. Had a hell of a time lining in the ADFs. Very brief transmissions—and I couldn’t make a damn thing of their lingo. Could you?”
“Enough,” Postum replied grimly. He was eyeing the grid map as he spoke. “Buzz the skipper. Tell him we’re recommending a Tac Alert in Sector Four. Tell him I’m bringing in the hard intelligence for command evaluation.”
The intelligence boss spun on his heel and hurried off to the electronics lab.
He could not understand himself. He should be feeling elated, triumphant—at the very least, self-satisfied.
But he felt none of that.
That damned guy—that damned, superlative guy. We’re sending the armored hounds after you, guy!
But there was nothing at all for sober Tom Postum to grin about, now.
7: ATTACK ZONE
They were on grim and serious business, and it was a grimly silent bunch who were packed into the big crew wagon.
George “Hooker” Napoli was sprawled comfortably across the front seat, sharing it only with Spider Fischetti, the wheelman. The other five of the gun crew were squeezed into the rear area—shotgunners Rossi and Monaco wedged into the jump seats with their sawed-off weapons between their legs—pistolmen Verducco, Avante, and DiCavalla sharing the far rear seat.
St. Louis Showdown Page 4