The men around the table, exactly twelve in number, were beginning to get excited. There were murmurings and creakings of chairs. Several cigars and a half-dozen cigarettes were lighted.
Sergio seemed to be enjoying his role immensely. He was smiling now, expansively so. “You begin to see, eh? Our intelligence is not so hot, eh? The Mafia is getting soft, they say. Too much easy living, they say. The new generation of the family are mush-heads, they say. Let us shake their brains, they say. Let us push them as far as they will push, and see what mistakes they will make, eh? Let us play games with the Mafia, and maybe their panic will bring their house down. Eh?”
“I don’t like this situation as much as the other one,” Seymour commented sourly. “One lone guy, even a ghost, gives me a lot more comfort than a concentrated assault by the federal government, and with no regard for the rules of play.”
“Comfort?” Sergio thundered. “You want comfort? Take your comfort, college man, and sleep with it! Sergio Frenchi wants a dead Bolan! Not a ghost, not an invincible destroyer, but a dead body.”
“But you just said …” Seymour began weakly, then lost steam altogether.
“I said you should get some bone in your back,” the old man said sternly. “Forget all this whimpering and weeping about the Bolan ghost. Make him a ghost, a real one, and tell the feds to send us another. And we will make him a ghost, and tell them to send us another. Eh? Who is the bold and the brave, eh? Eh, Leopold? Is it our women?”
“We’ll get the bastard,” Turrin declared grimly, his eyes falling away from the old man’s.
“Yes, yes we will. And this is how we will. Now, Nathan, first of all you will …”
And so began the council of September First. Angelina Turrin’s foreboding of evil could well have been shared by Executioner Mack Bolan. And she had provided the lull that made it all possible. The Mafia had found a second wind, and it was to be an ill one for The Executioner.
BOOK THREE:
1 — In With the New
Mack Bolan had, for more than 48 hours, been a guest in the apartment of Valentina Querente. He had learned that she was a teacher of history at the local high school, coincidentally the same school to which Bolan had been assigned as ROTC instructor—an assignment he would never fill. He had learned also that she was 26 years of age, single, given to swift changes of mood from the deeply sober to the richly humorous, that she appeared to be both virginal and worldly-wise, easily embarrassed by the most innocent of things while entirely at ease with some of the most sexually suggestive. They shared the same bed, with a rolled blanket separating them, Bolan practically naked in nothing but jockey shorts, Valentina well-bundled in a bulky gown. Her hands moved freely upon him in an assistance to his awkward attempts at dressing and undressing and he had observed her on several occasions in nothing more than panties and bra, yet their bodies had never touched, nor had their lips—not even their hands.
Bolan awoke to his third morning in the Querente bed with the lovely young woman seated beside him and peering into his face. “Hi,” he said. Her eyes shifted away from his in obvious embarrassment.
“You always wake up and catch me staring at you,” she complained.
“I really can’t think of a nicer way to wake up,” he told her. His hand found hers and enfolded it, for the first time.
“Don’t, uh—you’d better not,” she said breathlessly, feebly attempting a withdrawal from his grasp.
“Why not? It’s a nice, soft little hand, entirely comforting to hold.”
“It, uh, that’s your sore arm.”
“It isn’t all that sore now. I could probably even hug you with it.”
“Get serious, Mack,” she said soberly. “Really—the reason I was sitting here like this—I mean—well, it’s about time you left the nest, isn’t it?”
“You kicking me out?” he asked.
She nodded her head. “Especially if you’re feeling all that strong.”
“All what strong?” he asked whimsically.
“All that strong to hug me with your sore arm.”
“Lie down here and let’s give it a test run,” he suggested.
“I want to,” she replied, her eyes unwavering. “That’s why I think …”
“That I’d better be leaving?” he said.
“Uh-huh.” She withdrew the hand from Bolan’s and clasped both her hands nervously in her lap.
“Have you ever been in love, Valentina?” Bolan asked softly.
“Oh gosh, please don’t start—”
“No fooling,” he said, “and no line. Have you ever been in love?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Two or three times.”
“What does it feel like?”
There was a brief silence, then: “You are serious, aren’t you?”
“I said I was.”
“Well I just said that. I don’t know how it feels to be in love. I mean, really in love. I’ve had crushes. I think I have one on you, now. I think.”
He chose to ignore the not-so-surprising declaration. “I’m thirty years old,” he said musingly.
“I know that.”
“Years ago, a lot of years ago, I used to think that someday I’d fall in love with some girl.”
“How many years ago?”
“I don’t remember thinking much about it for a long time now. Long time. All of a sudden I’m thinking about it again. How come?” He was staring at her intently, as though perhaps expecting to find the answer to his question in that stare.
“Oh, Mack—please—don’t …”
His arms went about her and he pulled her onto him; her face was suspended directly above his, eyes large and frightened. “Mack, please don’t let’s be in love,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be in love with a murderer.”
His eyes froze and she saw the veils sliding across them. He released her and she flung herself away from the bed and lurched through the door. Bolan was muttering beneath his breath. He swung his feet to the floor and looked about for his clothing. He could hear Valentina sobbing, in another room. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Thanks for reminding me.” He went into the bathroom, found his clothes hanging just where they’d been that first morning, relocated them atop the vanity, turned on the water, and stepped into the shower. He removed the bandage from his shoulder, slid back the shower curtain, and inspected the wound in the mirror. He decided that soap and water would not hurt it any, closed the curtain, and took a leisurely bath. Then he dressed and went into the kitchen. Valentina had his breakfast waiting for him, but she was nowhere in evidence.
He ate mechanically, in sober contemplation, and he had finished a cigarette and was working on his third cup of coffee when he heard the front door open. Valentina appeared a moment later, slightly breathless, very lovely in shorts and bare-midriff blouse.
“I moved your car again,” she told him, sinking into a chair opposite his and regarding him with misty eyes.
“Thanks,” he said softly. “I’d like to give you a citation for service above and beyond, or something. I guess instead I’ll just give you ten grand.”
“Ten what?”
“There’s a lot of money in the trunk of that car. I’m going to give you ten thousand of it.”
“I don’t want any money,” she said, eyes clouding. “Anyway, where’d you get it?”
“The money?” He smiled and took time to light another cigarette. “Well, besides being a murderer, I’m also a thief, but that’s something that did not get reported. They couldn’t afford to report it. I stole a quarter of a million of the Mafia’s secret bucks.”
“My gosh!” she cried. “All that money is out there in that car?”
He nodded. “And I intend to keep it. There’s no telling how long this war will last, and it takes money to wage war. So—I’ll fight ’em with their own money. See? I not only kill, but I also steal, cheat, and lie.”
“I—I don’t really think of you as a murderer, Mack,” she said contr
itely. “I—don’t know why I said that.”
“No, you’re right,” he told her. “School starts tomorrow and you’ll be going back to the classroom, I’ll be going back to the battlefield. That’s the way it has to be, and there simply is no room for anything in between.” He looked at her and grinned. “I’m sorry I lost my head.”
“I—I really don’t think of you as a murderer,” she repeated, avoiding his gaze. “—and I’m uh, not going to kick you out of the nest, either. You can stay as long as you’d like, but you’ll have to sleep on the couch from now on. Unless …”
Bolan’s eyebrows raised. “Unless what?”
“Unless nothing,” she mumbled. “I guess I’m not kicking you out of my bed either.” She underwent one of those lightning changes of moods, smiling impishly, eyes sparkling. “Twenty-six, never kissed, and never a man in my bed—until you. Now you don’t think I’ll let you out all that easy, do you?”
“I just might slap you silly,” he growled, dropping his eyes to the coffee cup.
“All righty, I’ll even let you slap me silly.” A tear oozed out of each eye and slid silently down the smooth cheeks. Their eyes met and Bolan knew a wrenching of the heart he had never before experienced.
“God, Val!” he groaned. They left their chairs simultaneously, meeting at the end of the table and falling fiercely into each other’s arms. Bolan ignored the tiny twinge at his shoulder and clasped her in tight enfoldment. Her face tilted to his, lips moistly parted, and her mouth grafted to his with consuming urgency, the petite body melting into him in total surrender. His hands moved automatically to the vibrant flesh between shorts and blouse and she twisted against him with a racking sob. She dragged her lips away from his and moaned, “I can’t help it, Mack, I just can’t help it.”
Without a word he lifted her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom, she clinging to him and moaning breathless little sounds into his ear. He stood her up on the bed and undressed her, placing a moist kiss upon each of her hips and upon the delicately folded belly button. Her fingers curled into his hair and she shuddered, then dropped to her knees, arms about his neck, mouth hungrily seeking his as she wriggled against him. She pulled away abruptly, weakly gasping, “Oh, oh, oh.” His lips nuzzled into her throat and followed the delicate contours onto firm little breasts, the nipples of which were stiffly extended and vibrantly responsive.
“Let me—help—you,” she panted, her fingers twisting ineffectually at his clothing.
Bolan gently pushed her hands away and disrobed himself. She fell back onto the pillow and lay very still, gazing up at him with glistening eyes. “I love you, Mack Bolan,” she whispered.
“Thank you,” he said softly, settling beside her.
“You’re quite welcome,” she gasped.
“You, uh, have to put your legs, Val—uh, like this.”
“Oh, oh Mack!”
“God, you’re sweet. You’re so damn sweet, Val.”
“I—love you—Mack.”
“I love you too, Val.”
“Oh, Mack-oh-Mack!”
“God, Val, God!”
“Oh Mack! Oh Mack! Oh Mack!”
And so ended the lull for Executioner Bolan.
2 — The Whole Truth
She was curled loosely into his arms, lying half atop him in utter relaxation. There had been a long period of silence when she stirred slightly and rocked her face out of the hollow of his shoulder. “I don’t think I …” she began, then lapsed back into silence.
“Huh?”
“I was going to say I didn’t want today to ever end. But it must, of course. Regardless of what happens next, though, I’m glad and—and thankful for—for this.”
He twisted around and kissed her, then said, “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Valentina. You deserve better—a lot better.”
“I guess I couldn’t stand it much better,” she replied, smiling shyly.
“You should at least be able to love a man you approve of,” he told her.
“Resist not evil,” she whispered.
“Huh?”
“Get out of it!” she said urgently, twisting fully atop him and peering into his face. “Go away and forget about these people. There must be any number of safe places for you somewhere in the world. I’d go with you, Mack. I’d go anywhere you asked me to go.”
“Now, wait a minute,” he said feebly.
“It isn’t right to kill, Mack,” she persisted. “Even if you defeat them, if you exterminate them completely, you’re the one who will end up the big loser. Violence is not the answer to evil.”
Bolan returned her solemn stare. “You think we, uh, should live in a world of brotherly love—and turn the other cheek and that kind of stuff, eh?” he asked quietly.
His fingers were tracing the line of her spine. She shivered and wriggled against him. “Don’t do that,” she breathed. “I’m trying to talk seriously.”
“What could a fragile flower like you know about violence, and of the evil men do to one another?” he asked, smiling faintly.
“Evil is not received, Mack. Evil can only be given, and it can finally hurt only the giver.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” Bolan replied. “Would you say that the Jews received no evil from Hitler?”
“Hitler was the ultimate receiver of all the evil he created.”
“Yeah, but what if the whole world had just gone on turning the other cheek to Adolf? He would have just sliced that one open, too, and where would the world be now?”
“What has become of the world now?” Valentina asked sorrowfully. “We answered evil with evil. And in our end result, we have inherited evil.”
He slapped her gently on the bottom. “Where’d you get such screwy ideas?” he asked her. “Look—there are two forces, two basic forces, loose in this world. Good and evil. Hell, I’m no crusader, Val, but I believe that good is more than just a lazy state of do-nothingness. Good has to be more energetic and more—more moving than the opposing force if it—if it’s going to overcome.”
They were silent for a long moment. Valentina lowered her face to his and nibbled his lower lip, dodged back with a tiny gasp and scrunched away from his questing hands. “How many people,” she asked thoughtfully, “do you think set out to deliberately do evil? Even your own example, Adolf Hitler—don’t you suppose he was acting in a movement toward what he regarded as ultimate good?”
“Sure,” Bolan said agreeably. “But other people had other ideas about what was good, for them, and what was not—so they opposed him. Goodness, Val, is a very personal and individual thing. The way I see it. I’m an instinctive creature, see. Now take this Vietnam war. A lot of people think it is an evil war. Well—of course it is. But hell, we didn’t start that evil, see, our side has simply chosen to oppose it, to oppose the evil. I personally go along with that idea, therefore I feel that I am on the side of good when I’m over there fighting that war. I would feel very evil myself if I hung back and didn’t throw myself in there with the good guys. See? With me, it’s a personal and instinctive thing. And I’m in the same sort of situation here, with this private little war I’m in now. I didn’t start this mess, see. The Mafia has been having their own way in this country for a hell of a lot of years. Well, I finally saw the evil of the Mafia. I saw what they were doing and I felt the need to oppose them. It’s as simple as that. You can take all the damn philosophies and beauty religions and peace movements and put them in a pile and they still won’t mean as much as my individual, instinctive reaction to the Mafia. These people are a dripping, oozing, mass of evil draped about the throat of this country. I’m going to pry them loose if I can. Even if, in the end, the devil picks up all the marbles.”
“It must be nice to have such a simple and uncomplicated view of the world,” Valentina commented.
“Aw, come off it, Val,” Bolan said half-irritably. “People like to play philosophic games with themselves, and they get all tangled up in the loose ends
. Look at all these mixed up nuts parading around this country squalling about our ‘immoral’ war. If they feel all that strongly about it, why don’t they go over and join the other side and fight for their idea of good.”
“You are totally committed to the idea of violence and bloodshed, aren’t you,” she observed solemnly.
“No, I’m not. I’m committed to action. As long as I’m sitting around just yapping about good and evil, then I’m merely debating the question. And while I’m debating, evil might get the upper hand. No, Val. If I thought I could march through the underworld tooting on a pipe and have all the hoods and goons and rats follow me to jail, then that’s the way I’d go about it. What the hell are we arguing about? I didn’t start this mess. The Mafia started it by just being. Being what they are. The mere fact that they are what they are has challenged me. I’ve answered the challenge, that’s all. And yes, in this instance, I am committed to violence and bloodshed.”
“War without end,” she sighed.
“Yes, war without end.” He ran both hands along her back and onto the tight little buttocks. “There’s no way to break off now, anyway. It’s Bolan against the world now, Val. Surely you recognize that. I’ll never be a free man again, not ever again. The law of the land feels bound to call me into an accounting for my ‘crimes.’ You see, my private little war is an immoral war, also. So, the law is after me. The Army is after me, and pretty soon I’ll be declared a deserter. The underworld is after me. And now, now my dear little idealist, you are after me. I guess it’s Bolan against the world.”
“Is your recruiting station open?” she whispered.
“Huh?”
Her arms snaked around his neck and she squeezed against him with an almost desperate intensity. Her face, on his, was moist with tears. “I’d like to join Bolan’s side,” she whispered. “Are enlistments open?”
He rolled to his side, carrying her with him. She groaned deliciously and looped both legs high about him. “You’re joining a sure loser,” he warned her.
“I don’t know about that,” she replied, smiling through tears. “You seem rather capable to me.”
War Against the Mafia Page 12