War Against the Mafia

by Don Pendleton

  “I can understand it,” Bolan said tightly. “Okay. Get on back up the hill, and give my regards to the missus. Oh—by the way, Leo. These hot flashes I’ve been getting by way of Weatherbee. They come from you?”

  Turrin nodded his head soberly. “And all the time you’ve been trying to toast my ass off.”

  “Hell, you should have gotten word to me,” Bolan said grudgingly.

  “There’s just one thing I hold against you, Sarge,” Turrin declared, his face going into a deep scowl. “I guess I’ll never forgive you for tipping my wife. Now I’m going to have a worried female on my neck all the time, all the damn time.”

  “That’s the only kind to have,” Bolan said softly. He was thinking of another worrier, and he did not like the feel of his own blood trickling down his side. “Get on up the hill now. I have to blow this place.”

  Turrin slipped the shoe back onto his foot, stood up and tossed Bolan a military salute, and disappeared into the enfolding woods. Bolan grunted and moved painfully down the slope, back to his drop, and retrieved a few personally prized items, made another attempt to staunch the flow of blood from the old wound, then descended slowly to the canyon floor below.

  Automobiles were racing around up topside on both sides of the canyon, and Bolan knew that the police were closing in to seal off the area and to pick up the pieces. A horse whinnied off to Bolan’s right, and with a bravado born of bleeding desperation he called: “Over here. Hey! Over here!”

  He stepped into a flowering bush and waited, and a moment later was rewarded by the appearance of a walking man with a horse in tow. Bolan smacked the .45 against the deputy’s head and seized the reins, hoisted himself aboard, and headed out across the canyon. Day would be breaking in less than an hour. There wasn’t much time to get back home to his worried woman. He knew he wouldn’t make it all the way on the horse. All he wanted now was distance, and a little time, and a lot of luck. Maybe he would not be ingested this time, after all. Victory was not sweet for The Executioner. Victory was a burning shoulder and a nauseous gut and an ache in the heart for the tender woman who waited. But, at least, he had not been ingested yet.

  9 — The Victory

  Bolan awoke with a start and gazed up into the deep brown pools of Valentina’s eyes.

  “Gosh, you always wake up and catch me staring at you,” she said lightly.

  Bolan blinked. “Have I been dreaming?” he asked weakly. “Or has this all happened before?”

  His shoulder was freshly bandaged and he was aware of the sheets against bare skin; he was naked. “Yeah, it’s happened before,” he said, answering his own question.

  Valentina leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. “You passed out in the doorway,” she told him. “Don’t you remember that?”

  “I just feel weak, weak, weak,” he mumbled.

  “Well, you should, and it serves you right,” she said. She held up a newspaper which had been draped across her lap. “It says here that you killed twenty-three men last night, and seriously injured another fifty-one.”

  “It says that?”

  “Uh-huh. Can’t you see the headline?”

  He focused his eyes on the bold black print atop the newspaper. “‘Executioner rubs out Mafia,’” he read aloud, then closed his eyes and stretched an arm to grasp her hand. It felt warm, soft, and tiny—and Bolan’s heart lurched. “God, Val, I thought I wouldn’t make it,” he murmured.

  She lay down beside him, carefully arranging herself away from the wound, and placed her face against his. “I would have never forgiven you if you hadn’t,” she whispered.

  “It’s going to be okay now,” he assured her.

  “I know. The war’s over, and you’ve won.”

  “Not the war, honey, just a battle. You have to understand that. The war is still on. All I’ve won is a battle.”

  She stiffened momentarily, then flowed back against him. “While you were sleeping, you kept groaning that there was no victory. What did you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied honestly.

  “Well, don’t you feel a sense of victory?”

  Bolan cautiously positioned his weak arm about her and followed up with a tight clasp of the good one. Of course he felt a sense of victory—but not until this moment, not until right now. “A man fights for things—not against things,” he said.

  She drew back to gaze at him. He opened his eyes and returned the frank stare. “You’re deep, you know,” she told him. “You are very deep. Now just what did you mean by that?”

  He smiled, ignoring the pain of his shoulder. “Freely translated,” he replied, “it means, tender Val, that I love you nutty.”

  “That’s a victory?” she asked, the lights flaring deep in her eyes.

  “It’s the only victory a man can ever know,” he assured her.

  She moved away from him, got to her feet slipped off the simple housecoat, her only garment, drew back the sheet, and slid in alongside him, pressing herself in close conjunction. “As soon as you get your strength back,” she told him, “I’ll challenge you to demonstrate that victory.”

  “Hell, there’s nothing wrong with my strength,” he said, grinning. “My strength isn’t in my shoulder, silly.”

  “I know where your strength is,” she murmured. “The honeymoon wasn’t that short. Anyway, it isn’t even over. Is it?”

  “Some things, like war and love, are never over,” he said, folding her in closer.

  “Which is this?” she asked tremulously.

  “This,” he replied, “is victory in both.”

  She sighed and lay her face in the hollow of his throat. “Victory is so sweet,” she whispered.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Executioner series

  Chapter One

  THE GAME

  The Executioner arrived in Los Angeles on the evening of September 20 without fanfare or prior announcement. Approaching from Las Vegas, he followed the freeways across the city, exited into Santa Monica, and angled southward along the coastal highway. Several minutes later he pulled alongside a telephone booth at a service station, consulted the directory, then thumbed a dime into the coinbox and dialed the number of an ex army buddy, Vietnam veteran George Zitka. A cautious voice answered the ring. Bolan grinned and spoke crisply into the mouthpiece. “Early Bird, this is Fireman. What is your istuation there?”

  A startled gasp, then momentary silence. Then a voice of quiet emotion replied, “Situation normal, Fireman. Suggest you bypass and proceed direct to Kwang Tri.”

  “Negative,” Bolan replied, his voice stiffening somewhat. “It’s time for R and R, and I’m coming in.”

  “Suggest Kwang Tri for R and R,” the voice responded in controlled urgency.

  “Negative, I’m coming in,” Bolan clipped. He hung up, stared thoughtfully at the dial for a moment, then returned to the car, drove to the rear of the service station, and again descended to the pavement. He removed his coat, reached into the glove compartment and produced a snub-nosed .32 revolver and shoulder holster, slipped it on, tested the breakaway several times, then loaded the revolver and snapped it into place. “Kwang Tri, my ass!” he muttered as he drew on the coat.

  Twenty minutes later a hot little sports car eased through the arched gateway and along the parking ramp of a flashy apartment complex and came to rest in an open spot opposite the oval-shaped swimming pool. A tall man wearing dark glasses unwound from the small vehicle and stepped out onto the multicolored flagstones, coolly surveyed the swinging scene at poolside, then set off across the patio and through the near-nude swarm of life encamped there. Blazing lights provided glaring illumination in the darkness. Several hi-fis were going full blast in a cacaphony of mod sounds, but not even the electronic amplifications could overcome the noise level of scores of energetic voices raised in breathless chatter and excited revelry.

  A large blonde in a minibikini was go-going from atop the shoulders of two bronzed youths out at pool cente
r; a shriekingly amused girl was trying to hand a tall glass up to her. Bolan grinned to himself and shook his head against the frantic din, halting momentarily to consult a building directory at the base of the outside stairway. A dazzling beauty in a flesh-colored bikini came down the stairs, carefully balancing a tray of drinks. Bolan stood aside to let her pass; instead, she pushed the tray toward him. His right hand jerked instinctively towards the opening in his coat, then froze in relaxed constraint as the near nudie giggled and said, “Name your numbness, baby.”

  Bolan smiled. “I’m not in the party,” he told her. “Thanks just the same.”

  “This’s no party. This’s a way of life.” Her voice was slurred in alcoholic realization. “Get into something revealing and come on down.” She giggled again and went on her way, hips swaying in the certain knowledge that her departure was being appreciatively watched.

  Bolan went on up the stairs, paused at the first landing to gaze down on the swinging scene below, then continued slowly to the third level. Each apartment opened onto the courtyard; the level-three porch was deserted. Doors along Bolan’s route of travel stood open, as though the entire building housed one big, swinging family. It seemed probable that most of the tenants were at poolside. The noise from below seemed to amplify as it rose toward the higher levels. Bolan wondered vaguely how anybody could live in such a racket.

  He found the door he sought, conspicuously closed, and pressed the announcer. A peephole opened almost immediately, and an eye glared out at him. “Yeah?” a muffled voice said.

  “George Zitka,” the tall man replied. “He live here?”

  “That’s the name on the door, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t believe everything I read.” Bolan removed his sunglasses and dropped them into a coat pocket, the hand remaining to hover near the opening in the coat. “Is that you, Zitter?”

  “Yeah.” The peephole closed quickly, and the door cracked open. Bolan cast a quick glance right and left, then launched his 200-plus pounds into a vicious kick against the partially open door, following through with a rolling tumble into the darkened apartment.

  Explosive reports and sizzling projectiles provided the welcome as several handguns unloaded in rapid fire, the muzzle flashes triangulating along his route of entry. Bolan’s own weapon found his hand even as he was twisting across the floor, and a new sound was added to the gunfire symphony. A grunt and a thud near the open doorway announced the results of the first retort, and already the second and third words were being introduced into the reply. Then there was silence, except for a sighing groan off to one corner of the room.

  “Zitter?” Bolan called out softly.

  “Zitter,” came an immediate reply. “That you, Mack?”

  “It’s me.” Bolan was rolling slowly as he spoke. “you okay, Zit?”

  “Yeah. There’s three of ’em. You get all three?”

  “Check—three,” Bolan replied. He sighed and got to his feet, returned to the door and found the light switch, then closed the door and turned on the lights.

  Three men were lying about the small room like grotesque statues of death. Zitka sat in a corner on the floor, ropes binding his wrists and ankles. Bolan produced a pocket knife and cut the ropes. “You should have told your buddies the password,” he said, grinning.

  “Buddies hell!” Zitka muttered. “What’d you do to your hair?” He was rubbing the circulation into his hands and feet.

  “Bleached it,” Bolan said. “Cute huh? Tried the mustache route too but couldn’t stand the filthy thing. What’d you let them tie you up for?”

  Zitka growled an unintelligible response and reached for a pack of cigarettes on a nearby table. A dark man, heavily built, he moved with surprising grace. He was dressed only in a swimsuit.

  Bolan had moved to one of the dead and was busily searching pockets and laying the contents out for inspection. “How’d you know they weren’t cops?” he asked off-handedly.

  “Cops don’t slap you around and tie you up like a turkey,” Zitka growled.

  Bolan nodded. “They’re Maffios,” he reported.

  “Dammit, I told you to stay clear.”

  Bolan smiled and moved to the next body. “Thanks for the tip. But the ambush at Kwang Tri was a helluva lot hotter than this one.”

  “These bastards ain’t playing games, Mack.”

  Bolan was still smiling. “Weren’t much of a match for a couple of old jungle fighters, were they? Pretty cute the way you tipped me, Zit. Of all places to go for R and R. Kwang Tri, for God’s sake.”

  “Yeah,” Zitka said sourly. He had yet to find a glint of humor in the situation.

  “How long they been encamped, Zit?”

  “The big guy there has been hanging around a coupla days. I knew he was reconning. I figured they had a phone tap on me. The TV and papers here were full of your private little war with the Mafia. I had the setup figured, all right. The phone was tapped. Soon as you hung up they came busting in here. Hell, I hadn’t been worried until I got your call, Mack. You’re the last guy on earth I expected to show up here. You shoulda stayed clear. You really should’ve.”

  Bolan’s smile became a dark scowl. “I couldn’t stay clear, Zit,” he replied. “The bastards have backtracked my entire life. I found stakeouts every place I went. They were waiting for me in Omaha, in Denver, at Gordon’s place up in Evergreen, at Vegas—and now here. It’s getting to be too damn much, Zit, Dammit, I need …” His voice trailed off, and he raised baffled eyes to his friend.

  “What you need, buddy, is a miracle,” Zitka declared. His eyes dropped. “And what I need is to get this garbage the hell out of here.”

  Bolan sighed. “Call the cops, Zit. Tell them what happened. Meanwhile I’ll be fading across the nearest horizon.”

  “You want me to kick the hell right outta you?” Zitka fumed.

  “This isn’t your war,” Bolan said quietly. “No need for you to get involved.”

  “Shut up, just shut up!” Zitka said angrily. “I wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t dragged my riddled ass out of Phung Due.”

  “I just don’t want—”

  “Screw what you don’t want. You came here, didn’t you? Awright, you’re here, and I ain’t blowing no whistles! Let’s just get these stiffs to hell out of my apartment. Then we’ll figure out what to do next. But you ain’t fading across no horizons, buddy.” He held out his hand, and Bolan gripped it tightly. “Now unless I’m up there scoutin’ for you.”

  They shook hands solemnly, then stood quietly surveying the latest carnage of The Executioner’s war. Bolan kicked lightly at a dead foot. “Don’t suppose anybody’s tumbled to the gunfire yet,” he murmured. “Not with all the other racket around here. What kind of joint is this, Zit? Does this noise go on all the time?”

  “Just about.” Zitka smiled. “Places like this are the new scene, Mack. Residence club, it’s called—for swinging singles only. I had to lie about my age to get this apartment. Would you believe I’m in the older generation?”

  Bolan chuckled. “The guys over in ’Nam don’t really know what they’re fighting for, do they? Well … I’m driving a ’Vette. It makes a lousy garbage truck. What kind of car do you have?”

  “It’ll serve as a garbage scow,” Zitka replied. “The only way outta here, though, is out through the patio. We’ll have to lug them right through the swingers.”

  “From what I saw, it wouldn’t be too startling a sight,” Bolan said musingly “Well, let’s give it a try. You lead the way.”

  Zitka picked up a keycase from a corner table, then carefully positioned a body on the floor and heaved it onto his shoulder. Bolan swung on aboard in a fireman’s carry and followed Zitka onto the porch and down the stairway. He found it weirdly incredible that such a short time had elapsed since he had climbed those stairs. The revelries at poolside seemed unchanged, except that now the blonde go-going in the pool had been joined by several others; they seemed to have some sort of contest going. S
omeone shouted a greeting to Zitka, and a playful couple nearly spilled Bolan and his corpse into the pool. Otherwise, they were totally ignored. Bolan paused alongside a table to reposition his load. He smiled at a gargantuan-chested cutie in a technically topless swimsuit, lifted her glass to his lips and tasted it, then thanked her and went on. He found Zitka stuffing a body into the rear seat of a late-model Dodge and added his own burden to the repository.

  Zitka was huffing with exertion and complaining about his feet and the rough pavement. “One to go,” Bolan declared. He was pushing at a protruding foot and trying to close the car door.

  “Let me get him,” Zitka said. “I need to get into some clothes anyway. I’ll make it fast.” He hurried back toward the patio. Bolan walked over to his Corvette, took a handful of ammo from the glove compartment, and dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he returned to the Dodge, reloaded his weapon, lit a cigarette, and waited. The cigarette was less than half-gone when Zitka reappeared, dressed in jeans, a knit shirt, and deck shoes and carrying the third gunman.

  A car swept up the drive at that precise instant, catching Zitka in the full glare of the headlights. It halted with a lurching bounce, as though the driver had floorboarded the brake pedal; doors on each side were flung open, and a flurry of human activity erupted around the vehicle. Jungle instincts moved Bolan into a flying dive across the Dodge just as the chatter of an automatic weapon laced the night air above the sounds of patio revelry. Projectiles were zipping into the Dodge in a full sweep from bumper to bumper. In the periphery of his vision, Bolan noted that the dead gunman who had been on Zitka’s shoulder was now lying across the trunk of a parked automobile; Zitka himself was not in sight. Bolan’s .32 was in his hand, but it seemed small comfort in the face of the burpgun that was methodically spraying the area about him. He rolled and crawled along the line of parked cars until he was directly opposite the attacking vehicle.