The little vehicle came up over the hill in existent and—except for the narrow truck-access trails that occurred at about every fifth row—there was not even walking room between the trees. Even the trucking trails had been encroached upon by the lateral extension of the growing pines. There was barely clearance for a motorcycle—and, even so, a guy would run the risk of a small limb in the face, now and then.
It was probably this consideration that dictated the path of the motorcycle patrol. There was evidence that the guy had yanked off small face-slappers along the way to insure himself a clear trail.
So much for comfort.
It was here that Bolan intended to snare himself a rider.
He noosed one end of a garrote onto the feathered end of an extending limb and stretched it taut to another limb on the other side of the trail, then took cover in the overlapping growth as the cyclist approached.
The little vehicle came up over the hill in low gear, the handlebars grazing outstretched branches on either side—and the guy was shifting up and winding her out when he hit the nylon barrier. He saw it an instant too late and was trying to dodge beneath when it caught him square in the mouth.
The tethered limbs gave a little—perhaps ten inches—then snapped taut and straightened the guy out in midair and slammed him to the ground on his back. The little bike traveled on unattended for another ten feet or so before plowing into the trees.
The unseated cyclist was bleeding at the mouth and wheezing for lost breath, which was never to be regained. A combat boot saw to that, unemotionally applied to the throat and crushing the larynx.
Bolan left the guy where he lay and went to retrieve the motorcycle. It was a Yamaha trail-bike with an 80cc engine. A ten-year-old kid could of handled it. Standard rockerbar gear shift, handlebar clutch and accelerator, kick starter. The lay-down had not hurt it a bit.
He stashed the Weatherby and swung aboard, fired her up, and took her back down the hill.
Once clear of the pines, the trail dipped momentarily into the marshlands, then came into green lawn alongside the creek. He could see the bridge fifty yards ahead and the two sentries still chucking the football back and forth. They paid no attention to the noisy approach of the bike until Bolan was within spitting distance. The guy closest to him looked up, then, and did a doubletake before spiking the football and trying to do-or-die dive toward safety.
But Bolan’s long legs had already lifted him clear and the little bike was spurting forward unmanned. It plowed into the diving man at high speed, then man and machine tumbled to the ground in a rolling wrestling match in which the machine was clearly dominant.
The other guy was in a whirling break for gunleather … a shade too late. The Beretta had leapt into Bolan’s ready hand the instant the handlebar left it, and was chugging silent flame at the dancing sentry. The guy completed the whirl on his nose, and stayed there.
The first one was groaning beneath the weight of the Yamaha and bleeding from several exits. He was pretty badly busted up. The Beretta sent a quiet mercy round between clenched teeth to complete the job and retire the side.
Bolan did not recognize either of these guys. They were probably “stakers”—raw meat hired from the city cesspools to do or die for dimes and dollars. That they had died for their dollars was of no particular moral concern for Mack Bolan. A man who sells his soul cannot beggar the collector.
He removed a belt-clip key ring from one and dumped both bodies into the creek below the bridge, then unlocked the chainblock and threw the whole thing in.
Then he took the motorcycle up the back way to the small house on the east bank. He was reading this one as the guardshack—though it was certainly no shack in the literal sense, but a very stylish and obviously new studio-type chalet with a thirty-foot-high wall of glass in front and wraparound sundeck.
Bolan parked the Yamaha in the carport and entered through the rear. It had a large living room with a stone fireplace serving as a divider from a narrow Pullman-style kitchen which ran along the back wall. A small dining area opened along the west wall from the kitchen, elling into the living room. Two guys in their scivvies sat in there, playing a subdued game of cards. They neither saw nor heard what had come for them. Perhaps neither knew that he died with a Parabellum hollow-nose in the ear.
The glass-fronted living room looked over the sundeck and onto the grassy front grounds far below. Anyone standing where Bolan was now standing could have witnessed the attack on the bridge. Apparently none had been standing there.
Along a short hallway toward the east were bedrooms and a bath. Some guy was singing in the shower. Bolan went in there and pulled back the shower curtain. The guy stopped singing damn quick and made a grab for the Beretta. Bolan allowed him one small chunk from there and went on to check out the bedrooms. All were empty, now, but bore evidence of casual usage.
These had been the station keepers. Seven of them. And seven were down.
The hardsite east of the lake was now a comfort zone for Mack Bolan. For the moment, anyway—and there were damn few of those to spare.
April Rose would, no doubt, attest to that.
Bolan went back to the Yamaha and made fast tracks toward Clay Lick Road and his battle cruiser.
He meant to seal that joint.
One thing the boys had apparently not considered in their search for comfort: a sanctuary could very easily and very quickly become a mausoleum—even a two-zillion acre sanctuary … with the only exit sealed.
“Hang on, April,” he sent word into the universal matrix where thoughts are things. “Help is coming!”
CHAPTER 14
POSITIONS
This was what he had meant. And she felt betrayed. Not by him but by the cutesy world of rose-colored glasses, which had raised her in naivete and educated her with pedantic nonsense.
Yes, this was what he’d meant—what he’d tried to warn her against—this savage world of brutal men within whom not the faintest flicker of humanity stirred.
Worse than anything else—stronger, even, than the clawing fear that was now shrinking her insides—was the jolting realization of her own stupidity and ignorance, the memory of her holier-than-thou putdown of that good man. She had actually presumed to lecture him about the nobility of the world—and all the while she’d been sitting in the shadow of a noble giant, baiting him with cute phrases learned from social theorists and pedantic midgets while he struggled to give her a crash course in the survival arts.
A good soldier uses every tool available.
The object is to get the job done and come out alive.
It’s warfare, lady, and all the rules of war apply.
There are fiends afoot.… True, so true. And this one was now locking her into a dank, windowless basement storeroom and preparing to sweat her for cooperation.
But sweat was hardly the word.
She was saying, “This really isn’t necessary, you know. We can—” when he stunned her with another of those hammy blows to the side of the head and sent her rolling across the concrete floor.
“Get up!” he growled.
She felt utterly ridiculous. Her knees were skinned and burning and she’d turned a finger back. She had momentary double vision and the room was tilted all askew.
… and come out alive …
She told the big goon, “This is crazy!”
“Get up!”
“I can save you a lot of trouble.”
“No trouble at all, honey.” He bent over her and lifted her by the front of the dress, setting her on her feet like a baby. Then he ripped the whole dress away with one savage pull.
She cried, “Now wait a minute!”
He was not waiting for anything, though. The bra came away with another brutal wrench and she knew pain such as she had never imagined as he swung her around by both breasts and flung her against the wall.
“In the name of God!” she wailed.
But he was bending over her again, leering down at her, c
lammy hands at the waistband of her panties. A big fist sank painfully into her tummy as he tore those away, also. Her ID slithered off onto the floor. He grabbed it, took one quick look, and said, “Well I’ll be damned.”
… uses every tool available.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she moaned. “You want the same thing I want. And you’re screwing up my assignment.”
“This means nothing to me,” he growled.
“I’d really like to talk to your boss. It’s very important!”
He chuckled wickedly. “Important to you, huh?”
“Important to him!” she cried.
It was obvious that the big goon was unhappy with this development. He wanted to hurt her. He was getting kicks. But he palmed the wallet and told her, “We’ll see. Don’t go away, huh? We got a lot of fun ahead.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” she said. Or maybe she only thought it. The room was swimming around her.
He went out and locked the door behind him.
She lay there for a moment trying to clear her head. She felt sick at the stomach and pain was shrieking in from various parts of the body. But she also felt … what? Humiliated? Violated? Mad as hell, for sure. This was what it was like to be raped. The anger, the frustration, the … indignity!
She managed to get onto her knees—and that felt even worse. Stark naked, soiled all over, utterly helpless … mad as hell!
No. April Rose did not love all mankind.
There are corruptions in the translation from force to form.
All you’re listening with is your mind. And it’s not stretched far enough to hear.
So okay, noble giant. Just be patient. April’s mind was becoming more elastic by the moment.
But how many moments were left?
Venturi was presiding over a crash meeting of crew chiefs, trying to weld an effective fighting force from the diverse elements present. As head cock of the host delegation, this was his prerogative. Indeed, it was his responsibility.
The bosses themselves were clumped at the big stone fireplace—and apparently there was some problem with Gulacci. Which was dumb. All the problem should be out there—not in here.
Each moment that passed was vital, and they had to get the defenses set, with no more of this dicking around between the bosses. But their position was very strong, really. There was no need for panic. That was the idea that Venturi was trying to present to the crew chiefs—and he was speaking loudly enough for the bosses to hear it, also.
But then Fuzz Martin came bustling up. Hell, he hadn’t been gone a minute! Prob’ly killed the broad, the dumb …
But, no. It was something else. The ex-cop’s eyes were glazed some and he was breathing just a bit hard as he handed over a thin, card-sized wallet.
“Dumb broad!” he sneered. “Had it in her panties.” He snickered and winked at a crew crief. “Wouldn’t that be the last place to hide something important?”
Carmine stepped over from the fireplace to inquire, “What is it, Harry?”
Venturi passed the little wallet on to his boss as he unemotionally reported, “She’s a federal cop.”
“That doesn’t figure,” Tuscanotte said quietly, staring at the ID. The disturbed gaze shifted to Fuzz Martin. “What does she say?”
“Says she has something important to tell you.”
“So why didn’t she?”
Martin shrugged. “Says we blew her case.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, I guess, Bolan.”
Carmine took that under advisement, rolling it through his brain a couple of times for fit. Then he asked, “How do you feel about it, Fuzz? You’re the police expert.”
“Could be, yeah,” the ex-cop replied. “I guess they want the guy as much as we do.”
“But I mean how does it feel to you?”
“I feel like she’s not hurting enough yet, Carmine. This was just the first pop. She hasn’t started busting and bawling yet. Right now she’s just yodeling.”
Tuscanotte frowned.
Venturi added his thoughts to it. “None of that really matters, Carmine. The matter is that she’s Bolan’s woman. Forget the undercover. If he doesn’t know—and how could he if she’s still in the picture? Listen, broads are the guy’s weak point. He’s nearly blown himself two or three times over a broad. Hell, it all started over a broad. Didn’t it?”
“So I hear,” Tuscanotte mused. He pulled at his nose and said, “The Achilles heel, eh?”
“That’s exactly it. An undercover cop won’t help us a damn bit, right now. And there’s always the problem of afterwards. How much did she see? How much did she hear? What does she know that will come back to haunt us later? That broad is a tool, Carmine—not an ally.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m going to play it that way.”
“Okay, play it. It’s your department.”
Venturi sighed with relief and said, “Yessir.” He turned to Fuzz Martin. “Keep the sweat on. But listen, Fuzz, dammit—you leave her in one piece, able to talk and able to walk. I mean it. When the time comes, I want that broad whole.”
Willy Frio danced in at that moment, very agitated, and busted into the parley. “The road’s blocked,” he announced, very unhappily. “How the hell can I get a force down the hill with the damn road blocked? This is—Mr. Gulacci’s boys are making a convoy out there. I can’t get a damn thing through.”
Gulacci called over from the fireplace, “Relax, Willy. We’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
“What’s he mean by that?” Venturi growled loudly.
“Gummo is bailing out,” Tuscanotte said, sotto voce. “He doesn’t like our little retreat.”
“That’s crazy!” Venturi yelled. “Pardon me, Mr. Gulacci, but it’s crazy and I have to say it! We could hold off a marine force up here! But you’ll be so much raw meat down there on that road! I can’t be responsible!”
“Nobody’s asking,” Gulacci said quietly. “We got ourselves here, we’ll get ourselves out. But I’m telling you you’re crazy if you think you can sit here and hold against that Bolan guy. I seen what he did to Don Gio, and I seen what he did at Miami, and I’m tellin’ you the guy comes on like panzers. It ain’t just guns, Harry. It’s bombs and rockets and the goddam kitchen sink. And I for one am not stayin’ around and waitin’ for that. I say we should all go out, together. Call ahead, if we got to, and ask for police escort. I’m not proud. I’d love to see a convoy of black and whites come rolling up here right now, I tell you. Let the little lady blow her whistle and bring the goddam feds in here, I don’t care. Better that than what you’re waiting for. Listen. I saw it all the minute I seen this joint. This is what the guy loves—all of us mobbed up and stuck away some place in the sticks so he can just—”
“We got a hundred boys here, Mr. Gulacci!”
“Say, you stick those hundred boys right up your ass, Harry. No offense, Carmine. But I have to say it like I see it. If you got a broad here that the guy wants, I say send her to him. Strike a deal. That’s my advice to you. For me, I’m cutting out.”
“I’ll have the guy’s head in my pocket, Gummo,” Tuscanotte woodenly declared. “I’ll run it through the streets of Chicago on a pole, then I’ll run it through the streets of New York. I’ll run it to Detroit and Cleveland, L.A. and Dallas, and I’ll run it up the damn flagpole at the U.N. And everybody will say that Carmine stood and took while Gummo crapped and slunk. If that’s what you want, then go. We’ve been runnng enough from this guy. One guy. All the old men crapped and slunk while this one guy took us apart piece by piece. We’ve seen our thing fall apart and melt all around us. All the bluesuits and all the feds and all the armies of the world couldn’t do it to us—but we crapped and slunk and let one damn guy do it to us. It’s time to get our legs under us. It’s time to be men. But you go ahead, Gummo. You crap and slink if that’s what you want to do.”
It was a hell of a speech. Venturi f
elt as though there should be applause after a speech like that. Carmine was getting legs, for damn sure. Harry the Apeman had picked himself a winner this time, for damn sure. The guy was taking a page from the books of Maranzano and Luciano. He was going to be the boss of bosses, by God. And Harry Venturi was, by God, going to be there with him.
There was plenty of applause, sure, but it was all in the eyes of those men assembled there at that fated moment.
Except for Gummo Gulacci.
Carmine must have wanted the greaseball to leave. Who would stay, after a spitbath like that one?
Gulacci went out of there in a hurry, leaving the door open behind him for anyone who might decide to follow.
None followed.
Fuzz Martin was the one to break the silence. “So what do I do with the broad?” he asked nobody in particular.
“Save her,” Carmine said, very quietly.
“Whole,” Venturi added. He watched the sadistic bastard walk away, then he turned to Willy Frio. “Soon as the gumball clears, move your boys down. I want them all on the east side. Take those two jerks off the gate and put your two best boys down there, with choppers. They stay covered and they shoot anything that shows on that bridge. Okay? Okay. Then I want a man every fifty feet along the creek. Every third man gets a boomer—and I want at least one chopper on the backup line for every five men staked along the creek. Got that?”
Frio nodded in understanding, but his eyes were showing a worry.
“Whatever you got left after that, I want them up on that ridge in the woods. I leave it to you how best to put them down. But you leave two boys for walking patrol, and I mean you keep them walking and checking every position you got over there. Anybody turns up missing, or you got any other suspicions at all, I want five quick shots in the air. You got it?”
“I got it,” Frio replied. “But what’s that going to do to you up here Harry? With Gummo gone, we only got about—”
“I know what we got, Willy. Anybody here cant’s live with those odds had better maybe slink away with Gulacci.”
“You call it, Harry,” Scarbo called over. “My boys are standing.”
Monday’s Mob Page 10