“Mine, too,” seconded Reina.
That was plenty good enough for Harry Venturi.
He went to the screen porch to watch the Gulacci convoy ease down the hill. Small loss. Twenty guns, at the most—and most of those gumball merchants, probably.
Gulacci’s pure white Cadillac was second in line in the four-car caravan. It broke the corner of the house as the point vehicle nosed onto the dam and began the cautious progress to the other side.
Then something very remarkable came winging in over the lake—something fast, rustling through that calm sky with flame and smoke trailing out behind it.
It came so fast that Venturi had no time to react or even to wonder before it zipped into that point car, and lifted it into the air on a ball of fire, and blew it back up the hill in tumbling pieces of flaming junk.
The heat from that blast warmed Harry’s face and the shock wave flung him back against the glass wall.
And as he was trying to pick himself up and collect his stunned mind, dazed eyes caught the trail of another whistler in the air an instant before it slammed into the pure white Cadillac.
Grand speeches and strutting legs had no meaning here.
Poor Gummo had maybe been right.
They had the guy exactly where he wanted them.
CHAPTER 15
STANDING HARD
Bolan had brought his cruiser back along Clay Lick Road and over the bridge to invade Divine Light in frontal assault. The approach remained clear and he encountered no obstacle as he powered along the lower drive. The road branched off at the base of the east ridge, one leg curving around toward the sentry house while the other climbed straight toward the earthen dam. Both came together again at the approach to the dam, the one being merely an elliptical offshoot from the main drive.
Bolan opted for the ellipse, circling around the house and plunging off onto the grassland behind it. The cruiser’s front-wheel drive and airbag suspension was suited very well to off-road travel, so long as the terrain was not too rough. This was definitely marginal terrain and the going was rough, indeed, but he gained the crest of the hill with little difficulty and pulled his war machine into light cover at the edge of the pine grove. From here, he had excellent command of the entire west ridge, the lake from tip to tip, and most of the east ridge.
The two west bank houses were directly across the lake at a slight angle from his position—and at roughly the same elevation. And though the trees partially obstructed the view, there were intimations of a circular drive coming up from the dam and serving both houses atop that ridge. Vehicles were massed over there and quite a few were parked to the north of the A-frame, suggesting that perhaps the circle was not the only drive serving that side of the lake. He punched in the optics and undertook a close study of that latter consideration—striking paydirt almost instantly.
The natural contour of the land had formed a small lagoon with virtually perpendicular banks immediately north of the A-frame structure. And the close inspection revealed that it was not all natural contour over there; it was not a single, uninterrupted ridge that formed that west side. There was, instead, a separate finger extending on southerly beyond the ridge that formed most of the west bank of the lake.
Another, smaller, earthen dam rose up beyond that lagoon to bridge the fingers and provide terrain continuity—and there was a skinny waterfall plunging from that level into the lagoon a hundred feet or so below.
Closer probing located the source of the waterfall—a section of pipe extending out from near the top of that small dam. It was an overflow device. There was another man-made lake up there, feeding its overflow into the lower lake.
Well damn! Bolan was wishing, now, that he’d had more time for a thorough recon.
The optics picked up a couple of guys walking across that high dam. Each carried a shotgun and wore sideleather. God only knew what else was up there.
But there was no time, now, to massage that question.
There was vehicular movement behind the main house—fragmented glimpses of a line of cars in motion.
The enemy was on the move.
Bolan energized the fire, bringing the roof pod to raise and lock. Then he scanned across the lakefront and locked the optics onto that hillside above the main dam as he punched in fire enable.
Glowing red rangemarks became superimposed upon the electronic grid of the optics, monitor as that line of cars eased down off the hill—four of them, in road caravan formation. That would put heavy guns at the point—a divine body enveloped somewhere in the middle within either the second or third vehicle and surrounded by living shields—another overweight gun crew or two bringing up the rear.
Bolan added infrared augmentation to the optic probe, searching interiors for a familiar face and finding it in the second vehicle—a big white Cadillac limousine with jumpseats in the rear and a gumball merchant huddled within that shield of flesh.
April was not there.
Too bad, for them.
He set up target acquisition for an automatic one-two, giving the point vehicle first honors and cycling on to the white bodyboat for the auto-follow—then he banged his knee and sent the first one streaking toward hot intercept at dam level.
The little bird rustled away in the target trajectory, found her path just above the treetops, then dipped in fiery closure.
She punched in just below the radiator grill and loosed her fire beneath the point vehicle, lifting it in spreading pieces and blowing those onto the following cars. The pieces were still settling when Firebird Two lifted away and went seeking a white Cadillac that was already in grave difficulty, skewered across the narrow drive and searching for comfort in a firestorm.
This one was programmed for doorpost elevation and she found her mark with a shattering impact that sheared off the roof and everything else protruding above the seat level, engulfing headless corpses in the fireball and pitching the entire flaming wreck over the side in a tumbling plunge down the face of the dam.
Two birds remained in the nest—but they were not needed in that disaster zone. The third member of the caravan was afire and the fourth had lost its grip on the hillside and was sliding out of control into the steep canyon to the south.
There would be no further vehicular traffic across there—not without extensive repairs to the roadbed. The first strike had dug a sizeable crater and erased the road, leaving a four to six foot gap at the west end of the earthen dam.
A lot of foot traffic, though, was erupting behind the house and people were spilling out along the grassy slope of the front lawn, as well, seeking cover behind the occasional tree and shrub dotting that landscape. There was also a bit of activity over beyond the A-frame, with people scampering cautiously along the hillside above the lagoon.
So okay.
Monday’s battle was underway.
And the only regrets of the moment were that he did not know the precise whereabouts of April Rose—and he did not know what lay upon that chaotic land beyond the smaller dam at the upper level.
One thing for sure, though—whatever plans or fiendish intentions they’d held for the lady would be definitely sidetracked for the moment. He’d provided her with some breathing room.
Now, dammit, if only he could make some living room for the pretty lady … and keep her pretty.
He fought away the mutilated visions of other once-pretty ladies of his past acquaintance—the little soldata of Miami who’d left him living poetry; the cute kid from Manhattan who’d nursed his bleeding flesh, then left her own shreds on the cutting table of a weiner factory; the Ranger girl from Montreal who’d found her hellish truth in a ghoul chamber in Detroit and bequeathed a lifetime of waking nightmares for her rescuer …, damn, damn!
Better death than that, April. Better quick and clean than …
He wrenched it all away and concentrated on a scan of the big house. It was layered—stone and glass at the lower level, wood and glass plus a lot of wire screen upstairs. Two do
ors downstairs … one massive double of glass at the north end, another smaller wooden one with a single glass panel to the south. The double doors north opened onto a patio, now deserted. He punched up the infrared to laser-point brilliance for a probe beyond the facade and also brought up the barrel mikes for audio monitoring. Even without the directional pickups, sound-travel across the water was excellent, with voices carrying clear and sharp when uplifted in shouts and commands to the scurrying troops. Directionalized and amplified by the barrel pickups, even ordinary conversations could be monitored with relative ease.
There was a lot of confusion over there. Someone was yelling and armwaving a rescue operation for the survivors of the rocket stroke. Other guys were dashing about in frantic defensive preparations.
Bolan caught a ghostly red image of Paul Reina in the optic monitor, a fleeting frame of anxiety appearing momentarily behind the thick windowglass upstairs before quickly receding into the interior.
There was a lot of scrambling over there, yeah, in the immediate wake of the opening strike—and obviously they had not yet spotted the precise source of that strike.
Plenty soon enough they would.
He returned the visual scan to the lower level just in time to frame a most interesting figure emerging from the doubledoors onto the patio.
A ghoulish figure, yeah.
It was Fuzz Martin, crazycop, caught in a moment of indecision—the ugly face contorted in a play of conflicting emotions. Then he moved off across the patio toward the south end.
Toward that door down there, yeah.
Bolan had to wonder about that … but not for long. He had the door framed in fullscreen perspective and with full augmentation as the gun unlocked it, flung it open, and stepped inside.
And there was only a quick millisecond glimpse into that interior—but there she was, yeah—the ladylove, stripped naked and crouching just inside, a three-foot iron pipe or some similar weapon thrust forward defiantly in a fencing stance. It was a snap glimpse, glowing with the unreal, hellish hues of infrared.
Then that door swung closed, leaving an even more hellish picture in Bolan’s mind.
His heart had leapt over there to join that gutsy lady. She’d found herself some hard—and she’d found a weapon, to whatever pointless effect—and by God she was not going down whimpering.
She was standing to it.
But Bolan could find more than heart to send her. There were still two birds in the nest, and the rangemarks leapt to the command as he swung that scan toward vital meat.
He could send her more than heart, yeah.
He could send her some doubledamnhard.
CHAPTER 16
PLAYING IT
This was awful, it was terrible. The whole damn front of the house was made of glass and—it was terrible—there was no place to …
He grabbed Carmine by the arm and urgently whispered, “This’s no good! That guy is throwing heavy artillery at us! He could just as easy brought the joint down around our ears!”
“Then why didn’t he?” Tuscanotte growled shakily. “Why’s he playing with us?”
“You better believe he’s got his reasons. He must know the broad is here. If he don’t see her pretty soon …”
“Do what you think you gotta do, Harry! You’re the cock. Just do it!”
Venturi was still whispering. “Right now I’m worried about—you know this joint better than I do—ain’t there some place you can harden out for a little while? You’n the other bosses?”
“Downstairs in the back, yeah—the furnace room. It’s right under the kitchen. The walls are cement block and stone. You suggest it.”
The head cock should suggest it, sure. They were all scared out of their skulls, these bosses. Nobody had more to lose than they did—and they were the most scared of all. But they wouldn’t want to show it, no.
Venturi raised his voice in the urgent “suggestion.”
“Mr. Tuscanotte, I think you should take Mr. Scarbo and Mr. Reina down to the hard room. Just for sure—okay? I don’t like all this glass up here. We don’t want to make it any easier for the guy than we have to. Right?”
“You’re right, Harry,” Tuscanotte replied with a loud sigh. He chuckled as he turned to the others. “Paul? Natty? Let’s give the boys a break, eh.”
They were damned glad to give the boys a break, sure. Tuscanotte led them down the inside stairway, making a big joke of the quick retreat.
So much for that. So now what the hell?
It was quiet, for the moment. The guy had hit them twice then laid back. For why? Well … look at the hits. A line of cars coming down off the hill. Why that? Why not the houses?
Sealed!
That was it! The bastard sealed the hill!
Why?
Was he planning on coming over—on foot?—to walk among them and slit throats and blast eyeballs?
Naw. Naw! That was no percentage play! Look at what he’d done by just laying back and sending two blasts from far away! Wiped out a whole damn convoy, f’Christ’s sake! Knocked off a big boss! Put the whole damn place in panic and covering assholes!
It was the broad. Sure it was. So … how to play her? Did they hold her for a shield or send her over as a plea bargain? That damn crazy Fuzz was …
Venturi turned to a crew captain and snarled. “Where’s Fuzz?”
“He was here a minute ago,” the guy replied. “He came running in here right after Gummo got it. But I guess he …”
“Run down and see! I want the broad up here, right now! Don’t let Fuzz tell you no different! You get me?”
The crew captain got him. He touched his hardware and ran down the stairs.
At that precise instant, another whistler came across. Venturi instinctively threw himself toward the back wall; it looked for all the world as though that thing was headed straight for him. And maybe it had been. It plowed in down below somewhere, lifting the floor in a puff beneath him and sending those glass walls to popping and quivering in their frames. Somebody down there screamed like in a nightmare and came running up the stairs enveloped in flames.
It was the crew captain—poor bastard!—ablaze from head to foot.
Venturi scrambled clear and pumped three quick shots into the human torch, ending that torment—but the corpse blazed on, melting into the deep carpet and starting a fire in the upholstery of a large couch.
Venturi danced away and ran outside to the rear. The whole northeast corner of the joint was on fire, flames licking up from the lower level and engulfing the screened porch.
And that wasn’t all of it. Another whizzer zipped across Venturi’s frenzied gaze and plowed into the A-frame, torching the structure instantly and scattering blazing boards and roofing along the hillside behind it.
Willie Frio yelled, “Jesus, Harry! What do we do?”
“Take cover!” Venturi yelled back.
“I got these two guys from Indianapolis! What do I do with them?”
“Give ’em a fuckin’ plane ticket!” Venturi snarled savagely. The least of his goddam worries were the goddam fuckin’ corruptions from the capital! In his corner vision he’d glimpsed a boy tumbling down the hill behind the A frame, now another—those were dead men’s falls!—then even a third before the deep thunder of a heavy rifle in rapid fire began rolling across those hills.
Shit! The guy was taking everything he could get! And he was getting plenty!
Someone down on the front lawn yelled, “I see ’im!”
“I see nothing!” screamed another.
“Watch the tops of those trees over there! There! See that?”
“I seen it, yeah.”
What? Was the guy walking on treetops now?
Return fire was beginning to crackle across the front grounds, now. And Venturi prayed that those boys were not shooting at mere hope.
He skirted warily around the burning corner of the house and made a run for a tree at the far side of the patio. Just as he reached it, he saw two b
oys with choppers beginning a cautious, heads-down advance along the back side of the dam. Somebody was thinking, thank God. He hoped that others were, also—and, yeah, knew that they were. Some. These were not all nickle-and-dime poolhall punks with an itch for glory. Some were real professionals from the hard old days and knew what to do when hard times came.
That was okay, that was great. Venturi was head cock, though, and it was his job to see that those hard times never arrived. So he’d screwed up, and let them come. But all of that had not been his fault. Most of it was Carmine’s doing, with his tippy-toe approach and insane secrecy. So now it was Venturi’s job to see that the hard times went away, for good and all.
He kicked open the door to the storeroom and knew that he’d gotten there just in time. Fuzz had the broad stark naked and by the throat, alternately slapping her and kneeing her in the crotch. Her eyes were rolling and she was probably only about half conscious. Blood was flowing down Fuzz’s face from a nasty crack above the eyes and he was plumb, grunting crazy.
Venturi popped him across the back of the head with the pistol butt—and had to do it twice to get the crazy bastard’s attention.
“I told you to leave her whole!” Venturi yelled. “You outta your goddam mind? The joint’s burning down around you and you’re in here assin’ your kicks?”
“She’s got it coming,” Martin panted, eyeing him crazily. He wiped the blood from his brows and said, “Game at me with a steel stake. I’m going to shove it up her snatch to the hilt!”
Venturi knew that the guy meant it. And he still meant to do it.
“The hell you are,” he told him, and pumped two shots into that ugly face. He never liked the crazy bastard, anyway. Carmine loved him, sure. So let Carmine bury him. He picked up the girl and carried her out of there.
“Are you okay, little lady?” he asked her.
She was having too much trouble with her breathing to reply coherently—but he could see that she was going to be all right. God she was beautiful, even in this shape. Fuzz Martin’s blood was smeared all over her—and maybe even a little bit of her own—but there was nothing here that would not soon heal and be quickly forgotten.
Monday’s Mob Page 11