The pointman broke his cover, easing down the far slope, digging in his heels to keep his balance. On either side, the flankers were emerging now, secure in the assumption that their quarry would be running for his life, perhaps already gaining on the outer fence.
But they didn't know their quarry was Mack Bolan.
Planted atop the wooded rise, he watched gunners four and five appear a pace or two behind the rest. He sighted on each of them in turn, pivoting the gun from one to the next, then let it settle on the gunner on the far left, who was struggling to keep upright on the slope.
Split-second timing was the key, together with the kind of pinpoint accuracy that had been a Bolan trademark since the hellfire days in Southeast Asia. Left to right in one easy sweep: with a little luck he could take them all before they found his range and offered any serious resistance.
He framed the left-end flanker in his sights, squeezing off instinctively. The Beretta quivered in his hands as it dispatched its deadly messengers, and moved to the next target as the hardman stumbled and slithered to the gully's floor.
Alerted by a crashing in the undergrowth, the nearest gunner turned, a question on his lips, when Bolan's second burst ripped into his chin and answered all his questions for eternity. The guy fell, as if his legs had been jerked out from under him, and slowly toppled backward.
Number three, suddenly aware of something different, wrong somehow, was already jogging to his left and out of line when parabellum manglers took him in the side and shoulder, propelling him against an unyielding tree trunk. As he fell, the goon's scatter-gun discharged, alerting his remaining comrades on the firing line.
It was a race with time, and Bolan left the wounded gunner, tracking to the next target while he had the chance. The two remaining gunners were sprinting uphill, toward cover; Bolan chose the nearest of them as he emptied the Beretta. At thirty yards, the parabellums ripped across his target's pelvis, sending him sprawling, his legs suddenly paralyzed.
Number five was off and running as Bolan set the hot Beretta down and raised the AutoMag. Twenty yards was child's play for the silver cannon, even in the dark, and Bolan squeezed the trigger only once. The thunder rolled away from him and overtook his sprinting quarry in an instant, hurling him against a tree.
The Executioner scanned along his field of fire, examining the wounded and the dead. Of five, two gunners still showed signs of life, and Bolan spared the time for mercy rounds, the echo of his .44 reverberating from the darkened trees. When it was done, the soldier went in search of Dave Eritrea's wife.
And found her huddled near a hedge against the low retaining wall that partly enclosed the safehouse grounds. He startled her, but she recovered quickly, rising to greet him.
"Are they... I mean..."
"We're clear for now."
He began walking and she followed. He helped her over the rough stone wall, and waited while she dropped down on the other side, then scrambled nimbly over. The rented car was parked near a stand of trees close by, and Bolan fired the engine, drove without headlights along a narrow access road toward the highway. As they reached the two-lane blacktop, he flicked the headlamps on... and knew at once that they were not alone.
The Lincoln that had earlier retreated was now approaching on a hard collision course, lights out, straddling the center stripe. The high beams flared, and the juggernaut began to gain momentum with a screech of smoking tires. Gun metal glinted in the interior as the tank accelerated toward them.
"Get down!"
She hesitated, freezing, and he shoved her beneath the dash, as safe as she would ever be in that situation. The AutoMag was in his hand, level with the dash. He floored the pedal, screeching toward a dead-end confrontation with the enemy.
He held the charger steady, mentally awaiting impact, knowing that a head-on at this speed would incinerate both cars, kill everyone. The smallest error on Bolan's part, the least miscalculation, and they both could kiss it all goodbye. And still, it was their only chance.
With twenty yards separating the vehicles, Bolan cranked the wheel hard left and veered across the narrow road, directly in the Lincoln's path. His tires were chewing up the shoulder, briefly losing traction, finally digging in, and they slid past with inches left to spare, the wheelman and his backup plainly visible, braced for the collision that appeared certain.
He had about a second to finish them off, and he opened fire with his AutoMag over the prostrate woman, her startled scream obliterated by its roar, all seven rounds unloading in the time it took to pass the Continental and skid to a stop along the shoulder.
He watched the tank roll on in his rearview mirror, saw the steering wheel lock beneath dead hands, saw the car swerve, go over in a barrel roll, spill its passengers, end belly-up across the highway. Then a glowing worm of fire traversed the undercarriage toward the fuel tank. When it blew, the Continental spun around and a lake of fire spread out across the wounded dinosaur, devouring its carcass and the writhing maggots sprawled around it on the pavement.
Bolan left them to their private hell, accelerating out of there before the woman could see. She had already seen enough, damn right, to last a dozen lifetimes, and he didn't feel she needed another lesson.
"That's three times now you've saved my life," she said as she regained her seat, "and I don't even know your name."
"LaMancha," Bolan told her, opting for the path of least resistance.
"I'm Sarah."
Bolan nodded.
She was safe for now. All the soldier had to do was drop her off, then go to find her husband. Find him and free him from whatever army had him under wraps.
Simple.
A piece of cake.
Like falling in a grave.
4
The telephone rang half a dozen times before a sleepy voice answered.
"Rafferty."
"I understand you're interested in Dave Eritrea."
The drowsy tone was instantly replaced by keen suspicion. "Could be, yeah. Who is this?"
Bolan smiled and said, "I'm a friend of the family."
"Oh, yeah? I don't suppose you could arrange an introduction?"
"Thought you'd never ask. I have the lady with me now."
"She looking for a place to stay?"
"Affirmative. You offering?"
Hesitation. Bolan could almost hear the mental wheels turning, scanners searching for signs of a trap.
"I'll have to make some calls. If you could meet me..."
"No good," Bolan interrupted. "She's bashful."
"Okay, I understand." A pause. "How did you get this number?"
Bolan played it cagey. "We've got some mutual friends in Washington."
"Uh-huh. Then I suppose you've got the address, too?"
"I'm looking at it."
"Yeah, well, give me a few minutes, willya?"
Bolan cradled the receiver, briskly retracing his steps to the rental and Sarah Eritrea.
"It's set," he told her.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
The Executioner had neither met Bill Rafferty nor spoken to him prior to this night's call, but he was sure. He knew the man by reputation, through Brognola's Justice contacts, and he liked what he had heard.
Bill Rafferty was currently a New York Police Department captain, placed in charge of the department's elite organized-crime unit. As a charter member of the city's tactical intelligence council, he owed his present post equally to sheer ability and some maneuvering by Hal behind the scenes. If any man had his finger on the Mafia pulse tonight, able to explain — and possibly predict — the furtive movements of the brotherhood, that man would be Bill Rafferty.
And he would be the only man who could provide a measure of security to Bolan's charge right now.
The captain lived in Queens, a modest home in Jackson Heights, not far from LaGuardia Airport. Bolan was a short drive away when he stopped to place his call. His knowledge of the man assured him Rafferty would list
en and do his best to shelter Sarah Eritrea from the coming storm.
Whatever else he would or would not do depended on the man himself, and Bolan's method of approach. In this case, he decided that the only logical approach would be straightforward, open.
The soldier drove by Rafferty's home, seeing lights in the living-room windows, checking out the standard-issue unmarked police car outside and doubling back to park behind it in the driveway. He had taken time to change, to clean his face and hands of war paint, and the suit he wore above his hardware was expensive and stylish. Sarah Eritrea — still disheveled, but presentable — hung back a cautious pace as Bolan led her to the door and pressed the bell.
Bill Rafferty was dressed in shirt and slacks, complete with cross-draw holster on his hip, and he was in his stocking feet, his hair still rumpled from the pillow. Bolan thought he looked a boyish thirty rather than his actual forty years.
The Mafia expert scrutinized his callers briefly, Bolan first and then the woman, finally stepping back to let them pass.
"Come in."
He double-locked the door behind them, led them through a tiny vestibule that opened on the parlor, waving them to easy chairs and sofa. It would have been the family room in any other home, but Bolan's mental mug file told him Rafferty was widowed, childless.
"Coffee?"
"Thanks."
He disappeared, returning moments later with a tray laden with refreshments.
"Best I've got is instant."
"Fine."
The Executioner could feel the detective's sharp stare, knew that Rafferty had noted the Beretta in its armpit sling before he let them through the door.
The strike-force captain filled their cups and sank back on the couch to sip from his own.
"I had another call right after yours," he said, appearing nonchalant but watching Bolan for the trace of a reaction. "Seems they had a little trouble on Long Island. Some of Don Minelli's people bit the big one. You know anything about that?"
"I might."
"Uh-huh, I thought so."
"They were holding me," the lady blurted out. "He saved my life, and they were shooting, and... I mean..."
"Forget about that now." The captain raised a hand. "I'll bet you wouldn't mind a shower and some time alone, hey?"
Sarah glanced at Bolan who nodded.
"Great. Down the hall, first room on your left. You feel like sacking out, I've got two bedrooms. The spare's made up. It's down to the far end, on your right."
She cast another glance at Bolan and left them, disappearing down the hall. A moment later they heard the distant sound of water running in the shower.
"So, my friend, exactly what the hell is going on?"
Bill Rafferty sat forward, his elbows on his knees, cool gray eyes boring into Bolan's own.
"I helped a lady in distress," the soldier told him. "And I knew you'd want to see her."
"You already said that. Who's our so-called mutual friend?"
"The name Brognola ring a bell?"
And it was sounding inner chimes, all right. Bill Rafferty sat back against the sofa cushions, seeming to relax, but there was still a razor's edge of steel in every glance.
"How is Hal, anyway?"
"Still going strong, the last I heard."
"You're out of touch?"
The Executioner was cautious. He might trust Bill Rafferty with Sarah's life and with his own, in coming here at all — but Hal's security was something else again.
"We had a parting of the ways."
"I see."
Bolan wondered if he did. There was a glimmer in the eyes, almost as if the cop was looking through him.
The moment passed.
"So, what's your interest in our missing pigeon?" Rafferty asked.
"Rumor has it he's the main course on the menu at Minelli's coronation supper."
"Well, sure, it plays. Why not? A coup like that would win Minelli a whole load of prestige," the captain said.
"Enough to put him on the throne?"
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"You know they've got a meeting scheduled, then."
"I've heard some rumbles, but nothing solid."
"Call it firm. The sit-down starts tomorrow."
"You got an inside line, or what?"
The soldier smiled. "Or what. Brognola will confirm."
"Okay. Let's suppose they're running down another Apalachin. What am I supposed to do? This scum has rights, you know? Thus sayest the courts."
"I wasn't thinking of arrests. How about an informational exchange?"
Rafferty hesitated before answering. "I'm listening."
"All right. I know about the meet, who's coming — all the generalities. Before I move, there may be some specifics that I need."
"It sounds like you're ahead of me already, guy. What kind of move are we talking about?"
"Let's say the kind I made tonight, assuming I can find your pigeon."
"Well..."
"Okay, forget it. Keep a close eye on the lady, will you?"
"Dammit, wait a second. What you're suggesting is...unorthodox. I go along with this, my ass is hanging out a mile."
"That's right."
Another thoughtful pause. "I'll have to think about it."
"Fine. And in the meantime..."
"She'll be safe." He read the question in Bolan's eyes and added, "Here."
"All right."
"I'm working on the theory of a leak, myself. I've got it narrowed down, but..."
"No point taking chances," Bolan finished for him.
"Right."
The soldier rose, and Rafferty followed him to the door.
"You know, there's something — aw, forget it. Never mind. You'll keep in touch?"
"Bet on it."
Bolan left the captain standing in the lighted doorway, heard the door click shut behind him as he reached the car.
And Rafferty would think about it, perhaps contact Hal to find out what the hell was going on there in his own backyard. Brognola in turn would tell him what he could — and leave the veteran cop to make his own decisions.
As for Bolan, his decision had been made before he ever reached New York. He would pursue the enemy as far as possible. With any luck at all, he would be able to recover Dave Eritrea and make some substitutions on the menu for the coronation dinner, damn right.
As Bolan started the car, he was pondering the proper menu for a wake.
5
"Goddamn it!" Bill Rafferty swore.
The NYPD captain put down the telephone receiver, staring at the instrument in silence. He would have to make the call, there was no doubt about it, yet...
An image from the past was nagging at him, reaching out with spectral fingers from a shadowy corner of his mind, demanding that he recognize what was about to happen underneath his very nose.
"Goddamn it!" he said again, with more feeling this time.
When Bill Rafferty came home from Vietnam, he had been full of dreams: a wife and family, a thriving law career, success and wealth. His stint with the NYPD was a means to reach those ends, a way that he could make ends meet and gather some experience firsthand while he was finishing his studies at Columbia.
Except that something — everything — had changed along the way.
Elaine had been a part of it, of course, her death a turning point for Rafferty. The young patrolman's wife of eighteen months had been abducted from a shopping mall by members of a street gang, raped, beaten and left for dead within a mile of where her husband studied law and justice. She had lingered in a coma for eleven days and died without regaining consciousness. The doctors whispered to him that it was a mercy in disguise.
Bill Rafferty had not returned to Columbia. He put the dream behind him. In time, he earned the reputation of a cop who went the limit on every case. He had eleven righteous shootings on his record when he walked into the middle of a major drug deal one Thanksgiving night and routed the participants; they shot
him twice, but when the smoke cleared, Rafferty was all alone among the dead — including one of Augie Marinello's crack lieutenants in the local family.
The shoot-out earned Bill Rafferty his gold detective's shield, together with a prestigious assignment to the fledgling tactical-intelligence unit. It also earned him Augie Marinello's personal attention, in the form of a contract on his head. A bitter war spun out between the two antagonists, and Rafferty killed three hitmen and jailed half a dozen others who survived their injuries before he built a solid case against the capo mafioso for extortion on the waterfront. The boss of bosses had been fleeing an indictment when he ran into a different kind of justice, losing first his legs and then his life in Jersey.
The week Mack Bolan came to town that first time, digging in for war against all five of New York's Mafia families, Bill Rafferty was working uniformed patrol. He had seen the grim results, helped scrape a few of them off the sidewalks. He heard the talk among his fellow uniforms: that maybe Bolan should be helped instead of hindered by police; that he was doing everyone a service and would be more deserving of a goddamned medal than a bull's-eye painted on his back. Bill Rafferty had listened, considered it and kept his private thoughts to himself.
And there had been some changes by the time of Bolan's second hellfire visit to Manhattan, when the gutsy bastard dropped in on a meeting of the Mafia's commissione, putting death on the agenda. Bill Rafferty was working on the strike force then, celebrating Augie Marinello's recent departure.
On Bolan's third and last appearance in the city, Rafferty was heading up the organized-crime unit, making some impressive scores against the local brotherhood. The newest captain on the force, he made no bones about the fact that Bolan's intervention had done much to pave the way, creating strife between the families and generating chaos at the top.
Bill Rafferty was not averse to shooting in the line of duty; he had done enough of it in Nam, and later on the streets. And he had put his licks in on more than one occasion when subduing a belligerent assailant. But the Bolan war was something else again, beyond the limits of the law, a deviation from the game plan on a scale so massive it was difficult to comprehend. Bolan's methods were effective, but they were wrong. Still...
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