When Rafferty had caught the bulletin on Bolan's death on a rainy afternoon in Central Park, a part of Rafferty had grieved. Not only for the soldier but for everyone — himself included — who would have to carry on against the enemy without a champion to take their part. It was irrational, he knew, but Rafferty had felt a sense of loss when Bolan died.
And when the news came through just recently that maybe Bolan wasn't dead at all...
The nagging ghost reached out, the fingers grazing conscious thought this time before Rafferty drove it back into the shadows.
He reached for the telephone, and punched up the longdistance number from memory. For a moment the clicks and hums filled his skull, and then he heard a muffled trilling at the other end. After four rings, a groggy voice answered.
"Lo?"
"Get up. You're late for work."
"Like hell. Who is this? Rafferty?"
"I'm flattered, Hal."
"You're crazy, calling me at — what time is it, anyway?"
"Don't ask." Rafferty let his voice go serious. "I've got a problem here."
"Insomnia?"
"Enough to go around, unless I'm way off base."
A moment's hesitation on the other end, with background noise that told him Hal was sitting up in bed now, shaking off the cobwebs.
"Okay, shoot."
"I've got a part of what you're missing here at my place," Rafferty informed him.
"Oh?" The big Fed's interest was immediate. "Which part?"
"The better half."
"I see. You wanna fill me in?"
"That's tricky. The delivery man left your name as a reference. I assumed he must be one of yours."
A cautious silence at Brognola's end, and when he spoke, the man from Justice sounded worried.
"I don't have anybody up your way right now," he said. "There must be some mistake."
"Okay. And maybe I've got Snow White sacked out in my guest room, huh?"
"I guess you'd better start at the beginning, Bill."
He sketched the evening's strange events, omitting nothing. Then he recapped their conversation, leaving out his promise to consider what had plainly been a offer of collaboration in guerrilla war against the Mob.
When he had finished, Hal was silent.
"I think you may have trouble, Bill," Brognola said at last.
The captain snorted. "Great. So tell me something new, why don't you?"
"Right. I think you're looking at a full-scale war."
Rafferty frowned. "The families have been quiet lately... anyway, until this Dave Eritrea thing came up. I don't..."
The big Fed interrupted him. "I didn't say a gang war, did I?"
"Listen, Hal, if I was interested in dial-a-riddle..."
And it struck him then precisely what Brognola must be driving at. Before he could respond, the man from Washington went on.
"Let's see... I'd guess your visitor stood a bit over six feet, weighed around two hundred pounds. Dark hair. The face — well, never mind — but you'll recall the eyes."
"Goddamn it, Hal..."
"Precisely."
"You're supposed to be on top of this. I mean, why here? Why now?"
"Could be Eritrea." He paused, then said wearily, "Bill, I'm not on top of anything right now."
"That leaves me in the middle, huh?"
"Unless you pick a side," Brognola stated flatly.
"You're serious."
And Rafferty could not suppress a tone of wonder as he realized exactly what Brognola meant.
"I won't presume to offer you advice," the Fed replied. "I know what you'd be risking, and I know exactly what your visitor can do. The choice is yours."
"Some choice. I get to help him tear the town apart or just sit back and watch him do it on his own."
"There is a third alternative."
Of course.
He could attempt to bring the soldier in, alive or otherwise, before he had a chance to light a fuse beneath the city.
"What went wrong?" he asked Brognola.
"Say again?"
"Our visitor. I saw the mess that day in Central Park, when he checked out. Supposedly checked out. So who screwed up? And where's he been? I mean..."
"I know exactly what you mean. Right now, the bottom line is that you've got him in New York. He's yours for the duration."
What about Eritrea?"
"I'll take the lady off your hands, don't worry. If you get a line on hubby..."
"Sure, I know. Just pass him on and let the bureau take the bows."
There was a brief pause on the other end as Brognola ignored the gibe.
"All right. About our out-of-towner. Is there anything that you can do?"
"I doubt it, but I'll check it out," the captain said.
"Thanks, Bill."
"No sweat."
The line went dead, and Rafferty cradled the receiver. As he slumped back in the chair, the captain of detectives realized that neither one of them had dared to voice the name.
Mack Bolan.
It was almost as if the act of speaking it could make its bearer appear, and Rafferty restrained an urge to laugh out loud. The guy had been sitting in his house as big as life — or death — and it was too damned late to worry now.
The soldier had arrived, and he had brought his own war with him, ready-made.
Where had the soldier been between that rainy afternoon in Central Park and the resurgence of reports that he was back among the living? Where does a legend go to hide? And what, in heaven's name, would make him take the hellfire trail again if he had found himself an exit?
Rafferty could answer that one, of course. The answer was commitment, to an ideal — a cause — and there could be no turning back on this side of the grave. The warrior was a true believer, devoting every fiber of himself to the eradication of the savages.
He was a living martyr, good only for killing and, in time, for being killed.
It seemed a frigging shame.
And Rafferty still had a choice to make, no easier than when he had decided to disturb Brognola.
He could hand over the woman, then sit back and watch the fireworks, doing nothing until it was time to sweep the streets of Bolan's carnage.
Or he could help. And risk his job, his future, indeed his freedom, in the process.
Choices. So many damned choices.
And whichever way he went, Manhattan would be in for war. There was no way around it now, with Bolan on the prowl and blood already shed. No matter what, the storm was here, breaking right around his head.
6
Hal Brognola leaned back in the leather easy chair, drawing deeply on his first cigar of the morning. Around him, the darkened study was already blue with smoke, but the big Fed didn't seem to notice. His mind was miles away now.
In New York. With Bolan.
Hal had discussed the briefing in detail with Nino Tattaglia before they made contact, of course. He had known what the soldier's reaction would be. Hell, he was counting on it.
And still it bothered him, this turning Bolan loose upon an unsuspecting city like some kind of doomsday weapon, then sitting back to catch whatever pieces might be thrown clear by the blast. They had been down this road more than once before, in the bad old days before the Phoenix team was formed, but now — well, it was different, somehow.
Bolan had been pardoned "posthumously" when he signed on with the antiterrorism force, his "crimes" officially forgiven by the President himself. The pardon was a secret, naturally, along with Bolan's new identity, his operations base sequestered in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Everything about the war on terror, in fact, was so damned secret that the public never knew of Bolan's role... or that his part in the heroic effort had been terminated, tragically, by traitors from within.
Brognola stubbed out the stogie and waved away the smoke, rising and moving toward the window, beyond which a rosy dawn was breaking. But the world wasn't so rosy to Brognola.
The
sky looked all bloody, the fleecy clouds discolored, tinged, like cast-off bandages.
It was already happening in New York. The bodies were piling up, and he would have to share responsibility for what was coming. He had helped to light the fuses, and when the charges started blowing in Manhattan proper, he would have to share the blame for the mangled souls.
It was a different game these days, at least for Hal Brognola. Bolan had not changed — would never change — but for a fleeting moment he had been legitimized, pronounced official, and his swift reversion to his former outlaw state had stunned Brognola.
For just an instant he was back in the smoldering hellground of Stony Man Farm, the stench of death in his nostrils. He could feel the deep abiding rage, the heartsick grief as he stood over the inert body of April Rose.
And he could well imagine what it must have been like for Bolan to lose the woman he loved and know that sellouts in his own backyard had called the play. The score was even now — as even as a killing debt like that could be... but there had been a price. Mack Bolan was outside the law again. Some officers were still reluctant to accept the news, but they were learning — in Miami, Las Vegas, Hollywood, San Diego.
It was looking like the bad old days, but with a vicious twist. In Bolan's first crusade against the Mafia, Brognola had cooperated in the hope that he could turn the guy around and make him part of The System. It had almost worked, but now the wild-assed warrior was back out there, and Hal was left with difficult choices in his absence.
He could cautiously lend a helping hand, let Nino and assorted others be conduits of information to the soldier, feeding him a list of targets for extermination. If it blew up in his face, he could forget about the almost thirty years he had invested in career and family, forget about his life, and bite the bullet like a man.
Or he could do his best to bring the soldier down, as he had tried to do so long ago, during Bolan's early war against the Mafia, before he realized that underneath the war paint they were kindred souls.
Uh-uh. He had come too far with Bolan to desert him now. He would never take up arms against the hellfire warrior.
They were in this thing together, albeit now on different sides of an invisible line. But they had walked that line before, and nothing said he could not learn the skill again.
And he had a chance to practice now.
New York would be a problem, certainly. The families there had gathered strength, repaired some fences since the Executioner had visited them last. The meeting scheduled to begin today had the earmarks of a major sit-down, possibly the largest since Miami.
If Don Minelli planned to crown himself the boss of bosses, the capo di tutti capi, then Dave Eritrea's head would be the perfect symbol of his power. He would eclipse the other New York families in a single stroke, and let the others know that he was now the power to be dealt with on the eastern seaboard.
Brognola knew that Minelli could pull it off and make it stick — unless somebody found a way to ruin it before he got the final pieces into place.
Somebody like Mack Bolan.
Another problem would be Bill Rafferty, an honest cop as devoted to his job as the soldier was to his private war. If Rafferty decided to reject the Bolan truce, if duty ordered him to intervene between the lone crusader and his marks, there would be hell to pay. Brognola knew that Bolan would not drop the hammer on a cop, but he had been in towns — New York included — where the law had issued orders for the soldier to be shot on sight.
He had known all that, and yet he could not say as much to Rafferty when they were on the phone. Rafferty had lived through other Bolan wars, knew well enough his modus operandi, and he would avoid an escalation of the killing if he had a chance.
Another problem in New York was Flasher, Hal Brognola's second undercover agent on the scene: he had lied to Rafferty, of course, about not having anyone on the scene. If their positions were reversed, Rafferty would undoubtedly have done the same.
But Flasher was a wild card in the game — unknown to Bolan, unknown even to Tattaglia. The agent's presence was a variable that could distort the whole equation. A time bomb for both sides.
There had been no reason to alert Tattaglia, and no safe way to clue the hellfire warrior in on something that his contact did not know.
Tattaglia was a born survivor. Flasher was a battle-hardened pro. And Bolan was a combination of them both.
Whatever happened in New York, the Executioner would meet the threat head-on, as always, with explosive force. If undercover agents crossed his path, they would be on their own. Survival of the fittest, and in the meanest jungle of them all.
Knowing he could not return to sleep, Brognola finally gave up trying. There would be something he could do around the office, certainly, if only staring at the silent, mocking telephone. In time, there would be word from Rafferty, from Flasher, from Tattaglia — from someone.
Whichever way it went.
And any way it went, Manhattan would be bracing for a firestorm. With all of New York's families involved, and dons from half a dozen other states arriving for the sitdown, the explosion would dwarf the blasts produced by Bolan's prior visits, create shock waves felt from coast to coast.
Brognola knew exactly what was going on in New York, no matter what he said to Rafferty. He knew the who and what and why of it as well as he knew anything on earth. The only open question that remained to haunt him now pertained to names of the survivors. And there was no earthly way to answer that one, not before the guns went off.
He wished them all the best. Bill Rafferty. Tattaglia and Flasher. Holy warrior Bolan.
He wished their enemies a living hell on earth before oblivion eclipsed them all.
He could do nothing to change the odds, nothing to alter whatever might be preordained for Bolan in New York.
Or could he?
Hal Brognola ceased his pacing and pounced upon the telephone.
7
Don Ernesto Minelli's retreat was located on Staten Island, overlooking Great Kills Harbor. Mack Bolan found the name ironic, almost prophetic, as he stowed the rental car beneath a stand of trees and locked it, moving swiftly back to lift a long bundle from the trunk.
Great Kills.
All right.
The place might live up to its name before he finished with Minelli and the other New York families.
A thirty-second jog brought Bolan to a hilltop overlooking the Minelli hard site, with a sweeping view of house and grounds, part of the harbor and the private access road that ran through gently rolling, sparsely wooded hills to terminate on Don Minelli's doorstep. New arrivals would be forced to use that road, unless they came by sea or helicopter and landed on the estate grounds. In any case, the soldier had them covered from his vantage point.
And arrivals were expected, Bolan knew, at any moment. Tattaglia had briefed him on the ETAs of seven capos coming in from out of state, and all would be arriving through the morning, driving in or chauffeured from the airport by Minelli's fleet of limos. Add the ranking New York bosses, and you had an even dozen of the nation's leading cannibals beneath one roof, a target Bolan could not resist.
But chief among the soldier's personal priorities was the rescue of Dave Eritrea.
He crouched in the shadow of an elm and peeled away the wrappings from his bundle. Nestled in the sackcloth was a Marlin Model .444 lever-action big-game rifle, fitted with a massive twenty-power telescopic sight. He raised the weapon to his shoulder, balancing the almost eight-pound weight of it in skillful hands, and leaned into the eyepiece of the scope.
Below, Minelli's house sprang into sharp relief, appearing almost life-size at a range of some three hundred yards. He scanned the grounds, picked out a hardman masquerading as a gardener out back, and knew there would be others in the house or among the trees, awaiting the arrival of their capo's guests.
The rifle's magazine was already loaded to capacity with four of the big .444 magnum cartridges, each capable of deliver
ing 675 foot-pounds of energy on target at the range he had in mind. Bolan worked the lever action now to chamber up a live one. Operating by touch, his eyes never leaving the compound below, he fed another round into the magazine, giving himself a five-shot capability.
And he would need it, oh yes, before the day got any older.
Two sleek Continental limos were approaching from the west along the private access road. If Tattaglia was correct, the first arrivals would be West Coast capo's Lester Cigliano and Jules Patriarcca, traveling together for convenience and as a symbol of their solidarity.
Based in Seattle, Patriarcca ruled an empire spanning the Pacific Northwest, with connections in Canada and along the Alaskan pipeline. Jules was considered the man in the West and Minelli would require his help — or, at the very least, Jules's tolerance — to stake out any Western claims.
As for "L.A. Lester" Cigliano, he was a newcomer, the surprised recipient of a battlefield promotion after his superiors turned up among the dead in Bolan's latest Hollywood campaign. Some said Lester was leaning heavily on guidance from the older, wiser Patriarcca and that Cigliano was a Patriarcca stooge, cooperating in the annexation of L.A.
Whatever else the two men had in common, they were vocal in their opposition to the East Coast hierarchy — and Minelli in particular — when it came down to sharing votes on la commissione. If Jules and Lester had their way, the rumors ran, there would be changes in the brotherhood from top to bottom to reflect the changing times, the westward shift in profit-turning rackets through the past ten years. Lately they had been gathering adherents in the families of the South and Midwest.
And so Minelli's sit-down could as easily become a showdown. Bolan would be counting on the everyday suspicions, doubts and paranoia that the average mafioso carried with him, and the Executioner planned to do everything within his power to heat things up inside the hostile camp.
Divide and conquer, sure.
It was a strategy as old as man, as old as war itself.
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