"Don't. I come up short on any thoughts, I'll let you know."
There was a snicker in the ranks, and the houseman flushed, glaring at one of his companions. But he was used to taking orders, deferring to strangers, and for the moment, at least, he was fresh out of questions.
"All right," he barked at the others, "let's get this cleared away."
Bolan returned to his car, fired the engine and maneuvered around the second Lincoln on his way toward the manor house. At fifty yards, he marked the gunners clustered on the wide veranda, and he slowed for the approach, following the drive around toward a parking area on the side. He wedged the rental between a Caddy and a bright red sportster, noting in his rearview mirror that one of the housemen had detached himself from the rest and was walking toward him.
He palmed the ace of spades and held it ready as the guy approached, suspicion written on his face, his jacket open to provide him ready access to the holstered hardware underneath. When Bolan flashed the death card, he was visibly surprised. It took an instant for him to collect his thoughts and give them voice.
"You must want Mr. Lazarus."
Bolan filed the name away and shook his head.
"Don't bother him. He's got enough things on his mind right now. I need to double-check security around your new arrivals."
"We've got everything in place," the houseman said, his tone defensive.
The Bolan sneer was withering.
"I just dropped by your outdoor body shop, all right? So cut the crap and show me where they're staying. Now."
The guy was clearly pondering an answer, but discretion got the better of his temper and he nodded, turning on his heel to lead the Black Ace around the great house to the rear.
Aside from Don Minelli's mansion, half a dozen bungalows were arranged around the grounds, connected by flagstone footpaths. Bolan had observed them through the sniperscope, but the buildings were larger than he had thought. And the would-be king of mob land could secure an army on his estate, damn right, if he was so inclined. Or hide a meeting of his fellow capos from the prying eyes of law enforcement, sure.
"The Cigliano party's here," the houseman told him, pointing out the nearest cottage on their left as they approached. "Don Patriarcca and his people are next door."
As he spoke, Sally Palmer suddenly emerged from Patriarcca's bungalow and set off toward the house with long, determined strides. Mack Bolan seized the time and brushed the houseman off with thanks, pursuing her along the flagstones, swiftly closing on her flank.
"One second, ma'am," he called to her.
The woman hesitated, turned, her face a study in curiosity and irritation.
"Yes?"
The soldier waited until he was close enough to speak without the houseman overhearing him.
"Long time no see," he said, flashing her a smile before his face went blank. "How's everything in Wonderland?"
9
The woman's first reaction was a puzzled frown, and then her eyes went wide behind the designer shades. She glanced around, marking the houseman as he retreated, watching for any other source of danger as she took a cautious step toward Bolan.
Sally Palmer had not seen the soldier since their last encounter in New York, before he shed his face and took another to resume the war on other fronts, but there was recognition in her eyes, damn right, and in her voice, as she addressed him in a whisper.
"My God, what are you doing here?" It clicked a heartbeat later, and her cheeks went red. "Goddamm it, that was you back there, with all the fireworks."
"Guilty."
"What's the big idea? I've been working Patriarcca for a year now, and you damn near gave him heart failure."
Bolan smiled.
"I'll bet his heart can stand a good deal more than that."
She hesitated, chewing her lower lip, the first hot rush of anger and confusion slowly cooling off.
"You're right, but dammit... I don't even know what to call you."
"Just as well. I haven't got the time for a reunion."
"Bastard."
"Definitely."
Sally's voice went soft, the cutting edge dissolved. "I... I've missed you."
"Goes both ways," he told her honestly.
"You owe me a briefing, soldier."
Bolan felt the smile growing and headed it off at the pass. The numbers were running, and he had pushed his luck already, just by being there.
"Another time," he answered.
"Sure."
"Jules must be getting soft in his old age."
"Don't you believe it. He just... likes me, that's all."
Bolan read the embarrassment in Sally's face, and in another place, another time, he might have reached for her and let her know he made no judgments on her way of waging war.
Sally was an undercover agent, using every tool at her disposal to complete her mission. If the skillful application of her sex, her charms, could get the job done, then she would have been a fool to let the opportunity slip by.
The lady was a pro, damn right. A good one. With her angel face, her dancer's body, she could infiltrate the hostile camp in ways the Executioner could never hope to emulate. And the intelligence she gathered, all the secret blows she struck against the enemy, were vital to the war at large.
He read a hint of the old self-contempt in her face, there and gone in an instant, and there was nothing he could do to ease her mind. It had to be enough that Sally knew he thought no less of her. That he respected — hell, admired — her for the war she waged against their common enemy.
"It's lucky that you're here. I may need someone on the inside," Bolan told her.
"Wait a second, guy. I'm strictly gathering intelligence, not playing smash and grab."
"There may not be a choice."
Her frown bespoke more curiosity than irritation. "You obviously know about the sit-down, right? So, what's the big emergency?"
He scanned the grounds, alert for any sign of hardmen drawing near, but saw none closer than the swimming pool, some forty yards distant. "It's more than a sit-down. Try coronation."
She nodded shortly. "Right. I've heard that. Jules and Cigliano aren't convinced Minelli has the makings. Some others are inclined to agree."
"How many of them do you think would change their minds if he gave them a sign?"
"That depends on the sign."
"Try Dave Eritrea."
The lady Fed went blank for just a heartbeat, but recovered swiftly, holding her poise. "Well, damn it!"
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
Bolan risked a casual shrug, his eyes still on the poolside loungers. "Something leaked. Who knows? The point is that Minelli has him now."
"That changes things."
He nodded. "Maybe you should take a leave of absence."
Sally bristled, her spine stiffening. "Forget it, Captain Chivalry. I'm in for the duration."
Bolan knew that he had touched a nerve. "Okay. But just don't sit too close to Jules, all right?"
"I'll make a note."
A couple of the gunners by the pool were watching with more than casual interest as the unfamiliar face made time with Patriarcca's girl. The Executioner was betting that Minelli's troops at large were not acquainted yet with members of the Patriarcca-Cigliano entourage.
"We've got an audience," he told her, raising one arm to point in the direction of the house. "I'm showing you the kitchen."
"And I'm showing you the gate," she said, giving him a dazzling smile before she turned away.
"Stay hard," he told the lady Fed's retreating back.
"You, too," she answered in a whisper, never turning.
Bolan backtracked toward his rental car, long strides devouring the flagstone path. When he was almost there, he saw the houseman who had spoken to him earlier walking toward him. The soldier did not try to outmaneuver him. Instead, he slowed his pace to let the other guy catch up.
"You can see Mr. Lazarus now," the houseman to
ld him, drawing even.
"No time," Bolan countered gruffly. "I'm late as it is, and I've got two more stops before I meet the next crew at Kennedy."
"Well, say..."
The soldier turned on him, voice going stony in an instant. "Say what, guy?"
Instinct and training took over, forcing the gunner to pull back. "Uh, nothing, I guess."
"You guess right. I'll check in when I can."
He slid behind the wheel and turned the engine over, letting the houseman watch out for himself as he powered the rental out along the drive. The guy just stood there, dwindling in the rearview mirror, and Bolan knew instinctively that he had made the license plate.
So be it.
He had come this far, but the infiltration of Minelli's stronghold was a minor operation, carried out on the spur of the moment. The next penetration would require careful planning. He would need the cover of night, and man-made thunder on his side to clear the way.
The soldier wondered who he might have missed by not confronting Lazarus. It was an alias, of course, perhaps the handle of the highest-ranking Ace in residence. And if Minelli had one Black Ace in his camp there might be others.
It was an opening, but it could not be overused. As Omega, he had already stretched blind luck about as far as it would go before it reached the breaking point.
When Bolan passed this way again, it would be as himself, and heaven help whoever tried to block his way.
He reached the burned-out tanks and raised a parting hand to soldiers who were laboring to clear the drive. They were using a little tractor-mower to drag a blackened hulk across the grass, plowing furrows as they went. Bolan grinned, wishing he could hear Minelli when the capo saw their handiwork.
He reached the gate, but this time through, the gunners in street clothes scarcely glanced at him.
He let his breath escape between clenched teeth. So far, so good... but it was far from over yet.
He worried about the lady Fed inside Minelli's camp. She was a pro, but this time her job had brought her to ground zero on the Bolan firing range.
Bolan hoped that he could spare her when the showdown came.
It would be chancy, when all the delegates had crowded into Don Minelli's compound, beefing up the ranks of human targets. That much more difficult to spot the friendly face or two among the hostiles when the battle smoke was everywhere and there was time only to kill or die.
He would watch, also, for Tattaglia when it began. The soldier knew that failing health and trouble with the courts were keeping Carlos Narozine home in Baltimore, but he would still be represented by a team of crack lieutenants, Nino chief among them.
Yet another headache when it came down to marking targets in the midnight hour.
But he was mixing up priorities, and Bolan reined his thoughts in, focusing on first things first.
Like Dave Eritrea.
He still had no idea precisely where the former capo was sequestered, and he needed that much before he turned the thunder loose around New York. Eritrea was the key to everything, and if the Executioner fell short of that objective...
No.
He had already made Don Minelli and his West Coast guests suspicious of one another. In time, the same technique would bring him what he sought — or bring the house down trying.
Right.
In time.
The one commodity that he was shortest of.
And the soldier knew that there was none to spare as he accelerated in the direction of Manhattan and the predetermined target zone. If he could not find Dave Eritrea, he would turn the heat on where it mattered, rattle cages until something dropped out, right into his waiting hands.
The Executioner was blitzing on, and God help any savage in his path.
God help New York.
10
The rapping on his study door roused Don Minelli from his private reverie. He swiveled in the padded desk chair, scowling at the door.
"Come in."
Lazarus was muscular, six-foot-four, and handsome as a movie star. The face was understandable, of course, considering the fact that he had picked it out himself and had it customized to meet his needs.
It was a living, breathing mask, and sometimes Don Minelli felt that he could tap one cheek and watch the whole thing crumble like a shattered mirror, leaving Lazarus without a face to call his own.
The Black Ace found himself a chair and settled into it without waiting for an invitation, regarding Minelli across the broad expanse of desk.
"What is it?"
"We just had a visitor."
Minelli did not grasp the meaning of his words. "Explain yourself."
The mask-mouth curved into a patronizing smile.
"We've been invaded. Infiltrated. Compromised."
Minelli's stare was blank, and Lazarus continued.
"Some hero came right in through the front gate, past your guards. He showed an Ace and made them think he was one of mine. Dumb bastards."
"How are they supposed to know, the way you're in and out all hours?"
"Someone should have phoned the house."
Minelli had no good answer for that, and he sat silent, waiting for Lazarus to finish.
"A coupla soldiers spotted him out back, by the bungalows, talking to Don Patriarcca's lady friend."
Minelli raised an eyebrow.
"Maybe he was asking for directions."
"Maybe."
And the soldier's tone left no doubt to his skepticism.
"You think Jules brought muscle with him?"
"I wouldn't rule it out."
"Your own damn people?"
"Hey, you know the score. Since Pat and Mike, since Barney bought it, our communications haven't been for shit."
"That's reassuring." Don Minelli made no effort to conceal his sarcasm. "Would one of Patriarcca's people try to hit him here?"
Lazarus shrugged. "They didn't try too hard."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that no one on his payroll took a hit. You lost two cars, two men. I didn't see a scratch on Jules or Lester."
Minelli frowned, thinking it through, winding up where he started. "What's the point?"
"Could be anything. Disrupt the meet. Make you look bad. Give someone the excuse they need."
"Goddamn it."
Lazarus was staring at his steepled fingers, frowning. "Of course, there's another possibility."
"I'm listening."
"You've got more delegations coming in throughout the day. It could be any one of them. It might not be the Coast at all."
"So what about this phony Ace — assuming that he is a phony?"
Another shrug from the enforcer.
"Either way, he could be working for another family."
"You just said he was talking to the girl."
"Coincidence?"
Minelli snorted, rocked back in his swivel chair.
"We can't leave anything to chance. I want a hard eye on that bitch around the clock. She doesn't take a leak unless I know about it. Clear?"
The Black Ace nodded. "Done."
"I want a roving guard on the perimeter. No more surprises like this morning."
"I've got people on it now."
"As for this other thing, our uninvited visitor..."
Lazarus did not wait for him to finish.
"The gate's alerted now. He won't be coming in that way again. I've got my people on alert for any unfamiliar faces. And we got his number."
"What?"
"His license plate. One of our friends on the police department ran it through."
"So?"
"It's a rental."
"Shit."
The Black Ace raised a placating hand.
"I've got a man en route right now to check it out. He'll let us have a name within the hour."
Minelli shook his head.
"And what the hell will that prove, huh? You think the bastard left his name? You think he even still remembers what
it is?"
"It's a start."
The capo glowered.
"What I want, goddamn it, is a finish. Everything wrapped up, no more loose ends."
"You'll have it," the Ace assured him. "It just takes time."
"We haven't got a lot to spare. And we can't afford any more fuck-ups like this morning." He swiveled toward the window, stared across the wide expanse of lawn. "If there's any more shooting around here, I want to do it myself."
He felt, rather than heard, the Black Ace rise from his chair. Lazarus was halfway to the door when he hesitated, turning back toward Minelli.
"There's nothing going on that I can't handle," he said.
Minelli did not turn to meet his eyes.
"I hope not," he replied. "For both our sakes."
Lazarus closed the door and the capo was left alone. He welcomed solitude, a chance to sort his thoughts and put the pieces of the puzzle in place. They were multiplying lately, getting out of hand, and it was a damned uncomfortable feeling, despite the soldier's best efforts to sound reassuring.
And Minelli wondered how long Lazarus would stay aboard the sinking ship if things went sour. Not much longer, he surmised, than it would take to pack a bag and throw it in the car.
Suspicion of the Aces was widespread within the brotherhood, despite their legendary faithfulness. They were a breed apart, conceived to serve la commissione directly, and as the syndicate's gestapo they had cherished secrets that made them more awesome, perhaps, than they actually were. Dispersed and badly shaken in the Bolan wars, they had regrouped, after a fashion, but the Aces were still not restored to their former station. More than soldiers, less than bosses, they existed in a sort of limbo, without official rank, and it was tempting to suspect that they might scheme together, plot to seize the ruling power for themselves.
It was a problem he would have to deal with, Don Minelli thought, when he was finally in charge. A weapon that could not be handled was a liability to its owner and should be destroyed for safety's sake. If he could not control the Aces, bend them to his will... then they would have to go. And permanently this time.
If Lazarus was right in his assessment, if communications were so bad that one hand never knew what the other was doing, then it should be a relatively easy task. If not...
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