But not just yet.
He had to wait until the final guests were bussed away to alternate hotels, their places taken by gorillas who were circling McCarran Airport at that very moment.
When everyone was present and accounted for — the imports and Spinoza's coterie of shaky allies on the local front — then Bernstein would be ready to unleash his strike force. And he was looking forward to it with relish.
There was a great day coming for Las Vegas — and for Bernstein. He was about to do a favor on behalf of justice. Poetic justice. And it was going to be a pleasure.
14
Frank Spinoza took his time about emerging from the elevator. He would be at a disadvantage if he seemed too eager, too uncertain of himself. He could not afford to let the new arrivals think that he was unable to hold down his end. He had to deal from strength or they might find a way to ease him out along with Kuwahara's kamikazes.
Spinoza watched as the first contingent of arrivals from the East grouped up around the entrance, waiting for the porters to unload their bags. Outside, the rest were quickly piling out of airport limos, unwilling to expose themselves on hostile soil until they knew the layout. Spinoza planned to let them get their fill of action as soon as possible, but first he had to play the role of host to the assembled hunters. The lobby was a wasteland now, devoid of paying guests, with only Bernstein's few employees and the new arrivals. The place was deathly quiet-calm before the storm-and Frank Spinoza realized how much he missed the jangle of casino action from the big adjacent room. Right now, without the players his casino was lifeless — like a tomb.
Spinoza pushed the morbid image out of mind and crossed the lobby, Paulie Vaccarelli trailing at his elbow. Time enough to get the players back when he had dealt with Kuwahara and the frigging Yakuza once and for all.
Spinoza was a dozen paces out when one of the Manhattan soldiers peeled away and moved to greet him, two more falling in behind but hanging back a yard or so, their attitude conveying mute respect. Spinoza took the offered hand and shook it, matching ounce for ounce the pressure in that grip. He kept his face impassive.
"I'm Frank Spinoza. Welcome to Las Vegas."
"Jake Pinelli. Glad that we could help you out. No problem with the rooms?"
"My house is yours."
"Okay. Just let us settle in, and we can all get down to business."
"Good."
A movement on his flank distracted him, and Spinoza saw a runner huddling with Paulie, speaking to him in a whisper. Paulie heard him out, dismissed him, and then, before Spinoza could direct the New York crew chief to his suite, the houseman cleared his throat, discreetly claiming Frank's attention.
"Say, Frank..."
"Hang on a minute, Paulie. Now..."
"You got a call, boss. On your private line. It sounds important."
"Dammit, Paulie..."
"Never mind," Pinelli interjected, frowning. "We'll find our way. Go take your call."
"I'll have some food sent up. You name it, Jake."
"We caught some dinner on the plane, but thanks. I'll just wait till you get your action squared away."
Spinoza, fuming, followed Paulie back in the direction of his private office. He would have to watch Pinelli closely, make damn sure the snotty bastard did not start to think he was in charge.
Too many chiefs were bad for business, and Spinoza meant to be the only honcho at the Gold Rush.
Hell, he meant to be the only honcho in Las Vegas. Alone inside his office he relaxed a fraction, slumping down into his high-backed chair and punching up the lighted button for his private number as he lifted the receiver to his ear.
"Yeah?"
Momentary silence on the other end, finally broken by a voice that was distinctly male, distinctly cautious.
"I needta speak to Mr. Frank Spinoza." There was a trace of Eastern Seaboard in the voice, which he could not identify with any more precision.
"You got him."
"Yeah? I mean, good evening, sir."
"Who am I talking to?"
"Just call me Joe from Jersey. I'm connected back there with the Drucci family."
Sure, it fit. The Jersey twang.
Spinoza was not taking any chances with the caller being who he claimed to be.
"I've got some friends in Jersey," he allowed. "How's old Vinnie Giacovelli doing these days?"
Hesitation, but the caller caught on fast.
"He died six months ago. You ought to know that, sir."
"Okay. So, Joe from Jersey, how'd you get this number?"
"I guess you'd say it was a backup, sir. A kinda last resort... just covering all the bases, like, you know?"
"Somebody said this was important."
"Well... yeah, it might be. Anyhow, I thought I'd better tip you when I heard about your troubles."
"Troubles?" Spinoza was hard pressed to hide his irritation.
"Uh, yeah. That's kinda why I called. I thought you oughta know... about what I heard."
Spinoza kept his tone civil now with an effort.
"I guess I don't follow you, Joe."
"Well, I picked up a broad downtown this evening what a looker, man, the jugs on this one — anyway, we stopped into this restaurant she likes. A Japanese place. Me, I don't care much for all that seafood shit, but hell, whatever turns 'em on, you know? I mean..."
Spinoza interrupted him.
"Where is this place?"
"On Paradise. It had some kinda flowers in the name."
"The Lotus Garden." It was not a question.
"Yeah, that's it. Well, anyhow — where was..."
"In the restaurant."
"Oh, yeah. So we're just sitting there and this babe's sucking up the fish, but me, I'm concentrating on dessert, when I make out these two Nips talking shop behind me in another booth."
"Go on."
"I wouldn'a paid attention in the first place, but I heard some names that rang a bell, you know. These gooks were naming you, Liguori, Johnny Cats — some others I don't know for sure."
"What did they say?"
"Well, that's just it, sir. They were switching in and out with Japanese and some damn kinda broken English, so I couldn't get too much, but..."
"Anything at all, Joe." Spinoza's voice was cold as ice now, almost brittle.
"Right, okay. One guy says something like, "The troops are in," and then they go back into Japanese a while. But I can still make out your name, the Gold Rush, this and that."
"Go on."
"Well, they go back and forth like that and most of it is all this gook palaver, but then one of them comes out and says, "Tonight. We go tonight," like that. I mean, it doesn't take no Einstein now to figure out they're running down a hit on your place for this evening."
"And that's all of it?"
"It's all that I could understand. They took off pretty quick, and I hauled ass myself. I figured you should hear about this right away."
"You did the right thing, Joe. I wanna thank you."
"Hey, we're all arnici, right? I could stop by... I mean, I've got a piece if you could use an extra hand."
"I think we've got it covered here, but thanks again. I'll thank your capo personally when I get the chance."
"Hell, that ain't necessary, sir.
"I think it is."
"Well... thank you."
"If you ever feel the urge to relocate out east — you know, to get some sun..."
"I might at that."
"Okay, Joe. Have a safe trip home."
"And you, sir. Don't take any shit offa those Nips."
"Good night, Joe." Frank Spinoza put the phone down gently.
His mind was racing in confrontation with the danger that awaited him outside in the darkness of the desert night.
Somehow Kuwahara had found out about his buildup at the Gold Rush, and he had been working on a countermove — his own preemptive strike. Well, two could play that little game. Spinoza had the troops on hand to end this thing in one de
cisive move.
It was time for Jake Pinelli and his guns to earn their money. He would send Paulie with them, just to be sure they did it right the first time and to see that all his interests were protected. When they finished mopping up the streets with Kuwahara's chopsticks... well, Spinoza meant to have a little send-off waiting for them at the Gold Rush. A going away that none of them would soon forget. For the survivors. As for the rest... there was a great big desert out there waiting to be filled with little graves, and Frank Spinoza had a corner on the shovel market. He was going to get a lot of digging done before the bloody sunrise came up over Vegas one more time.
And it would not be Kuwahara's rising run. No way. His sun was going down in flames, except the Jap was too damned dumb to know it yet. The sun was rising for Spinoza and his family. The Nevada family. And they were going to flourish in the light.
* * *
Mack Bolan — lately known as Joe from Jersey eased the telephone receiver down and lit himself a cigarette. He was anticipating the results of his brief conversation with Spinoza, what the aftershock would mean for Seiji Kuwahara, for the Mafia and for the city of Las Vegas. He had cruised by the Gold Rush earlier, observed the hard-eyed types unloading from their chauffeured limos, mobbing up at the hotel-casino. They were going hard down there, about to put an army on the streets, and from his knowledge of the Mafia mind, Bolan knew that when the killing started they would not be taking time to sift out innocent civilians from the line of fire.
West was ready to collide with East and countless lives were hanging in the balance. All of Vegas could become a battleground — unless the Executioner's device turned out to be successful.
He had called Spinoza in the hope of giving him a target, drawing off the savages from roving street patrol and pitting them against the common enemy where they would do least damage to the innocents around them. Kuwahara's hardsite seemed the perfect place to bring them all together. Any troops who hung back at the Gold Rush, left on garrison duty with Spinoza, would be waiting for him when he finished with the spearhead.
He dropped another dime and dialed the number of a giant Strip hotel, his eyes upon the traffic sliding past his phone booth while the operator put him through to Tommy Anders's room. The comic's voice was cautious as he answered, "Yes."
"How is she?"
Hesitation on the other end.
"Well... ah, dammit, man, she split."
And something cold turned over in the soldier's stomach.
"What happened, Joker?"
"I was only in the next room for a minute, maybe two, just touching base with Wonderland. When I came back there was no sign of her."
"How long?"
"I'd say an hour, maybe less."
The warrior's mind ran through some alternate scenarios, but none of them provided him the slightest reassurance. Finally, reluctantly, he put the woman out of mind and went ahead with business.
"Let me have another hour, Joker, then put through a call to Metro Homicide. The man you want is Captain Reese."
"Okay. I've got it."
"Tell him that Spinoza has a crew at Seiji Kuwahara's, and they're bringing down the house. He'll know the address."
"Kuwahara's, right. Hey, Sarge..."
"Forget it."
"Can't. I'm sorry that I let her get away."
"She wasn't ours to hold," the warrior told him. And again, "Forget about it."
But the soldier would have trouble following his own advice that night. Lucy Bernstein was in danger, right, and there was nothing either he or Tommy Anders could have done to keep her safe and sound. The choice was hers, and she had made it freely. And he understood why. She had a job to do and she had gone about it on her own. She was a big girl. He only hoped she had the sense to find herself a shelter from the rising storm that was about to sweep the city. There was no way he could stop the wheels that had been set in motion here tonight.
The Universe was in the driver's seat and all of them were booked through to the end of the line, wherever, whatever that end turned out to be. For some, perhaps for all of them, the vehicle would prove to be a hearse-but none of them could disembark before they reached the final destination preordained by fate.
The Executioner stubbed out his smoke and left the phone booth, moving through the darkness toward his waiting rental car. He had no wish to put off the inevitable; on the contrary, he welcomed the future whatever it might bring.
For he had done his duty, and he would continue doing it while life and strength remained. Tonight, tomorrow — for as long as he was given, he would fight the good fight, carry on and spread his cleansing fire among the dark encampments of the universal enemy.
The Executioner was moving toward a rendezvous with destiny in the desert, with a stopover in hell along the way.
15
Paradise Valley lies south of Las Vegas and cast of the Strip. It has been colonized by well-to-do casino personnel and such show-business stars as chose to live in Vegas through the off months, when they are not on the road. A spacious area with mammoth homes and ready access to four separate country clubs, the neighborhood enjoys a reputation for conspicuous consumption, and the residents take pride in their affluence. In the fifties they elected old Gus Greenbaum mayor of Paradise, deciding that his quasi-ownership of the flamboyant Riviera Hotel and Casino necessarily outfitted him for public office. Everyone professed surprise when Gus, a one-time murderer and closet junkie, ran afoul of mafiosi who were really putting strings down at the Riviera. He was on vacation at the family home in Arizona when somebody hacked his head off with a butcher knife and then went on to practice further surgical techniques upon Mrs. Greenbaum in the next room, taking time to spread out plastic tarps beneath each body prior to cutting. And the folks back home in Paradise could well appreciate the hit team's grim fastidiousness. No maid could ever clean those twenty pints of blood out of a Persian carpet.
And Paradise had made almost a cult of looking clean, of putting up appearances and hiding in the shadows. Driving down the tree-lined streets and looking at palatial homes in back of finely manicured lawns, no casual tourist would suspect which houses had been built with skimmed casino money, cash from tax frauds and insurance swindles.
If your next-door neighbor was in league with mobsters, if he was a practicing arsonist who torched his own concerns for profit, well... the world was dog-eat-dog, and every businessman had overhead to meet. As long as you could settle out of court with IRS or dodge the audits altogether, there was no real reason for concern.
And if you took the fall there would be someone waiting for the house, with ready cash in hand.
Someone like Seiji Kuwahara, the businessman from Tokyo who specialized in restaurants — and other things. His neighbors knew him vaguely, did not seek acquaintance with him on a daily basis, but if asked, they would assure investigators that there could be nothing wrong with Mr. Kuwahara. How could any criminal keep such nice flower gardens, after all? Mack Bolan smelled the flowers — and the stench of death that drowned their sweet fragrance like the reek of fresh-laid fertilizer. Crouching in the darkness, sweeping Seiji Kuwahara's desert palace with his night eyes, the Executioner knew that he was looking at a dragon's lair. The residential neighborhood had not been Bolan's first choice for a battlefield, but it was preferable to the Lotus Garden, down on Paradise, where stray fire might encounter any one of several hundred tourists still abroad and seeking action.
Here, at least, the residents were either still out for the evening, or else settled safely in behind their triple locks and burglar bars.
It was the best that he could do, right, and the place would simply have to serve his purposes.
He had come dressed for combat, decked out in the nightsuit that clung to him like a second skin, its hidden pockets filled with slim stiletto, strangling gear, the grim accoutrements of silent death.
The silenced Beretta 93-R hung beneath his left arm in its shoulder harness, and Big Thunder, the .44 A
utoMag, occupied its usual place on his right hip, hung on military webbing. Nylon pouches circling his waist held extra magazines for both the handguns, prearranged to let him find them by their feel alone amid the smoke and dust of battle. Slung across his back was a Mini-Uzi submachine gun, fully loaded. Inches shorter than its parent weapon, the little stuttergun had not surrendered any of its manbreaking firepower when it was miniaturized. Roughly the size of an Ingram MAC-10 with its side-folding stock, the little Uzi could lay down its parabellum manglers at a cyclic rate of 1,200 rounds per minute-a cataclysmic outpouring that Bolan had himself refined to a more manageable 750 rpm.
Head weapon for the evening was a recent Bolan favorite, the XM-18 semiautomatic projectile launcher. Built on the revolver principle, the XM-18 sported a 12-shot rotary magazine.
Constructed out of coated steel and durable cast aluminum to cut the weight, it was a one-man piece of field artillery, and Bolan could unload its twelve big chambers in the space of half as many seconds when the heat was on. The rifled bore belonging to the 40mm model made hits possible out to the weapon's maximum effective range of 150 yards, and with a steady hand, the cannon could work miracles against the opposition.
Double belts of premixed rounds encircled Bolan's chest, combining high-explosive rounds with gas and smoke, fl6chette and shot — enough to give an army pause, damn right.
Which was exactly what the soldier meant to do.
Fifteen minutes had passed since Bolan spoke with Tommy Anders, and the mental clock was ticking off the numbers. The pace was picking up now, the Las Vegas caldron coming to a boil around him.
Precision timing was the key if Bolan did not mean to wind up as a piece of well-done meat left floating in the stew pot. He was counting on Spinoza to dispatch an army straight for Kuwahara's, armed for war. The mafioso might be having trouble with his men, collecting all the arms he needed for the raid... but even so they should be on the scene at any moment now.
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