Part 2 (1/2)

The Lincoln returned some moments later and halted on Bolan's side of the square, out of his field of vision. A large man with thick shoulders immediately strolled past the shop, barely ten feet from Bolan's position, and disappeared in the direction of the vehicle. Almost at the same moment, the door opened at the Museum de Sade Museum de Sade and Ann Franklin came out. Bolan watched her tensely, wondering about her reception by those waiting in the street. She crossed the traffic circle and halted in the small park at the center, standing beneath a street lamp. She seemed to be looking toward the bookshop; Charles had told her, no doubt, of Bolan's mode of exit. and Ann Franklin came out. Bolan watched her tensely, wondering about her reception by those waiting in the street. She crossed the traffic circle and halted in the small park at the center, standing beneath a street lamp. She seemed to be looking toward the bookshop; Charles had told her, no doubt, of Bolan's mode of exit.

Bolan fidgeted and watched the girl. What the h.e.l.l was she trying to do? As he watched, a man came out of the darkness walking directly toward the girl. He made a close pa.s.s and went on by, Ann swiveling to watch him out of sight. Had they spoken? Bolan could not tell; it had appeared not.

Seconds later a taxicab eased into the circle and halted alongside the girl. She entered and the cab went on. A moment later another vehicle which Bolan had not seen earlier swung into view and circled around to fall in behind the taxi.

No, she had not spoken. They'd made an ident.i.ty pa.s.s, pulled the make, and were now following her. They were missing no bets.

Nor was Bolan. His quiet surveillance had gained him a rather valid impression of the terrain out there, and of the forces arrayed against him. It was a mighty hard set, too hard for any ideas of a frontal a.s.sault. So, once again, Bolan's time had come.

He went back through the shop and let himself out through the rear entrance. The alleyway was narrow, smelly, and densely dark, running along the side of the shop and dead-ending a few feet to the rear. Bolan took the only way out, moving cautiously toward the square, and rounded the corner in a casual stroll. The big man he had noted earlier outside the shop was now standing just downrange, leaning against a building about halfway between the shop and the Lincoln, arms folded across his chest in a stance of tired boredom. He did not see Bolan until they were in an almost direct confrontation, then he started visibly and whispered, ”s.h.i.+t, don't come up like that. You scared the-”

Bolan told him, ”Relax. I don't think the guy's over there. I think it's a b.u.m stand.” He edged in close to the man, keeping a distant street lamp behind him.

”Is that what Danno thinks?”

”Yeh,” Bolan replied. His mind was clicking out the name. Danno Giliamo Danno Giliamo? Could be. A lieutenant in a New Jersey mob. Bolan probed. ”Jersey was never like this, eh,” he said disgustedly.

”Any place is like this at two in th' morning,” the man replied. He was showing an interest in Bolan's face and having a bad time at identification in the London blackness.

Probably, Bolan guessed, wondering about rank. People in the mob were very rank conscious. Bolan pushed his advantage. ”Go on over and get some coffee,” he commanded gruffly.

”They got coffee over there?”

”I said said coffee, didn't I?” coffee, didn't I?”

The man sighed, mumbled something disparaging about ”English coffee,” and dug in his pocket for a cigarette. Bolan slapped the pack out of his hand, snarling, ”Whatta you, nuts? You don't go lighting no fires out here!”

”You said it was a b.u.m stand,” the man replied quietly. He retrieved the cigarettes and dropped them into a pocket. ”Look,” he added, ”I didn't come all the way over here for a cup of lousy coffee. I want a shot at that hundred thou. Now if the guy ain't here, then I say let's go find out where he's at.”

A contract man, Bolan thought. Bounty hunter, twentieth century style. Not even in the mob, but a freelancer. This intelligence opened interesting possibilities. Bolan pushed a step further.

”What's your name again?” he growled.

”Dunlap,” the big man replied defiantly. ”Jack Dunlap. You want me to spell it?”

”Just don't forget, Jack Dunlap,” Bolan said, playing for all the marbles now, ”that Danno and me are standing your expenses.” He chuckled drily. ”I like a hot-trotter. You get over there and have yourself some coffee. And you tell Danno that Frankie says you get a spot up front. Understand? Where the action is. Eh?”

The man was grinning. He said, ”Sure, Frankie. You won't be sorry. What I hit stays. .h.i.t, you'll see.”

”Just save enough to identify, eh?”

”Sure.” Dunlap chuckled. ”I go for the gut, so I hope you don't identify by belly b.u.t.tons.” He made one last futile attempt to get a good look at Bolan's face, then moved on out and started across the street.

Bolan immediately glided down to the Lincoln which was idling at the curb just downrange, lights out, engine running. A stir of interest inside the vehicle greeted his approach. He bent down to speak through the driver's window and snapped, ”You boys get out there and cover Dunlap. He's spotted something.”

Three doors opened instantly and quiet feet began moving off into the darkness. The driver remained in his seat. Bolan swung the door open and snarled, ”You too, dammit, get out there!”

The man leapt out and ran quietly after the others. Bolan leaned inside and found the control lever for the spotlight. An instant later a brilliant beam stabbed across the darkness of the square and picked up the sauntering figure of Jack Dunlap.

Bolan roared, ”There he is!”

Dunlap froze for an instant when the beam hit him, then he spun about with a large revolver in his hand and tried to dive out of the sudden brilliance. Others reacted quicker, and a hail of fire swept the spot, jerking the man about Eke a rag doll and punching him to the ground.

Bolan was behind the wheel and easing the car forward. ”Wrong guy!” he yelled, and the spot picked up another figure running in from the far side of the square. This one halted stockstill and thrust his hands high overhead.

”Not me!” he screeched as another rattling volley descended, and sieved him, and flung him into eternity.

Bolan had the vehicle moving swiftly now, out into the traffic circle with all lights extinguished, and angling toward a broad exit. Sporadic bursts of gunfire continued to disrupt the stillness of the night and an excited voice over near the Museum de Sade Museum de Sade was loudly demanding a ceasefire. was loudly demanding a ceasefire.

Bolan opened the big car up going into the turn. A gun crew at the corner gaped at him as he roared past, but no shots followed him. Apparently the confusion was complete.

Allies, Bolan was thinking, should at least know each other. They should, also, know their enemy.

This was an admonition which the executioner would have cause to remember later. For the moment, he was free and running through the wet wild woods of Londontown.

Chapter Four.

THE CLOSING JUNGLE.

Danno Giliamo was a mighty unhappy man. Twice in one night he had set a flawless trap for that Bolan b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and twice in one night the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had skipped lightly away and left a pile of bleeding bodies behind him.

”The trouble,” Danno complained to his local contact, ”is that I'm trying to do a job with nothing but a bunch of two-bit amateurs. We're never going to nail that guy with this kind of talent.”

Nick Trigger, a powerfully built man about forty-five, thoughtfully chewed the end of an unlighted cigar, and studied the troubled caporegime caporegime from Jersey. Known earlier by various names-Endante, Fumerri, Woods, to list only the most recent-Nick had been a trigger man with various eastern mobs since the late forties. He had come to England less than a year earlier, with false papers and under the name Nicholas Woods, and with a singular mission to perform for the council of bosses back home in the U.S. In coded communications traveling between the two countries, this veteran triggerman was identified as Nick Trigger, and the code name had stuck. from Jersey. Known earlier by various names-Endante, Fumerri, Woods, to list only the most recent-Nick had been a trigger man with various eastern mobs since the late forties. He had come to England less than a year earlier, with false papers and under the name Nicholas Woods, and with a singular mission to perform for the council of bosses back home in the U.S. In coded communications traveling between the two countries, this veteran triggerman was identified as Nick Trigger, and the code name had stuck.

Nick's mission in England was true to his trade. He had been commissioned to discourage organized compet.i.tion with the mob's British arm during their entrenchment there. A better man for the task could hardly have been chosen. Tough, tenacious, highly intelligent and coldly merciless, he is thought to have figured directly or indirectly in more than a hundred Mafia executions during his criminal career. Many of these victims had formerly been close a.s.sociates.

Now, as Nick Trigger, this same a.s.sa.s.sin was chief British enforcer for the Council of Capo's, reporting directly to the Commissione Commissione-and he was not entirely happy with the untidy bundle being edged into his lap by the man from Jersey. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and quietly asked his visitor, ”How many boys you running with, Danno?”

Nervously, Giliamo replied, ”I brought a dozen of my personal crew, and now two of them are hurt. I got about twenty freelancers left, ones I brought with me. Local talent I never know about, it keeps varying. For every one that gets shot, I lose ten to the trembling shakes.”

”Well how many locals you think you got right now?”

”I think maybe a couple dozen.”

Trigger whistled softly. ”h.e.l.l, you got a regular army. You can't nail Bolan with all that?”

”You gotta see this guy to believe it,” Giliamo said. ”It ain't numbers that's going to get him, it's talent. Now I got some pretty d.a.m.n good boys with me, Nick, but I ain't got any in that that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's league. As for these tagalong rodmen, it's almost criminal neglect to even put them on the firing line. This Bolan just whacks 'em down and sends for some more. You ought to see what he did to us on this last hit, and I bet he didn't fire a shot hisself. He had my boys shootin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d's league. As for these tagalong rodmen, it's almost criminal neglect to even put them on the firing line. This Bolan just whacks 'em down and sends for some more. You ought to see what he did to us on this last hit, and I bet he didn't fire a shot hisself. He had my boys shootin' each other each other up.” up.”

”He's pretty tricky, eh?”

”Cunning is the word, Nick. This f.u.c.kin' boy is cunning cunning.”

Nick Trigger chewed his cigar for another thoughtful moment, then asked, ”Just what is it you want from me, Danno?”