Part 8 (1/2)

He stepped around a groaning man and found the man with the Thompson submachinegun lying on his back directly opposite the flaming vehicle. The guy was alive, but not very, though he was conscious and still gripping the Thompson to his chest. Bolan kicked the heavy gun away and said, ”What's your name?”

”Get f.u.c.ked,” the guy whispered, and coughed up a hemorrhage.

”Who did it to the old man inside?” Bolan asked.

”Get... f.u.c.ked.”

Bolan moved on, peering at faces, trying to spot Danno Giliamo. The burning car was still roaring furiously. The firefight had been incredibly brief. Only now was the first reaction coming from the people inside the museum. Bolan was aware of blinds being whisked back and of faces peering out from the ground level windows.

And then he became aware of something far more menacing. Through the open door of the museum had erupted three men, all armed, one of them carrying a shotgun. Bolan's Uzi Uzi was instinctively up and ready but he hesitated, unsure of the ident.i.ty of the three. They were gaping about at the scene of incredible carnage with disbelief projecting all the way out to Bolan. was instinctively up and ready but he hesitated, unsure of the ident.i.ty of the three. They were gaping about at the scene of incredible carnage with disbelief projecting all the way out to Bolan.

The frozen confrontation held for a split second that seemed much longer, then the man with the shotgun gasped, ”It's Bolan!” and made a fatal move. The Uzi Uzi chattered at the same instant that the shotgun boomed; the man fell back into the entrance hall, zipped from groin to gullet, and Bolan's burst became a blazing figure-eight that swept the other two off the porch. Nothing heavy reached Bolan, but hot little things had dug at his ribs at the moment of the big boom, and he knew that he had picked up some pellets. chattered at the same instant that the shotgun boomed; the man fell back into the entrance hall, zipped from groin to gullet, and Bolan's burst became a blazing figure-eight that swept the other two off the porch. Nothing heavy reached Bolan, but hot little things had dug at his ribs at the moment of the big boom, and he knew that he had picked up some pellets.

He wheeled about and went quickly back the way he'd come. He had just about pushed his luck too far, and it was time to be moving on. The police would be showing up any minute, and there was a familiar warm stickiness under his arm. He crossed the square, went past the bookshop, and on some subconscious impulse paused at the entrance to the alleyway and was swinging the Uzi Uzi about when something moved back there in the darkness and a choked voice urged, ”Hey s.h.i.+t, don't, I'm outta bullets.” about when something moved back there in the darkness and a choked voice urged, ”Hey s.h.i.+t, don't, I'm outta bullets.”

Bolan had already dodged back to the corner of the building for cover. He growled, ”Send the gun out first, then yourself, hands on head.”

A pistol hit the cobblestones and slid into view, then a thickset man moved hesitantly out of the shadows and into the flickering light of the square.

Bolan jabbed the muzzle of the Uzi Uzi into the man's belly. The guy sucked in his breath and said, ”Hey s.h.i.+t, it's hot. The barrel's hot, huh?” into the man's belly. The guy sucked in his breath and said, ”Hey s.h.i.+t, it's hot. The barrel's hot, huh?”

Bolan withdrew the little chattergun and spun the man around, shook him down for weapons, then pushed him forward. ”Start walking,” he commanded. ”Straight ahead.”

”Where we going?”

”Depends,” Bolan said. ”Who are you?”

”I'm Stevie Carbon. I'm in Danno's crew, under Sal Ma.s.seri. Or I was was.”

”Are you all done living, Stevie?” Bolan asked in a conversational tone.

”No sir, I sure hope not,” came the strained reply.

They moved swiftly to the corner. Bolan shoved the man down the street toward the Lincoln. ”Okay, Stevie, just keep on walking. Nice and quick and don't look back.”

”Where we going?” the man wanted to know.

”Maybe to h.e.l.l.” Bolan allowed the neckstrap to support the Uzi Uzi while he probed his ribs with careful fingertips. while he probed his ribs with careful fingertips.

”Christ, can you tear things up in a hurry,” the man declared, striving for a buddy-buddy tone. ”I figure I got no arguments with a guy like you. I mean, nothing personal you know.”

Bolan knew a surge of weariness-not of the flesh but of the soul. ”That's the screwy part of this whole thing, Stevie,” he said coldly. ”There's nothing personal in any of it, is there? And then we run into an old man who's been tortured clear out of his body. And suddenly it gets very, very, personal.”

The man stumbled, caught himself, and quickly raised his hands again to clutch the back of his head. ”Uh, tell me straight out, Bolan. Are you gonna kill me or not?”

”That depends, Stevie.”

”On what?”

”On what you can tell me.”

”Look I don't know nothing, Bolan. Besides that, uh, I've taken the oath of silence. You know about that, huh.”

”You can die with that oath then, Stevie, if that's the way you want it.”

”You know I want to live live with it, Bolan. You know that.” with it, Bolan. You know that.”

They walked on in silence, Bolan two paces behind his prisoner. Police sounds rose up in the distance, and Bolan felt like this was where he'd come in. They reached the Lincoln. Tiredly, Bolan commanded ”You drive.”

”Where to?”

”Like I said, Stevie, maybe clear to h.e.l.l.”

They got into the car and the man said, ”I'll talk to you, Bolan.”

”Start the car, then you can start your mouth,” Bolan told him.

Though he was cold as ice on the outside, Bolan was experiencing an inner glow which meant that things were definitely beginning to look up. He had himself a prisoner of war, and not just an ordinary POW, either.

Bolan had no idea who Stevie Carbon was, or had been... but he knew who he was not. He was not the man seated next to him.

The Executioner had grabbed off a caporegime caporegime.

His POW was none other than Danno Giliamo.

Chapter Twelve.

THE INTERROGATION.

Nick Trigger, in all his years of gunbearing for the brotherhood, had never suffered such personal humiliation. He felt defeated, disgraced, and deeply dismayed at his own cowardly reaction to imminent death. He was alive, though. He kept telling himself that he was still alive, and that surely this counted for something. There was no profit for the family in a dead hero. When a guy saw how things were going, when he saw that nothing he could possibly do would change anything-then surely staying alive was more important than dying. Death was such a final d.a.m.n thing-it never really seemed possible that a guy could actually cease to exist, not until he came face to face with death. Then he knew, yeah s.h.i.+t, boy, he really knew.

And what could he have done against that Bolan at a time like that? An act of G.o.d, that's what, had spared him from cremation in that d.a.m.n car. He s.h.i.+vered violently in the mere remembrance of it. Another second, just one more second if he'd stayed with that car, and there'd be nothing left of Nick Trigger right now but a little pile of ashes. If he hadn't had sense enough to get the h.e.l.l out of there when he did...

Nick was rationalizing his actions, and he was conveniently forgetting the fact that sheer revulsion, not combat sense, had driven him out of that car. Gio Scaldicci's blood and brains were all over the back seat and floor, and Nick had found himself lying face down in the mess. He had flung himself on through and out, and he'd been no more than ten feet away when the explosion came. Then he lay there stunned and half unconscious while Bolan chopped up Danno's hunting party. He had lain there also and watched the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in black walking quietly among the dead. He had heard him try to question Sal Ma.s.sed, and still Nick had lain there, his gun no more than a couple of feet away from his outstretched hand, and he'd played dead, and he had even said a couple of prayers.

He hadn't moved a muscle until after Bolan had struck down Stevie Carbon and the two boys he'd taken through the tunnel with him. Then, as Bolan walked back across the square, Nick slithered away in the other direction. He hadn't gotten to his feet until he was completely clear of the square, and then he'd jumped up and started running... running running!

He was appalled at himself, despite the rationalizations. Nick was beginning to understand, though, why Mack Bolan had remained so long alive against everything the brotherhood had thrown at him. He understood why Danno had seemed so awed of the guy, so willing to humble himself and ask for help from someone outside his own family. When that Bolan b.a.s.t.a.r.d made a hit, he didn't fool around with no light feints. He didn't just hit, he broke h.e.l.l all around a guy. For Christ's sake, who wouldn't lose his head at a time like that?

Well, something had to be done about him. Some thing that hadn't been tried before maybe, some new wrinkle. They couldn't let that guy get away with that kind of s.h.i.+t. Until a few minutes ago, Bolan had been just a name to Nick, something to hit, just another name on a contract and another job and maybe another rung up the ladder of rank. That was all changed now. He had seen at first hand what Bolan could do.

Nick himself had brought death to more than a a hundred men, yet it had remained for a guy like Mack Bolan to introduce Death to Nick Trigger, to make it a personal experience that Nick Trigger could understand. He understood it now, all right, and he wanted more than anything else to share that understanding with Mack the b.a.s.t.a.r.d Bolan. He would, too, he decided.

The luckiest part of the whole fiasco, for Nick, was that n.o.body else knew. Apparently only Nick had survived. n.o.body would ever have to know that Nick Trigger had played dead and watched the b.a.s.t.a.r.d turn his back and walk away, n.o.body would have to know that Nick had even been there when it happened.

Yeah, that was the luckiest part of all. Or so Nick Trigger thought.