Part 8 (2/2)

Don't move around any out in the open, keep yourselves down and don't do anything stupid. We got the regular council room rigged so it looks like we're having a meeting up there. Don't n.o.body show themselves until he starts banging away, and even then don't do any shooting unless you can see something to shoot at. For G.o.d's sake, don't shoot each other. Something else, now, when...” He held them for another five minutes, then released them. They straggled out in groups of three and four, a few wise-cracking about the pistols coming down off the wall. Turrin hung back, hoping to get in a few private words with Father Sergio.

Plasky and Seymour joined the exiting crowd, Seymour glancing back impatiently at Turrin then going on without him.

Sergio took Turrin by the arm and said, ”It's like old times, Leopold. I wish your Uncle Augosto was with us, eh?” ”That'd be great,” Turrin agreed, smiling.

”I, uh, I been thinking about that hill across the canyon. We have any men over there?” The old man was smiling craftily. ”No, not on the hill, Leopold. Don't you worry about it. Sergio is ready for the war.” ”I was just thinking,” Turrin persisted, ”this guy's a soldier, you know. He thinks like a soldier, and I've been thinking..” Sergio patted his arm affectionately. ”Don't worry about the soldier,” he said grandly. ”Sergio has fought a couple of wars himself.” ”I'd like to go over there and scout around,” Turrin blurted.

”Oh?” The old eyebrows raised in high peaks. ”You'd go out there, alone, to meet this in the dark? Eh?” ”Yeah.” Turrin s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably under the strong stare. ”Regardless of the firepower we have ma.s.sed over here, he could still slip away from it.

I'd like to go over there and plug his escape route.” ”What makes you so certain his attack will come from over there?” The tone of voice was plainly teasing.

”I said, he thinks like a soldier. So do I.” The old man laughed, and said, ”You're a good soldier, Leopold, and a good Mafiosi. Sure, sure, you go over there and take this Bolan single-handed. I believe You can.” Turrin was still not certain if the old man was taunting him or not, but he took the words as official sanction. He left him standing there and raced up the stairs to the main level and ran to the parking lot, extricated his car from the jam, and tore out the drive in full acceleration.

”Where's Leo going?” someone asked, staring after the careening auto.

Sergio stood at the wall, arms crossed over his chest, smiling. ”He has gone to herd the lion in his den,” he said proudly, then added, under his breath, ”I hope.” The speaker crackled and a terse voice announced: ”A car is speeding out of the Frenchi estate.” Weatherbee s.n.a.t.c.hed up the mike and said, ”Let ”im pa.s.s, don't one unit move off station until I give the word!” ”What do you think is going on out there?” Pappas asked.

”Plenty, I'd say,” Weatherbee granted.

”I'd give a nickel to get in there and have a look at some of those faces. I bet there'd be some interesting ones.” ”Where do you think Bolan will strike from?” ”That's a good question. It's like trying to outguess the quarterback on a third-down play. Tell the truth, I don't envy this Mafia bunch. They have to sit and wait for him to make his. .h.i.t before they will know how to react and where. It's like waiting for the beginning of an atomic attack with this Bolan, anyway.” Pappas was grinning. ”Well, it's a new role for the Mafia, isn't it. The tables are turned, so to speak.” ”Yeah. What time is it?” ”four-thirty.” ”See, I told you it would be a d.a.m.n long night. You want a sandwich?” Pappas shook his head emphatically. ”I couldn't eat a belly dancer's navel right now.” ”Nervous?” ”You could say that, yeah. We been on plenty of stake-outs before, but this one...” ”But this one, you're rooting for the other side, is that it?” Pappas s.h.i.+fted about uncomfortably and lit a cigarette.

”Isn't that it?” ”Well s.h.i.+t, so what? I kind of admire the guy.” ”Don't be embarra.s.sed, Johnny--so do I.

I'm just hoping he won't try to shoot his way through a police line, that's all.” ”So why do you think I'm b.u.t.terflies?” Pappas announced, laughing.

”We can't afford to let sentiment ride the trigger finger, Johnny.” ”h.e.l.l, I know that.” ”A sentimental cop is a dead cop.” ”h.e.l.l, I know that.” ”The order is shoot to kill.” ”Well, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I know that!” Weatherbee smiled grimly. ”Just don't forget it,” he said quietly.

The Big Kill The Executioner made a final check of the weaponry and did a mental rehearsal of the sequence of events, then returned to the range finder to study once again the layout on the opposite hillside. For minutes, now, that bunch had been going through the exact same motions, as evidenced by the shadows on the large window. Either they were having a prayer service, or some sort of elaborate rite, or else.

He kept his eye to the range finder and moved his watch close alongside and began a timing. Mark --the guy at the head of the table lifts an arm at the exact instant the third guy from the end leans over ... mark--three seconds, and somebody walks past in the background... mark--five seconds, and the arm comes down, the other guy straightens.

mark--three seconds, and a guy walks past in the opposite direction... mark--five seconds, and.

Bolan studied the shadow-movements for a full five minutes, then grinned and moved on to other things. Pretty cute, he had to admit, pretty d.a.m.n cute--but now, where really was the pack congregating? There were very few lights showing. Of this few, all were at the lower levels, with the sole exception of the dim rectangle of light at the large window on level two.

He could make out one corner of the parking lot, and as he watched, a car moved rapidly through the narrow vision-field allowed by the telescopic lens; he followed it, saw the headlamps flare into brilliance, and the car careening along the drive.

He wondered about it, but only briefly, returning to the inspection of the house itself. He could see nothing whatever of the roof, no more than a faint outline against the black. He swung back to the ground level, and picked up the figure of a man standing on the patio, near a waist-level wall, partly concealed in shadows. The man moved then, and rubbed something against one shoulder. A pistol--he was scratching his shoulder with the barrel of a pistol. Some idiot. What did they have down there--idiots? The range finder tracked along the wall, seeking other evidence of human habitation. A door flashed open, bright light spilling onto the flagstones for a split second, then was hastily closed. He held the spot and saw the door open again, this time without accompanying light-spillage, and two men scurried out the door and ran up some steps at the corner of the building. Bolan grinned. They were learning--but too slowly. He lost the men in the upper darkness, his wonderment growing with respect to the darkened roof area.

Bolan glanced at his watch, and waited. He had a timed sequence planned, and he preferred a firm jump-off time. Just a few minutes more. He allowed his thoughts to wander to Valentina, to Mom and Pop, to Johnny, the kid he'd barely known and now probably would never know, to Cindy whom he had known better than any living soul and yet had not known at all.

One minute to jump-off. He'd promised Val that he'd be back. An empty promise, one that he'd never expected to keep. Bolan was a soldier--he knew a soldier's odds, he knew the chances of walking off this hillside alive.

Cops were all over the place; maybe they'd even bring in dogs. If the Mafia didn't get him, the cops would. Sweet Val. Tender little, pa.s.sionate little, sweet little Val--a girl who had saved her love only to hand it over to a doomed man. There was a sadness; yes, there was a sadness.

He pushed aside the sadness and moved over to the long tube-like object positioned alongside the range finder, final-checked the azimuth calculations, and began the ten-second countdown. The tube belched and hissed and the projectile roared down the range. The Big Kill was on.

”Jesus Christ!” Pappas yelped. ”What was that? Where'd it come from?” ”Rocket of some kind!” Weatherbee yelled.

The streaking glow had roared through the night air at dazzling speed, impacting on the lower corner of the mansion in a thunderous explosion. All lights had winked out and only the dull, licking flames at the devastated corner were providing illumination. A man was screaming in obvious agony, and the excited, raised voices of other men could be heard calling to one another.

Weatherbee and Pappas were on their feet outside the squad car at the perimeter of the property, looking down on the house from about 300 feet.

”Where'd the d.a.m.n thing come from?” Pappas repeated excitedly.

”Those hills over there,” Weatherbee snapped.

”Hand me those binoculars!” ”Think we oughta go down there, maybe give 'em a hand?” ”You outta your mind? They'd shoot you as quick as they'd shoot Bolan. Besides, he isn't finished with them, bet your a.s.s on that.” ”Good Mary, Mother of G.o.d!” Plasky cried.

”He's bombing us!” ”Shut up, shut up, and get your head down, you idiot,” Seymour snapped. ”Christ's sake, that was just the first shot!” ”Shot? Shot? You call that a shot? Where's Sergio? What the h.e.l.l is Sergio doing?” ”Everybody keep down and stay calm,” Sergio's voice intoned loudly, floating down from the higher level. ”Did anybody see where it came from?” A chorus of excited voices all tried to report at once.

”Outta the sky!” yelled one.

”The south corner!” came another intelligible response.

”It came right outta the f.u.c.kin” moon,” reported a voice close to Seymour.

”Aw s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t!” Sergio cried. ”Keep your eyes open now! Look for a flash, anything, a bit of smoke, just keep your eyes open!” ”Heads up, pip, pip, and all that s.h.i.+t,” Seymour muttered to himself.

The Executioner was completing another countdown.

He hit Zero and the flare gun at the same instant, then smiled and picked up the Marlin, peering through the scope. Seconds later the flare sh.e.l.l opened in the sky directly above the Frenchi mansion and floated gently groundward in startling brilliance, lighting the area like a personal sun.

Bolan's scope was already seeking the Frenchi roof when the sh.e.l.l burst into brilliance; a dazed, upturned face raised to the white hot sun loomed into the vision-field and Bolan's educated finger took spontaneous action. The big gun roared and bucked against him; he fought it steady, hanging grimly to the eyepiece and saw his target go down, hands digging at the belly. Bolan nodded in confirmation of his correction; from chin to belly was about 15 inches. He swung slightly left and picked up another target; another squeeze and buck; a few more degrees left, another target, again a squeeze; and another, and another, and he had counted off but five seconds. He laid down the Marlin and bent his eye to the range finder for a broader view. That roof was full of men, some still standing and staring stupidly into the brilliance, others seemingly frozen with surprise and fear, one was trying to support a b.l.o.o.d.y and obviously dead body; but most were at least partially concealed behind the low parapet at the edge of the roof. Obviously n.o.body had spotted his muzzle-flashes; there was no return fire.

Bolan shook his head sadly, muttered, ”Who's the amateur?” and went into another countdown.

”There's four dead and one wounded up here,” an excited voice called down.

”Sergio! Sergio? What do we do?” ”How long do those d.a.m.n things burn?” ”Down, down, everybody keep down and eyes open!” It was Sergio, huffing with excitement.

”Pete! Barney! Start raking that hillside!” The abrupt chatter of a machine gun broke the deadening pall, then another, and n.o.body really cared if there were a target to shoot at or not. Just the sound of firepower, coming from their camp, was a comfort in itself.

Then another light streaked in from the darkness.

”Christ, lookit, another whizzer!” The rocket slammed into the roof with a heart-stopping thunder of sound and flame, just as the flare burned out, dislodging men, stone, and mortar alike to rain onto the patio below. Screams of terror and groans of agony rose up in its wake, and then there was nothing but the frightening blackness of the night. A machine gun resumed its chatter, firing sporadically, but there was little cheer to its impotent message. Men were running blindly through the darkness. m.u.f.fled curses, labored breathing, and exclamations of pain and horror told the story of untrained would-be combatants; and still it was not the ending, but only the beginning. The walking explosions began then, in a pattern of terror that left no stone of the Frenchi mansion untouched or unshaken. And even the machine guns ceased their useless chatter, and the exodus of The Family was in full sway.

”He's sh.e.l.ling them with mortar fire,” Weatherbee announced grimly. ”My G.o.d, that must be sheer h.e.l.l down there.” ”Where'd that guy get that kind of stuff?” Pappas wondered, in an awed voice.

”That's not the point. The point is, he knows how to use it. h.e.l.l this is full-scale warfare.

One-sided, yeah, but h.e.l.l, this is the side I was feeling sorry for. Jesus Christ!” The vibrations of warfare were being felt even from their vantage point, and a chunk of shrapnel whizzed into the door of the squad car, missing Pappas by inches. ”Hit-the-f.u.c.king-dirt,” he said calmly, and fell to a p.r.o.ne position alongside the car.

”I think I've spotted him,” Weatherbee declared. ”Near the top of the hill, almost directly across from the house. You can't see anything from these mortar launchings, but if he shoots another of these rockets--well, just keep your eyes peeled thataway.” The sergeants eyes were peeled another way, however, onto the horror of sound, vibration, and powder flashes below; then another flare lit up the sky, and the sergeant s.h.i.+elded his eyes from the brilliance and peered dutifully toward the distant hill. ”What a guy,” he said softly. ”What a h.e.l.l of a guy.” The h.e.l.l of a guy was having troubling second thoughts of his own. It had gone entirely too easily. The enemy was in full rout and not one threat, not one, had come his way. Either he had grossly overestimated them, or else... He put his eye to the Marlin's scope and rapid-fired five rounds into an automobile that was swerving along the looping driveway. The car left the drive, curved about, and bounced back onto it and toppled onto its side like a toy, then burst into flames.

Another car, which had been following closely behind, plowed into the wreckage, and moments later there was another explosion. The scene revealed beneath the glare of the second flare was a tribute to carnage and destruction. The house was all but levelled, two of its walls standing grotesquely in a pall of dust and smoke. Many of the cars in the parking area were buried beneath debris; broken windows and damaged bodies of others showed the marks of concussion and flying objects. Human bodies were strewn everywhere.

<script>