Part 2 (1/2)
”You figure maybe he's circling back to the joint?” the crewchief mused.
”Naw.” Lavagni stood up and spat into the water. Somewhere he'd heard that it was supposed to bring good luck. ”After a swim like that he's probably all worn out. Probably laying low, somewheres in that Jungle there, just getting his breath. Whafd Gri-maldi have to say about his hardware?”
”He only saw one gun. Said it was an automatic with a silencer.”
Lavagni snorted. ”That Beretta, probably. That's his hotsy, but it ain't going to be hot enough this time.”
Dragone looked worried. He said, ”Well the longer we wait....”
”Let 'im run awhile,” Lavagni said casually. ”Who's got the walky-talky?”
”Latigo.”
”Awright. You tell Latigo to get those plugs in place. Just the way we laid it out. And tell him not to screw around with this guy, he's bad news all the way. Don't give 'im an inch, not a d.a.m.n inch.”
”Okay.” Dragone took a step forward, then froze and whirled about as one of his gunners moved quickly onto the beach and hoa.r.s.ely whispered, ”Boss! We found something!”
Both men hurried across the sand to inspect a soggy package of cigarettes and a paper matchbook bearing the imprint of a Las Vegas casino. The gunner was explaining, ”We found it in the bushes back here, just off the beach.”
”Where's Tilly?” Dragone asked quickly.
”He's in there, looking for tracks.”
Lavagni hissed, ”Tracks h.e.l.l! Get that guy outta there!” He took his crewchief by the arm and whispered, ”Get Latigo moving. Then get all your boys down here and lined up. No more'n ten foot intervals. Put the center of your line right here. But we don't start the sweep until Latigo says the plugs are all in. You got that?”
”I got it,” the crewchief acknowledged. As he moved away, he added, ”Don't worry, Tony. The guy doesn't have a prayer.”
Lavagni, however, was taking no bets yet He fidgeted for a moment, then stepped off in pursuit of the gun soldier who had found the evidence of Bolan's pa.s.sage. He wondered, just for the h.e.l.l of it, if Bolan had meant meant for that stuff to get found. For a guy who was usually so d.a.m.n careful, it seemed like a dumb mistake. But, why would he for that stuff to get found. For a guy who was usually so d.a.m.n careful, it seemed like a dumb mistake. But, why would he plant plant the stuff? the stuff?
The Mafia veteran paused for a quick scan of the bay, then he shook his head and went on. The guy wouldn't come ash.o.r.e, plant a false trail, then shove right back off into the water again. Not after a mile swim, h.e.l.l no.
Lavagni found himself stepping into sudden darkness-compared to the fierce brightness out there on that beach. The thick overhead foliage of the tropical forest blocked the direct thrust of the sun, allowing the penetration of only a scattering of weak rays at infrequent intervals, and creating a sort of twilight effect.
Small living things could be heard scampering about in the dense undergrowth. Here and there in the distance the disturbed squawking of a bird rose above the ceaseless din created by hordes of. twittering, but invisible, insects.
Lavagni s.h.i.+vered and moved on deeper, his eyes seeking an adjustment to the sudden change of lighting. Then he spotted the hired gunner.
The guy was frozen in an oddly off-balance stance, and he was staring at a man who seemed to be leaning lazily against a tree trunk.
The Caporegime Caporegime fiercely whispered, ”Come on, you boys get it outta here! We don't want to-” fiercely whispered, ”Come on, you boys get it outta here! We don't want to-”
Tony's jungle vision was improving, and the look on the gunner's face cut him short. He moved closer, then lunged suddenly toward the leaning man in an involuntary reaction to what he saw there.
”What the h.e.l.l... P” he grunted.
”It's Tilly,” the gunner croaked.
Yes, Quick Tony could see clearly now, it was indeed Tilly. With eyes bugging and mouth thrown open in a silent cry. And he was not lounging against that tree. h.e.l.l no, he was tied to it, at the throat, a tough jungle vine almost buried in the soft flesh and wrapped tightly around the treetrunk and holding the dead gunner rooted to the spot where death had descended.
The disturbed condition of the jungle floor at Tilly's feet told the story in stark terms. In his mind's eye, Lavagni saw the entire thing re-enacted: a swiftly moving jungle shadow, striking without being seen even, or heard-and Tilly being whirled about and garroted to that tree with his throat clamped shut before a breath of air or an outcry could pa.s.s. Yes, Tony could see it all.
He could see something else, also. A wet suit of clothes was plastered to that tree, behind Tilly's dead body.
Lavagni reached past the corpse to finger the wet fabric.
”Let that be a lesson,” he muttered, casting nervous glances into the trees surrounding them. ”This guy is mean as h.e.l.l. Now get outta here, and tell Charlie the guy is no doubt wearing his black suit now-or else he's running around nekkid, and I can't hardly see that.”
The gunner had not moved a muscle, nor did he seem to have heard Lavagni's instructions.
”Well whatta you waiting for?” the boss hissed. ”Get going, for Christ sakesl”
”I don't see Tilly's hardware,” the other man replied dispiritedly.
”What was he packing?”
”A chopper.”
Lavagni groaned and hurried his shaken freelancer out of there.
Yeh. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had planted the G.o.ddam matches, all right. And he was armed with more than a lousy handgun now, too.
The thing was looking more sour by the minute. Yeh. And for Quick Tony Lavagni, the contract at Gla.s.s Bay was becoming more and more a crown of thorns.
n.o.body who'd never gone against Bolan could really appreciate that.
n.o.body.
Chapter Three.
HOME AND THE DEAD.
A living shadow quietly watched as the two Mafiosi Mafiosi hurried from the presence of sudden death, and a mental mug-file review clicked to a decisive halt against the name of Quick Tony Lavagni. hurried from the presence of sudden death, and a mental mug-file review clicked to a decisive halt against the name of Quick Tony Lavagni.
Bolan knew, now, the ident.i.ty of his chief opponent at Gla.s.s Bay, and the revelation gave no cause for a celebration. The crafty old Was.h.i.+ngton triggerman had built an impressive box for the Executioner on the French Riviera, and it had been as much luck as anything that had seen Bolan out of that trap. Lavagni was n.o.body's d.a.m.n fool. He operated like a meat-grinder with radar control, quietly and efficiently bringing in all the corners of a battleground and wrapping them around a guy.
At least, though, Bolan had a fair idea of what to expect now, and he could respond accordingly.
Lavagni would be bringing his boats in to stand just offsh.o.r.e, appropriately s.p.a.ced along the beach. He would send flankers around to cover the open ground at all sides of the small jungle area. Then he would mount a ma.s.sive frontal movement, sieving in from the bay, and then... well, it would be the meat-grinder routine once again.
In France there had been a friendly black face in the enemy camp and the soft hand of providence in the person of a dazzling French movie actress to spell the difference for Bolan. Even in Vietnam there had always been the hope of making it back into home territory, or of making contact with a friendly force.
Where was home territory now? And where in all the world was a friendly force?
Bolan knew better than to even ask the question. ”Home” was wherever he could find s.p.a.ce to breathe. ”Friendly forces” were the ones whom he could make dead.
So at least he knew where he stood. He was in the center of Lavagni's meat-grinder, somewhere between home home and and the dead the dead. The Thompson submachine gun which he had appropriated from his latest ”friend” would make little difference in any pitched battle with the forces at Gla.s.s Bay. There could be but one final result. Someone would walk away with Bolan's head in a sack.