Executioner 028 - Savage Fire Read online

  Conti hit the floor with a groan and a bubbling sound at about the same moment that something ripped into Romani's gun arm and spun him around and sent him staggering across the cabin. He fell onto the bed and pulled the shattered arm into his lap, feeling frantically for a pressure point to shut off the flow of blood that was gushing all over him.

  His consciousness divided, part of it leaping outside to assess the situation there. It did not sound good out there. The amici were returning fire but it sounded disorganized and frantic. Guys were yelling and cussing and running around but the chatter of that chopper went on and on as other guys screamed and called to Jesus in profane prayers.

  And suddenly it was over. Impossibly, unbelievably, it was over. He checked an impulse to cry out for help, unsure of just what that sudden silence meant. A moment later he was glad that he'd checked the impulse. The chopper again. Short bursts, widely separated, moving about the yard out there. Romani knew what that meant. It was a clean-up. The chopper was moving among the dying, hastening the process. He shuddered and waited, knowing that his time would come, too weak from shock and pain and bleeding to make a move to save himself.

  He heard a movement on the porch, then the door creaked on its hinges and the lights came back on.

  The guy was standing outside. He had only reached through the open doorway to switch on the lights. Romani could not see the guy, but he could see the ugly snout of that chopper as fire leapt from it and Mario Conti's bubbling corpse shuddered under the new onslaught.

  Romani called out, weakly, "Hey! Not Please!"

  He was looking up the bore of that chopper—and it was all he could see.

  A cold voice said to him from the porch, "Take a message back where you came from, Joe."

  "Sure, I'll take the message," Romani groaned hopefully. "Who is that?"

  "Never mind who it is. The message is what it is. Leopold Turrin does not roll over and die for anybody. Tell them that. And tell them to send men, next time."

  "Thanks. Thanks. You know what I mean, eh?" "You know what I mean, Romani. You tell them."

  "I'll tell them, Leo. Bank on it."

  Something sailed through the air and hit the bed beside him. He recoiled, then saw that it was a small first-aid packet.

  The snout of the chopper was gone and there were no more sounds from the porch.

  Jesus. Jesus God. Had the guy gone? And left Joe Romani alive and with a bandage for his wound? How could you figure it? How the hell could you figure that?

  Indeed, "the guy" had gone. He was at that moment trudging along the trail toward his vehicle, enveloped by the inner cold that always marked the end of a successful firelight.

  Successful, sure. Nineteen bodies, a witness to tell the tale, a note of respect for Leo.

  Sure. It was success enough, for a starter. Now the battle would really begin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Challenged

  Joe Romani did not run toward Boston, which was no great surprise to Bolan. Instead, he swung back through Pittsfield and headed north on U.S. 7. The track led to Potter Mountain, then west again into the resort country. The guy was having a hard time of it, moving slowly and weaving somewhat, as, apparently, he fought off the dizzies, halting entirely now and then to collect himself and fight off unconsciousness. Once he got out of the car and walked around it in the rain, the damaged arm in a makeshift sling, slapping his face with a soggy towel to stimulate the fading mind.

  Bolan had to respect that effort, even from a savage. The guy was trying; alone and dying, he was still trying.

  But it made for a slow track. The total travel was less than twenty miles; the total timetrack was more than an hour. It ended at a secluded mountain resort in the Taconics—a ski lodge, or something similar. Bolan could not positively identify the spot. The sign at the entrance was weathered beyond legibility and the darkness of the rainy night was too complete to allow a quick visual make. It was ski country, however—and the logic seemed to favour an off-season ski lodge. A quick visual make was all he was going to get, this time around. He briefly recalled his Colorado experience and wondered if history might be repeating itself. Might be, yeah.

  The joint sat a couple hundred yards off the road atop a low hill with solid fencing. Rather effectively screened by shrubs and trees, it was a large building with two floors and a high roof—darkened and seemingly deserted. Other shapes loomed nearby in the darkness, suggesting the presence of other, smaller structures.

  Romani had pulled onto the access drive—a narrow, asphalt road which snaked up the hill to the compound—where he halted and flashed a recognition signal with his headlamps. An armed patrol in rain slickers appeared immediately to check him out and pass him through.

  It was an ominous new development. This was no mere "head party" headquarters; it was a hard-site, nothing less—an alien fortress, standing in the heart of Leo Turrin's territory.

  Bolan marked the spot in his mind and carefully withdrew. Something big was brewing, that was certain. Something considerably larger, for damn sure, than a routine contract on a small town underboss in a territory nobody had wanted for quite some time.

  The game had changed, for sure. To what, though?

  Turrin had sent his small personal cadre to bed with orders to "get rested and ready." Then he had withdrawn to his own room in the isolated hideaway and unlocked his "red phone"—the clean line that guaranteed absolute security of communications. At five minutes past each hour, he had attempted contact with Bolan's "floater"--a secure mobile telephone arrangement utilizing a secret access code which tapped into phone company switching facilities. "Secure," that is, as you could get with radio communications. The only security involved was an inability of third parties to track and trace the contacts—the information itself which passed through that contact was subject to intercept-monitoring, and thus required guarded words with shaded meanings.

  The system itself, however, was foolproof—as Turrin understood it. Part of the advanced technology built into that fabulous "warwagon"—Bolan's name for the GMC motor home which served the warrior as rolling base camp and battle cruiser—the telephone was indeed a "floater"—in two senses of the word. It "floated" about the country in a highly mobile environment, and it functioned as a remote-controlled answering service for the big impressive man in executioner black—a floater like the kind on a fishing line which signalled a presence on the buried end of that line.

  Turrin had been patiently hitting that floater every hour since ten o'clock. His persistence was rewarded at five minutes past the hour of one, when a connection opened and a brusque voice demanded, "Yeah, what's that?"

  Turrin grinned as he replied, "It's the Sticker. What's happening, iron man?"

  "Plenty," Bolan ,replied in a noncommittal tone, somewhat relaxing into the contact "You need to send a message to Augie. Do you have any messengers?"

  "Four or five, yeah," Turrin told his friend. "They said they wanted to stay and play. Got something for them to play with?"

  "Like I said," the good voice replied, "—a message. Tell me something, first. Have you talked with Augie about the rules of this game?"

  "This one? No. I tried. Couldn't get through. What's that message?"

  "It has nineteen words," Bolan replied. "You'll find them at the Trails Court

  on Route 9."

  "I know the place. Did you say nineteen words?" "That's the count. I suggest you put them on ice and send them to your friend."

  "Okay," Turrin said thoughtfully. "I think I get the logic but I guess I better get your version of it. Why the refrigerated message?"

  "Maybe he doesn't know."

  Turrin raised his eyebrows in consideration of that. "You may be right. But I can't bank on it. All the flow seems the other way."

  "Either way, he needs the message." That voice had a tired quality. "Flow One says send more and I'll send them back the same way. Flow Two says, what the hell is going on here, Augie? Either way, he needs the mess
age."

  "Sure," Turrin replied immediately. "But what if it's Flow One? That would be a red flag in the face, wouldn't it?"

  "More like spit," the big guy said, chuckling. "He just may respect that. But I'm leaning toward Flow Two. I let the twentieth word out, just to see where it would lead. And now I have a gut message of my own, Sticker. It does not have Augie's stamp on it."

  "Like, what is that?"

  "It's like a spanking new hardsite on your doorstep, buddy. Maybe another hundred words just waiting for expression."

  Turrin whistled beneath his breath and said, "Which doorstep?"

  "Toward Albany," was the quiet reply.

  "That does not compute," Turrin quickly decided.

  "Nothing does, and that's the problem. Send your message, bugler. Let's see what falls from it."

  Turrin sighed and said, "Right. We'll try that."

  "Play it cosy, though. You know."

  "Yeah, I know. I'll safe it."

  "Do that. Meanwhile, ease off a bit on the other front. You can forget that dawn deadline. The opposition is jumpy and now not quite so cocksure. They'll safe it along for awhile, also, trying to read the play."

  "Should I bet my life on that?"

  "I would," Bolan soberly told him.

  "That's good enough for me," Turrin replied in the same sober tone.

  "Okay," the guy said tiredly. "I'm tucking it away for the night. Haven't slept an hour in the past thirty-six. Try to get that message delivered before daylight. Hit me again at eight o'clock—or before that, if you get some hard flow."

  "Will do," Turrin assured him. "I won't even try to say thanks, but—"

  "Don't," Bolan growled as the connection went dead.

  Turrin stared glumly at the telephone for a thoughtful moment, then put it down and locked it away.

  "Some kind of guy," he said aloud.

  Then he went to rouse his cadre. They could have a refrigerator truck loaded and ready to roll by two o'clock. A quick jog across the state line and a straight shot down the Taconic State Park way would place them in New York City by five o'clock.

  Augie would have his "message" with his morning newspaper—waiting for him at his front door when the new day dawned.

  And then, right, oh boy, there would be plenty of "hard flow" for the embattled men at Pittsfield.

  That goddamn Mack Bolan was an audacious warrior. Leo Turrin would love to see Augie Marinello's face when he received that shipment of cold meat from western Mass.

  Or maybe he wouldn't. No. No. Hell no, hewouldn't.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Issues and Answers

  The special line squawked and squealed, then settled into the familiar, eerie, deep-well tone of the "clean" connection as Harold Brognola's worried voice came through from Washington.

  "Okay, it's clear. Go ahead, Sticker. Where are you?"

  "Same place," Turrin replied. "It's a new game." "Says who?"

  "Says the Striker. He's on the scene and rattling the cage like crazy. I just sent a ton of damaged meat to New York. I guess that was just a down payment. Striker says there's another five or six tons on site and awaiting collection. That guy is—"

  "Out of his mind!" Brognola snarled. "So are you, if you're playing that game. What's it going to look like, Sticker, even if it should work? You can't have that guy romping in there to fight your battles! That's the kiss of death, buddy."

  "Relax, Hal. He's playing it cool. No signatures. The guy knows what he's doing. Or should I have to remind you."

  The reply came as a resigned sigh. "My orders are to pull you out of there, friend. It's a death trap and we both know it. You've earned your rest. Now come on home."

  "Not just yet. Striker cleared me some space tobreathe. I'll stick it awhile longer. He also seems to be thinking toward a whole new game. Something is haywire up here, Hal. Striker says—"

  "Striker does not call the plays for this department," Brognola interrupted heavily.

  "Who does?" Turrin quietly inquired.

  Another tired sigh, then: "Maybe I deserve that. Okay. Go on. What's haywire?"

  "I don't know, for sure. Neither does Striker, at the moment, but he's sniffing—and the odour he reports is mighty peculiar. We sent that meat to Augie, Hal. Striker is—"

  "That guy is death looking for a place to happen! We've known that all along, haven't we. Don't be there when the happening arrives, Sticker. You can't go taunting the old bosses that way. Get out. Right now. Let the guy pull the home town down around his ears, if he must, and let the happening happen. I can't play this game any longer. Neither can you. It started there for him, okay, so maybe he has a special interest. Fine. Let it end there, if it must. For him, though—not for you!"

  "That's mighty goddamned cosy talk, isn't it," Turrin chopped back bitterly. "A fine goddamned pair we would be wouldn't we. Why don't we just reverse the clock, Hal. Turn it back to start. Where were you then, buddy? Where was I? Put the Striker in the grave that was dug for him in that beginning, then send us on our way alone. Where are we now? I'm probably long dead, buried, forgotten—a quiet notation in a secret book consigned to some time capsule in the Department of Justice. You're a vague name that nobody can pronounce, beating your brains against the combine in one futile field operation after another. You can't playthis game, Hal? What the hell game can you play?"

  "Okay, okay. I just—"

  "Okay, hell! The guy has given us both every damned thing we are at this minute. Don't sit there at the top of your fancy new bureaucracy and tell me you can't play the game!"

  "Okay, darmnit, okay—I surrender! For Christ's sake!"

  "Okay," Turrin growled.

  "I was simply trying to be pragmatic," the Justice Department official added defensively.

  "Oh, sure."

  "The heat is up and you know it. This goddamn town has become impossible. I have people walking up and down my back from Capitol Hill to the goddamn Pentagon and twice around the White House. Don't make me alibi beyond that."

  "Just leave off the pragmatic bullshit, eh?"

  "All right. I apologize. Does that smooth your ruffled feathers? It doesn't alter the truth of what I said. The guy is pounding sand in. Pittsfield. The territory is gone. If you want to help the guy, then convince him of that. Then both of you write it off and get the hell out while you can."

  "What do you know that I don't, Hal?"

  "Nothing for sure."

  "Has my cover been compromised in Washington?"

  "There is that possibility," Brognola replied, sighing.

  "I don't buy enigmatic bullshit either, buddy. Is it or isn't it?"

  "In the sense of a positive ID—no, of course not. But there has been a leak, of sorts. Some people up in the Senate are digging like crazy. It's all part of this domestic intelligence flap we've been going through."

  Turrin felt a cold hand at his heart. "How bad is it, Hal?"

  "Bad enough. I'm under a Senate subpoena, right now. They already know that we have a sticker. They suspect that he may be actually running an organized crime family. And some of them may be uncomfortable with the thought that the U.S. government is officially subsidizing a—"

  "That's dumb!" Turrin snarled. "Anybody with half a mind knows that the mob cannot exist unless some key people in government are playing ball. If they want to be uncomfortable, why don't they go after the made men in Washington—or in New York or Chicago or in the various state houses around this pragmatic country! Don't tell me—!"

  "That's not the point and you know it's not," Brognola tiredly interrupted. "You can't ask a politician to think in a straight line—especially not during an election year. The issue is morality in government, official government, and how many politicos have you ever met who can talk in anything but circles when it comes down to election-year issues? A target is a target—and, right now, yours truly seems to be it."

  Turrin sighed into the connection. "Why do I get the. feeling—every time you mention politic
s—that I'm going to lose an argument? I get new respect for Striker every day. His answer is best. His answer is to no one in government."

  He heard the snap of a lighter and knew that the troubled man at the other end of that connection was lighting a cigar. A good man, sure—but a particularly bedevilled one, at this curious time of governmental tensions. Turrin's anger was directed not at the man, but at the forces moving that man.

  Brognola's voice, when it rejoined the conversation, was contrite and controlled. "You haven't lost anything, good buddy. You're right and I'm wrong. I have a date this afternoon before the Senate subcommittee. I'm going to tell those worried gentlemen to go straight to hell. It's your job, and it's your game. No one can call the shots but you. Do it."

  "Thanks. Watch your swinger, Hal."

  "I'll do that. I'll keep it tucked in close. But listen to me, Sticker. There's ungodly pressure bearing on this situation. And our friend the Striker is probably one hundred percent right. It smells. The odour has nightmarish suggestions."

  "Uh huh. Striker has made note of the many tabs in Washington. He seems to think we could see the moment when congressmen are doubling as hit-men."

  "Like I said," Brognola replied noncommittally, "—nightmarish suggestions."

  "You agree, then."

  "Sure I agree. What d'you think I've been—?"

  "Enough said, then."

  "Right. Tell Striker to give them one for me. But don't look this way for any realistic help. Right now I am walking a tightrope. I could be fired or jailed or both by the next nightfall. Meanwhile I'll be standing by for all the quiet support I can offer. But that's the best I can do."