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  David’s next lucid moment was in the garage. Vehicle tires were screeching along the ramp, David was inside one of those vehicles, and grim-faced men were huddled around him.

  “My God, they’re all dead,” David groaned. “He killed all the bosses!”

  “Shut up, sir,” said Billy Gino. “Just dammit shut up!”

  And King David knew, in that instant, that he’d been had. By a master strategist, one who’d undoubtedly had him in his pocket for quite some time.

  The only question remaining for David was who. Was the master Omega?—or was it Bolan? Which one was real?

  Not that it really mattered. Not now. Except that when David got laid, he always liked to know who was sharing his bed.

  No matter, no—no matter now. All five families of New York City were now without leaders. Some damn bloody times lay ahead. Eritrea had no belly left for any of that. Even if he could prove in a court of law that he’d had no hand in the killings—and maybe he couldn’t even do that—he would never be able to satisfy all these savage survivors on that score.

  This town was going to go crazy—blood crazy. Everybody would be blaming everybody else for the worst disaster ever to hit this thing of theirs.

  No. David had no belly for any of it.

  And, yes, he knew for a certainty that he had been severely had. By whomever.

  17

  ROYAL FLUSH

  The lobby area of the twenty-seventh floor was ominously still, and Leo Turrin was the only one around when Bolan-Omega put in his appearance there.

  Turrin quickly updated him on the developments as they descended to the garage level. Everyone, it seemed, was in a state of shock. Eritrea had been carried out, babbling, by Billy Gino and company. Barney was in the death room selling his suspicions to a covey of mad-as-hell underbosses. No matter which way the glass broke, Barney was saying that Eritrea had never pulled a trigger for himself, anyway—and that it was sure strange as hell that David Eritrea was the only one to walk out of there alive and unscratched.

  Immediately after the hit, Leo had gone to the penthouse and dispatched Julio and crew to the twenty-seventh “to safe the withdrawal.”

  Aside from the New York underbosses, Barney, and a dozen or so grieving tagmen, Commissione headquarters was now deserted. All of the executives had suddenly found urgent business elsewhere. The families of the slain bosses were scattered all around New York on special duties to safe the out-of-town visitors who’d come for Augie’s funeral.

  “Are all the VIPs in town now?” Bolan inquired.

  “Just about,” Turrin replied. He produced a small notebook from his breast pocket. “Here’s the list. They’re playing it cagey. No mobbing up. A couple of the guys keep apartments here, year around. The others are sprinkled into classy hotels from Central Park to Times Square.”

  Bolan declined the notebook. “Put it away, Leo. I can’t go for those guys here.”

  Turrin shivered and replied, “I’ve seen enough blood to last a lifetime, frankly. I guess you’ve done enough here.”

  “Not nearly enough,” Bolan said quietly. “But I can’t go shooting up the hotels. I’ll finish up the quiet game, then fade silently over the horizon. I haven’t tied anything to the Executioner here, Leo, and I’d like to keep it that way. Let these guys keep the hate among themselves for a while. By the time I get through here …”

  “I was hoping you were already through,” Turrin said.

  “Mostly I am,” Bolan told him. “Most of what’s left is your game.”

  They left the elevator and walked quickly to Leo’s car. Not until they were wheeling up the ramp did Leo ask, “What game is that?”

  Bolan told him then about Barney Matilda’s vehicle and the juicy secrets thereof.

  The little guy scowled through the recital, then laughed when Bolan was finished with the account. “You’re giving me that? God, I can hardly wait. I know just how to play it.”

  “That’s the key word, Leo,” Bolan told him. “There are fresh tapes in the console. I took a quick listen to a couple. I think you’ll find that friend Barney had the VIP hotels all wired and waiting for the funeral parties.”

  Turrin was still chuckling. He said, “I’m going to take that damn car to every hotel in town. And I’ll give each VIP a ride around the block. Yeah. I know how to play it.”

  “Drop me at 45th and Park,” Bolan said.

  “You’re saying goodbye, aren’t you?” the little fed decided.

  “Could be,” Bolan said, sighing. “I have business on Long Island. Then … well, we’ll see.”

  “How’d you leave that penthouse, Sarge? Clean?”

  Bolan patted the briefcase. “It’s all in here, yeah. Nobody will ever know for sure, Leo.”

  “That’s interesting as hell. I guess you know what you’ve started here. The mob will never be the same. It’s explosive enough right now. Wait ’til I play Barney’s tapes around town. The whole lid is liable to come off.”

  Bolan winked at him and said, “I’m counting on it.”

  They had reached the drop point. Leo nosed the car into a yellow zone as he told his passenger, “It’ll be curtains for Barney once the word is out. Maybe I can parlay myself into the vacuum there. What do you have in mind for Eritrea?”

  “Federal protection,” Bolan said simply.

  Turrin chuckled at that. “I never got much pleasure out of another guy’s misfortune,” he said. “But I think I could enjoy this one. I just hope Billy Gino doesn’t put a bullet in the guy’s head before they get to Long Island.”

  “Billy was that torn up?”

  “He was plumb sick.”

  “Did you give him my message?”

  “He got it, yeah. Don’t count too much on that guy, though. I know him from way back. He can be mean as a snake.”

  “Thanks, I’ll watch it,” Bolan said glumly. He always hated to say goodbye to Leo. “Give my regards to Angelina.”

  “I’ll do it,” Leo said, suddenly very solemn. “Sarge. How do I say thanks?”

  “You give ’em hell, guy, that’s how.”

  Bolan handed over the keys to Barney Matilda’s limousine.

  “And give ’em some entertainment,” he added, grinning.

  “Sheeit,” Turrin said. “Get outta here. Go drink a bucket of blood or something.”

  Bolan got out. and walked away. He did not look back. He hated to see a grown man cry.

  18

  AFTERMATH

  Bolan made telephone contact with Hal Brognola and updated him on the events of the afternoon.

  “You play rough games, mister,” the chief fed commented drily. “You won’t see any false tears from me over the likes of them—those four, collectively, were responsible for more agonies than the ordinary mind can conceive—but … well, you know how it is, pal. There’ll be a lot of editorializing and breast-beating over this. The usual outcries from civil libertarians, probably another crisis in Washington, etcetera etcetera.”

  Bolan said, “Yeah. It’s okay with me, Hal. I’ll wear the blood. And I wouldn’t trade jobs with you for all the bloodstains in Manhattan.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not offering. So you think my boy Eritrea is about ready to crack.”

  “I think so, yeah. One more push should do it. The guy could be real sweetmeats for you, so don’t make it easy for him. He could tell a lot of things.”

  “My feelings exactly,” the fed assured Bolan. “I hadn’t planned any free pasture for that one. You think Sticker will be secure now?”

  “Don’t worry about that guy,” Bolan said. “He’ll have our friend Peter digging holes before sundown. I’m betting we’ve seen the end of the national gestapo. La Commissione will become an ambassadorial service, trying to mend a lot of broken fences. Sticker will find good use for his talents there, I’m sure. I’m more worried about the other one at the moment. Have you heard from her?”

  “Not a whisper. I was hoping you had.”

  “
I have a feeling where I’ll find her,” Bolan said. “Don’t worry about it. The way everything has been going to hell for the boys today, I doubt that she’ll draw a second look from any of them.”

  “I think my brain’s gone numb,” Brognola told him. “It’s just starting to sink in. You’ve knocked off the entire New York command—in a single blow! God’s sake, I think I’m growing buffalo hide. What you did today is equivalent to dropping an H-bomb on the White House. And I don’t feel a thing. Not glad, not sad, not anything.”

  “It will come later,” Bolan said quietly. “Let me know when you get it sorted out.”

  “No sorting is needed,” Brognola assured the blitz artist. “I’ll still go to God’s court with you.”

  “Not for a while, let’s hope,” Bolan said lightly. “For now, how about Long Island?”

  “It’s a date. When and where?”

  “You’d better make it a force. Show of strength, if nothing else—but you may really need a force. Peter threw a battalion against me at Pittsfield. It’s still around somewhere. The old guy could decide to go down in glory.”

  “Wait a minute, what is this battalion?”

  “Sort of like a militia, Hal—a citizen’s army. Only these citizens are actually freelance mercenaries. Actual numbers could go as high as several hundred guns. And they’re not greenhorns. Ex-GI’s, some of them. Ex-cops. Some of those not exactly “ex.” It takes a while to activate them—and I sort of doubt that Peter has that kind of time.”

  “Unless,” Brognola suggested, “they’re already on the line.”

  “That would be quite a problem in logistics,” Bolan said, thinking about it. “A problem with quarters, with feeding, keeping them covered. I don’t know where the hell he’d put them around here. Do you?”

  “Frankly, no. But I don’t even like the sound of it. I’ll bring a hefty force. When and where?”

  “Federal marshals, please—no local cops. And put them in uniform so I can identify the players. Let’s say one mile west of Augie’s joint, six o’clock sharp.”

  “I can make that. Okay. What’s the scenario?”

  “I haven’t written it yet,” Bolan told him. “Give me a radio channel. I’ll get back with you as soon after six as the situation allows.”

  “What range?”

  “Suit yourself, Hal. I can cover it.”

  “Okay. Let’s say 132.6 megs.”

  Bolan jotted the frequency in his book. “You’re covered.”

  “How about signals?”

  Bolan chuckled. “If you want to be formal, okay. You are Royal Flush.”

  Brognola chuckled, also. “Very fitting. Who are you, pal?”

  “You can call me Drano,” Bolan told him.

  Brognola guffawed. “I like it. It fits. I always knew where you’d end up, pal.”

  “That’s where I started, pal,” Bolan said, and broke the contact.

  Sure. It fit. It was all fitting beautifully.

  Right around David Eritrea’s royal neck.

  19

  THE HARD

  It was nearing five o’clock on the afternoon of the command strike when the war wagon cruised on past the turnoff to the Marinello estate, continuing toward a small seaside community on the north shore, where Barney Matilda had maintained residence for the past quarter century.

  Following an impulse, Bolan picked up the mobile phone and sent a call to that troubled palace of the dead king. It was Billy Gino’s voice at the other end when that connection opened, though not everyone would have recognized it.

  “Cheer up, Billy,” Bolan told him. “The world hasn’t ended; it’s just shaking a bit.”

  “You couldn’t prove it by me, sir.”

  The Head Cock was very surly.

  “How’s your boss?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but he is not my boss. Mr. Marinello is my boss, living or not, and I’m just sorry I ever forgot that. Sir, this is disgraceful, it’s just disgraceful. I don’t understand—none of it—nothing—and it’s made me sick at my stomach.”

  Sick or not, it was a long speech for Billy Gino.

  Bolan’s tone became very cold and stiff. “Did Leo Turrin give you my message?”

  “Yes, sir. He gave it.”

  “Then why aren’t you acting like you received it?”

  “I tried—I been sitting by this damned phone for nearly two hours, waiting, wondering.”

  “I told you to stop wondering.”

  “Yessir. But then I got a bunch more to wonder about.”

  “Why don’t you ask David, then?” Bolan snapped.

  “He says nothing, does nothing. Sits and stares at the window. I guess I better tell you this. Manny Girolta called a little while ago. He wants to bring a delegation out. To talk, he says.”

  Girolta was an underboss under the late Carlo Pelotti. Bolan asked, “And what did you tell Manny?”

  “I told him it should wait. I told him David is in shock. But if he calls again …”

  “You’ll tell him the same!” Bolan snarled. “Snap out of it, dammit, and listen to me! I had you figured for a guy with a future! What the hell kind of boy-scout bullshit are you pulling on me! You told me to snap my fingers, dammit! I relied on you! It’s a man’s world, soldier! I thought I picked a man for a man’s job! You turn sobsister on me now and I’ll have your balls inside your belly before midnight! Are you listening to me, Billy Gino?”

  Billy Gino was listening. The voice was alert, crisp, as he leapt to reply. “Yes, sir. I’m listening.”

  “You get that goddamned place on hard—double hard! Manny or anybody else calls you with a mouth dripping shit, you tell them where to spit! You stand to the colors, guy, with your nose up no man’s ass! Are you still wondering, Billy?!”

  “No, sir. I guess I just forgot where the sheeps were headed. I got confused. I’m sorry.”

  Bolan’s tone softened. “Well—it’s a confusing time, Billy. I’ll be coming out there soon. Just you hold the fort ’til I arrive. Hey. I’m sorry I yelled.”

  “I had it coming, sir. It’s okay. I just wish I knew what was coming off.”

  “What is an ace, Billy?”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard it. What is it?”

  “An ace is an agent of the corporation, sir. He loves no man, covets no territory, sleeps with no family. An ace loves This Thing of Ours, covets the bonds of brotherhood, and sleeps only when the families prosper.”

  The guy had the litany down pretty good. Bolan quietly told him, “Let that be your guide.”

  Billy Gino was overcome. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He understood the implication.

  “Tomorrow you call Leo Turrin,” Bolan-Omega instructed the man with a future. “In case he forgot in all the excitement, you remind him what I said. That is, of course, if you’re all done with wondering.”

  “I’ll call him, sir. You can count on that.”

  And Bolan understood the implication of that.

  “It’s already counted,” Bolan told the brand-new ace, and hung up.

  The palace was on hard. And Brognola’s patsy was on ice. David would keep until six o’clock. And, yeah, Mack Bolan was thankful for the shiver that prompted that call.

  The old joint on the sound had seen a lot of seasons go by, but it still looked fresh and clean, still had its dignity. It had class and style, which was more than could be said for many of the newer ones. This one stood alone on a low hill, with several acres under fence and a neatly tended private pier.

  Bolan pulled the war wagon to the water’s edge and parked her broadside on public land, the bow pointing toward Barney Matilda’s private pier. Then he activated the visual scans and took his readings from the console monitor amidships.

  A couple of guys were on the pier. Two more were in a vehicle parked just inside the open gate leading to the house. A pair of unoccupied vehicles were parked parallel outside a small garage. Nothing else showed in the scans. Nothing on the grounds, n
othing at the windows, no other signs of life anywhere.

  It was a nice day, clear and bright. Many boats were out; quite a few shoreside fishermen, also, were dotted along the sound. A large ferry moved sluggishly against the horizon.

  But there was no life evident at Peter’s place.

  Bolan deactivated the scan and secured the cruiser, then circled back to the road on foot. The result was a two-hundred-yard walk. He broke the gate at a brisk pace, catching two brand-new Black Aces who were stationed inside the vehicle there completely off guard. They came out of the car with a bound and a bounce, showing how alert they were.

  “Relax,” Bolan commanded. “Who’s here?”

  “We had a shoving match,” one guy said, grinning.

  “Duplication of assignments, maybe,” said the other, more soberly. “Vega and his band were here when we arrived. They were sent at about ten o’clock.”

  “And?” Bolan asked expectantly.

  “We relieved them,” the new Black Ace replied.

  “You said throw everybody out,” the other elaborated. “We threw everybody out.”

  “There you go,” Bolan said approvingly. “Look sharp.”

  He went on to the house, tried the front door, stepped inside. Orion met him in the forward hall.

  “Did they tell you?” he immediately inquired.

  Bolan nodded. “Who sent them?”

  Orion shrugged. “It was a standard send, machine cut, central office verification. It was timed 9:58 this morning.”

  “You did right,” Bolan assured the new Ace of Spades. “Anything else unusual?”

  “I would say so, yes, sir. One of Vega’s men turned up missing. We searched the joint from attic to basement. No dice. The guy simply wasn’t around. Vega was fit to be tied. He even went out and looked along the pier. I put a couple of men out there, just in case, to keep their eyes open.”

  “They think he maybe simply walked away?”

  Orion shrugged. “Looks that way to me. Vega wouldn’t buy it. Maybe I wouldn’t buy it, either, if he was mine.”

  “That all you have to report?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s all.”