Shock Waves Page 10

  Patriarcca waited through the rings until someone picked up the phone. He recognized the hard voice on the other end.

  "Hey, Jimmy, this is me. That's right. I need some things."

  And for the next ten minutes, Patriarcca told the listener of his needs, receiving an assurance that they would be met immediately. Finally satisfied, he cradled the receiver, already unbelting his robe as he moved toward the open bedroom door.

  Time to feel young again.

  Time for a booster shot of that magic she carried inside her.

  And afterward, it would be time to meet with Don Minelli and the others. Time to be a statesman, then...and maybe, as the night wore on, there would be time for warriors, too.

  15

  Sally Palmer stood beneath the shower's stinging spray and let it cleanse her on the outside, slowly rinsing off the feel of hands. Her face upturned, eyes closed, she let the water pummel her across the neck and shoulders.

  It would take more, she knew, to clean her on the inside, where it counted. Yes, a great deal more.

  The lady Fed felt black and rotten inside, like a piece of fruit with insects working at the core. She knew it was irrational, ridiculous. She knew that she had only done her job. And yet...

  She wondered if the taint showed through like crow's feet or a blemish on the skin. If so, Mack Bolan had not seemed to notice. Maybe she was learning how to hide it, maybe he had simply been hip deep in blood and rot too long to notice anything outside himself.

  Sally hated herself for the thought and took another turn beneath the scalding shower to erase it from her mind. It was the shock of seeing him, and nothing else, which had revived those other memories of other times in the Manhattan hellgrounds. They had made a date back then, so many aching lives ago, but he had not been free to keep it, and she understood.

  But still, it rankled.

  She had been angry for a time. At Bolan. At herself, for being so irrational, for caring in a world where caring got you mangled, got you killed.

  And she had missed him.

  Damn it.

  Sally turned the shower's single knob to cold. The driving, icy streams raised gooseflesh, and slowly rinsed away the dirty feeling.

  It was work, and nothing more. Whatever Sally had to do in order to complete the job, it would be done. She had already bedded Patriarcca, and in time she might have to kill him.

  Whatever was necessary, Sally Palmer knew that she was equal to the task.

  But there was Bolan...

  Stepping from the shower, reaching for a bath towel, Sally wondered what had brought him in on this one. He was unofficial now, she knew that much from rumors on the clandestine grapevine. Something had gone wrong, disastrously... and he was on the outside once more, looking in.

  No, scratch that.

  Bolan was a forward-looking soldier, Sally knew. If he was looking back at all, it was to watch his flank. And if he grieved at all, for anyone or anything, he did it on the inside, on his own time.

  His presence here could only mean that there was something big at stake. The word about Eritrea had been a shocker, certainly, but Sally did not think a hostage would draw the Executioner across a continent to risk his life. Minelli's rumored coronation plans, now...that was something else again.

  The Executioner's concern about Minelli was no less than that within the ranks, from what the lady Fed had so far overheard. She had been privy to the poolside conversation — she had had planted a miniature transmitter in the earpiece of Patriarcca's glasses one morning months ago when she had taken them "for repair" — and had listened in on his one-sided conversation with Seattle afterward. Within the hour, he would have an army airborne, headed eastward, and if she was not mistaken, others — Cigliano and Lazia, for openers — were likewise making preparations for a showdown.

  She would have to reach Brognola and let him know what was about to happen. She still had time, and Jules was resting in the adjoining bedroom. He might desire her one more time before the sit-down, but she would be finished long before he found the strength to go again.

  No point in even thinking of the telephone inside their bungalow. Jules might wake up at any time, surprise her, and she would be finished. Patriarcca cared for her, Sally knew, but only to a point. Where sex collided with his business world, emotion ended, cut off like a scream beneath the guillotine. He would destroy her instantly if he believed she had betrayed him, and Sally Palmer wanted better odds before she rolled the dice.

  The house.

  There would be telephones, of course, and perhaps a chance to use one unobserved. It was risky, but she had to take the chance.

  Sally toweled herself dry, and donned a stylish jump suit, then carefully and soundlessly found her handbag and let herself out of the bungalow.

  Dusk was perhaps an hour off. The coming darkness was an unknown quantity, and Sally wondered if the Executioner was traveling in it, bearing down upon her, on the enemy.

  Angry at herself, she shook the moment off. She had a job to do. Never mind what Bolan might be thinking, doing, out there somewhere in the city. He was on a different track, pursuing different game, and if their paths should intersect, it would be chance, not fate, that made it happen.

  From the side of her eye she noticed a gunner moving in a parallel course to hers toward the house. His stride was casual, unhurried, and she might have shrugged it off, except...

  The lady Fed was no believer in coincidence. It was entirely possible that all things considered — an unfamiliar woman at a major sit-down, the morning's violence almost on his doorstep, the suspicion and distrust that hung over the compound like choking smog — Don Minelli had detailed a man to watch her.

  It would be strange if he had not assigned a tail, she realized.

  If it was a casual watch, he might not hang too close. She might evade his scrutiny if he was satisfied to know which room she occupied, for instance, rather than observing her firsthand at every moment. She might reach a telephone, if there was one inside a study, say, or...

  She crossed the flagstone patio, conscious of the tail, and entered through a set of sliding glass doors into a sunken living room that could have easily contained a standard four-room tract house. Across the room, three gunners lounged on chairs and sofas, talking among themselves.

  She heard the tail come in behind her.

  Sally traveled on her instincts, seeking out the kitchen first to give her visit the appearance of a logical motive. If nothing else, she hoped that she could duck her shadow there and find a telephone without him hanging on behind her.

  The kitchen was restaurant size. Half a dozen workers dressed in spotless whites were already well into the dinner preparations. Sally smelled roast beef, spaghetti, sauces that she could not identify offhand. A youngish woman in a maid's costume brushed past and Sally buttonholed her, got directions to the washroom.

  Her tail was with her as she left the kitchen, hanging back but making no attempt to mask his mission as he followed her along a well-lighted corridor with doors on either side. Sally reached her destination, ducked inside and closed the door without a backward glance.

  Befitting Don Minelli's style, the washroom was equipped with plush velvet sofas, a wall-length mirror — and a telephone.

  The lady Fed wondered briefly what might have possessed the man to put one here, decided finally that his sense of propriety tended toward extravagance at every level. Still, she did not plan to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  She lifted the receiver, marginally encouraged by the humming of the dial tone, wondering if there was any code required to reach an outside line. No time to worry now, and with her eyes fixed on the door, she swiftly dialed Brognola's office number, waiting through the rings until his private secretary picked it up.

  "Hello?"

  "It's Flasher. Is my uncle hi?"

  "I'm sorry, no. He's in New York."

  Sally's heart leaped into her throat.

  "Is there a local number
I can call?"

  The secretary stalled, put off by Sally's flagrant breach of regular procedures. When she finally answered, there was caution in her voice.

  "Again, who is this, please?"

  "It's Flasher," she repeated, reining in her temper with an effort. "And it's top priority."

  "I see."

  Another pause, with the background noise of fingers riffling through a Rollodex. It seemed to take forever for the secretary to respond.

  "I have the hotel's number. It's the best I can do."

  'That's fine," Sally replied, committing it to memory, repeating it for confirmation.

  "If he calls..."

  Sally thought about it, frowned.

  "There isn't any message. If I can't get through at this end, I'll take care of it myself."

  The secretary rung off with apologies, and Sally was about to cradle the receiver when she heard a soft, distinctive click on her end of the line.

  Someone had been listening on an extension somewhere in the rambling house.

  It had been a calculated risk to call Brognola from Minelli's phone at all. The lady Fed had gambled, drawn a loser, and the only question now concerned the nature of the price that she would have to pay.

  Excluding the domestic help, she seemed to be the only woman on the grounds, and there would be no problem in determining who placed the call.

  If they were searching for her, Sally did not wish to have them find her in the washroom. She would go on about her business as if everything was normal, head back for the bungalow and hope that Patriarcca would be more receptive to her explanation than Minelli's men would likely be.

  She did not have the capo of Seattle wrapped around her finger, not by any means. But he would trust her to a point, and there was just a chance that any accusations coming from Minelli's camp could backfire, be construed as last-ditch efforts to impugn the West Coast family's honor.

  It was a shot. And it was all she had.

  She freshened her lipstick, fluffed her hair and kept the comb in hand as she emerged from the lounge. Before the door closed, she saw the two men coming toward her from the far end of the corridor, but Sally kept it cool, ignoring them, making a show of returning the comb to her purse. As if they were invisible, she turned her back, proceeding along the hallway toward the living room.

  And spied the soldier who had tailed her from the cottage, waiting for her at the other end.

  "One moment, please."

  A cultured voice, but still terse and threatening.

  They had her boxed, and Sally hesitated, turning back in the direction of the voice.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Tall, dark and attractive, the leader closed the gap with easy strides. His flanker was a classic button man, devoid of all originality.

  "A word, if you don't mind, about your phone call."

  Sally arched an eyebrow, striving for the sort of arrogance Mob courtesans reserve for underlings.

  "And if I do mind?"

  "I'm afraid I must insist."

  A finger snap, and suddenly her shadow was beside her, taking her by the arm and steering her along the corridor. She tried to pull away, and then the button had her other arm, his fingers digging in like talons, hurting her deliberately.

  Her mind was racing as they trailed the tall man along the hall, toward the center of the house. Unbidden, Bolan flashed across her thoughts and then was gone, replaced by brooding dread.

  She was in trouble, and she knew it.

  16

  David Eritrea shifted on the metal cot, searching in vain for a comfortable position. The lumpy slab of mattress was bad enough, but he was further limited in movements by the handcuffs that secured his left wrist to one leg of the cot, which in turn had been securely bolted to the floor.

  He knew he wasn't going anywhere until Minelli thought the time was right. The disposition of his case was preordained, of course. He had informed, and never mind the reasons that had guided his decision. The penalty for violation of omerta's silent code was death. The only question left concerned the time and method of his execution.

  Minelli had some use for him; that much was clear. The hit team could have killed him in his home with far less effort than they spent abducting him, his wife...

  The thought of Sarah, never far from him through the past three days, made Eritrea sick at heart. Minelli could not let her live, not now, and for Eritrea, there was no way to skirt the guilt that came with knowing she faced death because of him.

  She might be dead already, and for a stomach-churning moment, he almost hoped it was true. If they were in a hurry, they would not have the time for... other things.

  Eritrea had seen and done enough himself to know what might befall his wife in hostile hands. He blocked the grisly images with force of will alone, and concentrated on the question of his own continuing survival.

  In the federal witness program, cut off from the day-today intrigue of Mafia life, he had lost track of the contenders for old Augie Marinello's empty throne. Minelli was a fleeting memory, a lowly troop commander at the time Eritrea made his power play and ran headlong into the Bolan juggernaut.

  Mack Bolan.

  Dave Eritrea could never hear the name without a flood of mixed emotions. Bolan had destroyed his dreams of empire, boundless power, forced him into exile, in the company of strangers. And yet...

  At another level, almost subconsciously, Eritrea retained a grudging admiration for the soldier who had brought him down. The guy had guts and style, no doubt about it. He had suckered everyone, the whole five families, and had them dancing to his tune as neat as you please. Nobody else had come as close to standing the brotherhood on its ear.

  He almost wished that Bolan was around today, to shake things up... and maybe take Eritrea the hell away from there. It would have been a handy out, but David knew the hellfire guy was dead.

  It had been a jolt, those newspaper headlines, laying down how Bolan had flamed out in Central Park. Right there on Eritrea's own home ground, but too damned late to do the former mafioso any good. The stud had pushed his luck too far, misjudged the opposition, and his time ran out. Spectacularly.

  The bastard even died with style.

  And at the same time, Dave Eritrea had felt a twinge of sadness at the soldier's passing. Not that they were friends or anything, far from it. In his day, Eritrea would have gladly gouged the warrior's eyes out with his fingers, given half a chance.

  But you had to have respect for someone who retained his sense of honor to the bitter end and never gave an inch. He lived and died by the vendetta, sure, and that was something any mafioso could relate to. The blood debt, sometimes spanning generations, aching to be paid in still more blood.

  Eritrea had no idea precisely what had put Bolan on the Mafia's case. It was so long ago, the stories handed down by word of mouth so jumbled and distorted. No one who had been there when it started was alive today, as far as he could tell, and in the end, it hadn't mattered how the war began so much as how it seemed about to end. Bolan moved too fast and hit too hard for anyone to waste time studying his goddamned roots.

  But that was over now. The soldier had flamed out, and there Eritrea sat, with one wrist handcuffed to a metal cot. Waiting to die.

  As if in answer to his thoughts came the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. Then someone fumbled with the lock, and the door was opened briefly and as quickly closed.

  Minelli stood beyond Eritrea's reach, regarding him with an expression that was composed equally of loathing and concern.

  The loathing he might feel for any turncoat who informed against the brotherhood.

  The concern was in case Eritrea should cheat him, foil his plans by dying sooner than desired.

  "You really ought to eat," Minelli said.

  "I haven't had much appetite."

  "I understand. It's safe, you know. I don't intend to poison you."

  Eritrea smiled, surprised at how easy it came. "Just tr
ying to fatten up the turkey, huh?"

  Minelli's shrug conveyed supreme indifference. "It's up to you. Tonight we finish it, regardless."

  Just like that. Eritrea felt his stomach churning.

  "So. You finally found your nerve," he said.

  The laughter chilled Eritrea.

  "That's good. I hoped you'd be a man about it."

  "That'll be one man between us."

  Laughter died, but Don Minelli's face remained serene.

  "You can't provoke me, David. Sorry. I need you. Just until tonight. You're my ace in the hole."

  Eritrea frowned. He had no feel for what was coming, just a vague and growing sense of apprehension.

  "I don't follow you."

  Minelli raised an eyebrow, frowned.

  "Of course not. And why should you? I keep forgetting that you've... been away."

  Minelli started pacing, careful to remain outside the radius of Dave Eritrea's grasp.

  "No reason why you shouldn't know." His captor paused, almost dramatically, for maximum effect. "You're going to my coronation, David. Not exactly guest of honor... no, I'd say you fall more in the line of entertainment."

  Bits and pieces of the puzzle came together in Eritrea's mind. He knew Minelli was ambitious, but...the boss of bosses? That would take some doing. A gift to la commissione, perhaps — like Dave Eritrea's head — but even then...

  Eritrea knew there must be more.

  "A present doesn't make a coronation," he informed Minelli.

  "Ah, but that depends on who delivers it. I haven't just got you. I've got the blood right, David."

  Eritrea frowned. "Minelli? I don't..."

  His captor interrupted him.

  "The name is Marinello, David."

  And Eritrea could not head off astonishment before it reached his face. Minelli's words had struck him like a fist above the heart.

  "You understand now."

  "Anyone can claim..."

  "Enough!"

  The eyes of the man he knew as Minelli were flashing at him, color rising in the swarthy cheeks. For just an instant, he was ready to attack, to step within Eritrea's reach, but then the mafioso caught himself and prudently stood clear.