California Hit Read online

  The guy nervously wet his lips. “And then what do I say?”

  “You offer them a chance to come over with you, under you. You make it convincing as hell, or it’s over the wall.”

  “I don’t… I don’t get you.”

  “Sure you do. Everybody in town knows what you’ve been setting up, Franco. You and Wo Fan.”

  The guy was starting to jerk around like a puppet trying to shake off his strings. He started to say something, choked, then tried it again. “You’re telling me to slit my own throat, guy.”

  Bolan smiled the thin grim smile of death. “Depends on how you want to go, Franco. My way. Or yours. With a chance. An outside chance, sure. But… for a savvy boy like you, at least a chance. You’ve got thirty seconds to decide.”

  “Well wait.…”

  “Go for your gun if you’d like to, Franco.”

  “No I—wait a minute!”

  With ice forming at his lips, Bolan assured him, “Thirty seconds, twenty-five now.”

  “So how do I know you won’t rub me anyway, after I’ve called?

  “That’s part of the gamble, Franco. Twenty seconds.”

  “You’ll have to rub me. You won’t just walk away and leave me standing here!”

  “Fifteen seconds. I’ll help you this much. I plan to lock you in a closet. I’ll leave you a penknife. I figure I’ll be well clear before you can cut your way out. Time’s up, Franco.”

  The Belle raised higher and closed the distance by about six inches. Bolan gave him a clear view, right up the silencer.

  “Okay! Okay! I’ll play your silly fuckin’ game!”

  Bolan closed on him, lifted the pearled snub—holster and all—and dropped it into his own pocket.

  “The phone, Franco,” he said coldly. “Go cut your rotten throat.”

  That, Franco knew, was pure style.

  17: LEANING TOGETHER

  By eight o’clock the DeMarco mansion had become the scene of much coming and going, tense consultations, and urgent telephone messages.

  Thomas Vericci and Vince Ciprio were very much on the scene, as were many of their lieutenants and hardmen.

  The developments which gave rise to this feverish pace of activity occurred in a chronological sequence which was roughly as follows:

  At a little before 4:00 PM, an urgent long-distance conference connection was established between San Francisco, Buffalo, Washington, Philadelphia, Boston, and three separate offices in New York City.

  During this conference, Roman DeMarco was advised to cool things down in his town, particularly a rumored impending territorial war. It was also suggested that the commissione would view with harsh disfavor any outside arrangements of DeMarco’s which could conceivably compromise the organization’s intra-relationships.

  Mack Bolan’s name did not enter the conversation.

  Roman DeMarco quit this telephone conference in a rage.

  At about five o’clock both Vericci and Ciprio, at their respective offices, received telephone calls from Crazy Franco Laurentis. Each received the identical ultimatum—join Laurentis in a move to overthrow Roman DeMarco or take the slide with the Capo.

  Both underbosses soberly promised to give Laurentis their decision before midnight, and then each promptly telephoned Don DeMarco to report this curious development.

  DeMarco immediately sent a “delegation” to “the top of the joint” to summon the crazy man to a consultation with the Capo.

  The delegation reported back that Franco’s suite was deserted and that there was no clue to the whereabouts of Crazy Franco.

  At 5:40 PM a “paper conference” involving DeMarco, Vericci and Ciprio was conducted in the study of the DeMarco Mansion. A contract was drawn and reportedly sealed in the blood of the three participants. Immediately thereafter, a number of tersely coded telephone messages were relayed around the town and to Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Portland, Seattle, Honolulu, and Phoenix.

  Meanwhile, less formal communications spread throughout the city via, mostly, word of mouth—with the result that “the silk suit brigade” disappeared suddenly from their usual haunts and became notably difficult to locate.

  Speculation arose in various quarters that perhaps the underworld dragnet for Mack Bolan was falling apart.

  At about six o’clock a “friend” at Harbor Precinct telephoned the DeMarco mansion with an urgent report to the effect that Captain Barney Gibson was quietly preparing a huge strike force to descend upon various quarters of Chinatown.

  Several minutes later this same friend again called to breathlessly add to the earlier report. Gibson was also reportedly collecting warrants—secret warrants—for “a big sweep” early the following morning, this one directed against specific members of the Occidental community in and around Little Italy. It was further rumored that the warrants were being secretly coordinated with similar efforts in adjacent communities of the bay area.

  At roughly twenty minutes past the hour of six, a physician was summoned to the DeMarco mansion to administer medication to a hypertensive old man.

  As the doctor was departing, a man with an icy voice who identified himself as Mack Bolan was passed through to the DeMarco library via telephone. He talked to Tom the Broker Vericci and suggested that midnight could be the hour of doom—for everyone connected with Roman DeMarco. The caller gave special mention to a “Mr. King.”

  By seven o’clock all lights were lighted, inside and out, at the mansion on Russian Hill and jittery men prowled ceaselessly about the grounds and along the streets surrounding the property.

  While, in the library, there was standing room only as the talk got down to the nitty-gritty business of personal survival in an uncertain world, and the hissing voice of Don DeMarco devoted itself to a series of cryptic telephone consultations with an unnamed “friend” who seemed entirely reluctant even to accept the calls.

  Finally, at eight o’clock, DeMarco completed the last of these telephone conversations and turned to his cadre with a relieved sigh.

  “Okay,” he reported tiredly. “It’s set up. He’ll meet with us in an hour. But we got to come alone. And we got to talk Wo Fan into coming with us.”

  At ten minutes past the hour of eight, a cautious acceptance from the Chinese community signalled a sure meet with Mr. King.

  The hollow men, the stuffed men, had cast their vote to lean together… to the bitter end.

  From his eagle perch, Mack Bolan watched them depart—three big limousines moving slowly out of the drive and easing onto the streets of the city.

  He scrutinized them closely, burning details into his scout’s memory cells, and he watched until they turned down Lombard, “the crookedest street in the world.”

  Then he made the scramble to his battered, mud-streaked war chariot and picked up the procession as it crossed Taylor.

  They made a stop and a pickup at the gates of Chinatown, and one of the vehicles remained there.

  Bolan prudently made a swing around that plant and picked up the remaining two vehicles of the procession at the corner of Stockton and Sacramento.

  They turned up Market. Bolan spotted them a light signal, then he swung out in casual pursuit.

  The limousines went on all the way up Market to the Portola district, then started the climb toward Twin Peaks. Another vehicle dropped out there.

  Bolan again ran a disengaging pattern and came onto the taillights of the target car halfway up the hill.

  He was getting an idea, now, of where they were headed, and he relaxed a little. But not much. A pair of lights had kept swinging on him throughout the trip, dogging him all the way from way back on Russian Hill somewhere—or, at least, they seemed to be the same lights. He did not wish to get overly hung up on that rear vision—whatever might be back there, the target was ahead and this was where his primary concentration must be focused.

  Twin Peaks is one of those “mustn’t miss” tourist magnets of the San Francisco area, the geographic heart of the whole scenic
wonderland that is San Francisco. From her overlooking peaks, which rise majestically above the other terrain like the proud thrust of a sleeping woman’s breasts, the breathless visitor gets the entire bay area spread out below him and for a seemingly infinite distance, and it is especially spectacular at night time. In fact, the many observation-point lanes and pullovers once provided a heady lure to the lover’s lane crowds, before the car-window bandits and rapists found the lure equally rewarding.

  Bolan had been there many times, but neither as lover nor bandit, and tonight he was feeling a bit of tugging from both frames of consciousness. He was, he hoped, going to rob the mob… and he was going to love doing it.

  Not in any bloodthirsty sense, hell no. Bolan had long ago reached the point of gagging over blood offerings… but, yeah, this was a damned important mission. Much more so than he had suspected just 24 short hours earlier. And he hoped, he hoped with an almost romantic fervor, that Twin Peaks was the appointed place for the meet. Up here, way up here where on a clear day the entire kingdom was spread out for inspection, would be the most ironically proper spot to meet the hollow men.

  And, yeah, it was the place.

  He saw the limousine pull into one of the little lanes which circle into a secluded observation park, and he killed his lights on the curve and dead-sticked it on in.

  Something flickered in his rearview mirror as he rolled to his stop, but he could not be sure that it wasn’t a reflection of distant city lights—and he for damn sure was not going to start chasing rear-guard phantoms at this point of the pursuit.

  He snatched up the stuttergun and pulled a brief and silent recon to the rear, then he went on forward, sticking to the hillside and blending with the shadows until he was looking down on them.

  The Mafia limousine was standing there with her horns to the safety rail, engine idling, parking lights on, all doors closed and the lights of town reflecting from raised windows.

  A light standard rose up between the limousine and another car, a drab looking little foreign job, Japanese or something, and the lamp which was supposed to discourage smooching and robbing also seemed to be discouraging the lone occupant of the smaller vehicle.

  Obviously, if they were to have any sort of meaningful discussions, they would have to take place in the limousine—and that would be crowded enough—or they would have to take place in the open air.

  The guy was shy. Obviously he did not wish to leave his vehicle.

  He had rolled down his window and was half-lying across the seat in an effort to talk across to the limousine.

  Bolan waited and watched.

  Presently the doors of the limousine opened and the occupants slowly struggled to the outside.

  Vericci was the first out. He had been driving. Then followed Ciprio and old man DeMarco and, finally, from the back seat, two gentlemen dudes of obvious Oriental backgrounds.

  Bolan immediately recognized Wo Fan… but the other guy…

  He whistled softly to himself and wondered. The commie? All the commissioners of California crime… in one group?

  Important, yeah. Maybe more important than Bolan could fully grasp.

  The group straggled hesitantly toward the little import. Bolan automatically checked the safety switch on the burper and waited.

  Come out, man, come out. Let me get a look at you before I rub you.

  The guy didn’t come out, but his head did, craning outward and upward beneath the overhanging lamp for a smiling welcome to his visiting dignitaries of despair.

  Bolan stared at that face with a stunning recognition—and, for a moment, he tried to tell himself that he was not seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  But then a lot of little things suddenly jogged together in that combat-hardened mind, and Bolan knew in a flash that indeed he was seeing “Mr. King” in the flesh… and what a damned irony.

  The name wasn’t really King, of course. Almost as big but not quite… almost as respectable, but not quite.

  Bolan felt his belly roll over and quiver, and he left those concealing shadows and moved silently across the paved surface for a close kill.

  He did not want to miss this one. He did not want to miss this rotten son of a bitch… this guy who was selling out not just his own people but maybe an entire nation in the bargain… this guy who killed and robbed and raped and starved and oppressed not just an occasional handful but thousands every day without ever experiencing the sight or smell or taste of blood in his delicate senses… no, Bolan did not want to miss this guy.

  DeMarco spotted the spectre of death first, and the old man made a move which could have passed as a clutching at a suddenly fibrillating heart, but it went on inside the coat and jerked rapidly back out again, and it was hauling hardware.

  The others whirled at about that instant, and there was panic… scraping feet and frightened grunts and diving hands… even the guy inside the little car was fumbling with something on his dashboard… and Bolan put everything he had ever been and ever hoped to be into that squeeze of the trigger.

  He did not let off until the clip was dead, and all the hollow men had lost their stuffing, and were leaning together in a horizontal heap of carnal garbage.

  He went over to the imported car, looked in, reached in, then withdrew and muttered, “Long live the king. The king is dead.”

  A voice behind him suggested, “Long live Able Team. Able Team is dead.”

  Bolan turned slowly, carefully, and stared into the tortured gaze of his old friend and flanker, Bill Phillips.

  “That was you behind me,” Bolan quietly decided.

  “That was me, all the way.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You should know, Sarge. You taught me. I heard the cute stuff Gibson was letting leak. I put it together.”

  Bolan said, “Congratulations. You still intend to Wang Dang me?”

  “It’s my responsibility,” the cop explained, regretfully.

  Bolan nodded. He could understand that.

  “Before you exercise that responsibility, Bill—remember, earlier today… hell, was that just today?”

  “Remember what?” Phillips prompted. He seemed to be begging, “Give me a reason not to, Sarge, just give me a reason I can live with.”

  But he didn’t say it, and Bolan told him, “We were talking about the importance of certain missions. You know who these guys are, Bill?”

  Phillips nodded his head. “Most of them.”

  “Look at the guy in the car.”

  “Nothing cute, Sarge. Just cool it.”

  “I’ll cool it. Look in the car.”

  The tough Frisco Brushfire cop stepped carefully to the window, risked a quick look, then tossed an unbelieving glance at his captive and went in for a closer inspection.

  He came out with his face all twisted in the anguish that only a black man can feel at certain times, and his gunhand dropped to his side, and he mumbled, “Okay. Goodbye Mack. Good luck.”

  Bolan replied, “Okay,” and he turned and walked away from there.

  Too bad, Bolan thought as he eased into the war wagon.

  Yeah, too damned bad. Bolan knew. Or he thought he did. He thought he knew how tough it must get sometimes to simply be a black man.

  Bill Phillips knew, for damned sure.

  “Mr. King” would never know it again.

  Long live the king. The king, God save his rotten soul, was dead.

  EPILOGUE

  Some wars, somehow, just didn’t always seem worth winning.

  Bolan finished his packing, and he told the China doll, “It’s not that I’m in a rush to get away from you, Mary. It’s just that I have this feeling. I’ve got to travel east, and damn quick.”

  “Personal business,” she quietly suggested.

  “Very personal business. Something very important—important like you, only different. Different, Mary.”

  “I guess we’ll never meet again,” she decided, sighing.

  “Don’t coun
t on it.” He gave her a solemn wink. “You, uh, square with Barney Gibson?”

  She said, “I am. You made his day, soldier. More than that, I guess you made his life.”

  He slung the satchel over his back, went to the door, then turned about for a last long penetrating look at something very special that had briefly touched his life.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Her face twisted as she replied, “Aren’t you going out the window?”

  He chuckled and told her, “I come in windows, lady, I don’t go out them.”

  “Listen, tough guy,” she said, her voice dropping to a harshly commanding tone, “you can climb in my window any old day… or night. You come see me. You hear?”

  He said, “I hear,” and he gave her finally, fully, a total smile, and then he went out of there.

  Something very important, more important than all the San Franciscos everywhere, was awaiting his attention in a distant eastern city.

  No man could truly stand alone… not forever. Only a fool would want to do so.

  And if anything had happened to Johnny or Val…

  His stomach curled, and he commanded the thought to go away, even knowing that it would not.

  If anything had happened to those two… well, it would be a hellfire trail for sure, this time.

  It would be a descent and a journey through the hell of all hells, and a lot of other dudes would share that fire with Mack Bolan.

  Pittsfield, he quietly sent the word ahead, I’m on my way.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Executioner series

  1: The Message

  At about two o’clock on a broodingly overcast Monday afternoon in Boston’s North End, a tall man with peculiarly icy eyes descended upon the modest billiard parlor owned by small-time Mafioso Julio LaRocca.

  Marty Cara, presiding over the beer bar at the front of the pool hall, was taking advantage of a business lull and preparing for the usual late-afternoon rush.

  Two older citizens of the neighborhood nursed beers and talked quietly at the end of the bar.

  At the rear, two pool tables were in noisy use by a party of North End youths who should have been in school.