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  “Come on!” Magolino urged them. “Hurry up!”

  Adamo was already hurrying, but it would do no good to say so. As he climbed into the backseat, with their bodyguard behind the wheel and Magolino at his side, the ’Ndrangheta underboss allowed himself to breathe a little easier. They had a chance now—to escape, to live, to fight another day.

  He thought of Albanesi then, forgotten in the library, and glanced back toward the house, where flames were leaping from the windows. Was the fat lieutenant trapped inside? Was he still waiting for his audience with Magolino?

  Aldo shrugged it off. Roast pork was not his problem at the moment.

  “Go! Go!” Magolino urged their driver, slapping his shoulder for emphasis. The Lexus rolled forward, gathering speed—then stopped dead.

  In front of them, a solitary gunman stood his ground, eyeing the SUV. If Aldo had to guess, he would have said the stranger looked American.

  “What are you waiting for?” Magolino snapped. “Run him down!”

  * * *

  BOLAN HEARD THE SUV’s engine revving into red-line levels, and he saw three pairs of eyes glaring at him through the broad tinted windshield. The SUV lurched forward suddenly, tires squealing on the concrete floor of the garage as it launched toward Bolan and gathering momentum by the heartbeat. If he dodged now, Magolino could be past him by the time he managed target acquisition, maybe ruining the shot.

  Bolan stood fast and squeezed the 40 mm launcher’s trigger, sending a high-explosive round to meet the charging SUV. It struck the black car’s grille, an inch or so below the stylized “L” that told him he was firing on a Lexus, fifty grand and change with all the bells and whistles and hurtling toward him with a mind to plow him under like a weed.

  The blast was nearly deafening at such close range. The SUV stood on its nose, engulfed in smoke and flames, its rear end rising as if the driver had crashed headlong into a concrete wall. From there, momentum flipped it over, crashing down toward Bolan as he finally ducked to his left and let the tumbling four-door pass him by, trailing its comet’s tail of fire.

  Touchdown popped the SUV open and sent three ragdoll figures tumbling over pavement, weapons clattering away from hands that couldn’t keep their grip. Bolan saw the driver fetch up on his left side, head canted at an impossible angle that told him the guy’s neck was broken. Off to the SUV’s left side—his right—Gianni Magolino and Aldo Adamo were both still alive, though Adamo’s left leg now displayed an extra bend that would have startled Mother Nature.

  Bolan moved to catch the ’Ndrangheta’s underboss in midscream, as the man reached for his broken leg, and silenced him forever with a NATO round between the eyes. That left Magolino, clearly the toughest of the SUV’s passengers, struggling to all fours as he watched the Executioner approach.

  The mobster spat blood and demanded, “How much is that rat Peppino paying you for this?”

  “I never met the man,” Bolan replied. “But if I see him, he’ll be right behind you. That’s a promise.”

  “So, he didn’t hire you?” Magolino looked confused.

  “Not even close,” Bolan said. “This is for the marshals your men murdered in New York.”

  “Marshals? Those peasants? Are you crazy?”

  “It’s been said, by other dead men like yourself.”

  “All this for those two-bit cops?” The mobster shook his head in wonderment, blood dripping from his chin. “I take that as an insult!”

  “Take it any way you like,” Bolan said and stitched a 3-round burst across his final target’s chest. The slugs punched Magolino over backward, landing with his legs folded beneath him, which would have hurt him terribly if he were still alive.

  “Good shooting,” said a voice behind him. “Now be smart, and drop the rifle.”

  * * *

  CARLO ALBANESI COULD not believe his good fortune. He hadn’t expected to escape from Magolino’s home alive, trapped as he’d been between hostile hosts and attackers who seemed bent on killing everyone inside the mansion. But the initial phase of his escape had proved relatively simple. It appeared that he’d been forgotten in the library when the attack began, and that worked to his favor. Slipping out of there, unseen, he’d suffered several moments of confusion, then nearly collided with a young man carrying a submachine gun, who stopped short and covered Albanesi with the weapon, asking him, “Who the hell are you?”

  “A friend of Aldo’s,” Albanesi said. “I mean, Mr. Adamo.”

  The soldier blinked at him then said, “If you’re trying to catch him, you’re late. He’s already left with il padrino.”

  “Left?” A surge of panic had enveloped Albanesi. “Where did they go?”

  “The garage, I suppose. Getting out.”

  The gunman was turning away when Albanesi took a chance and caught him by the sleeve. “Which way, please?” he asked.

  The soldier made an irritated clucking sound and pointed vaguely to his right, the same direction Albanesi had been headed when they met. Then he was gone, no further opportunity to question him or get precise directions. Albanesi had been somewhat amazed to find an exit from the mansion sixty seconds later.

  Facing the garage, he’d been in time to see Adamo, Magolino and a bodyguard slip inside. From somewhere to his left, another figure tracked them, this one dressed in military-style fatigues and laden with weapons. For a moment, Albanesi thought some kind of SWAT team had arrived—the Carabinieri Special Operations Group, perhaps, or the GDF’s own Antiterrorism and Rapid Response service—but this man, clearly, was alone.

  And then it hit him: the American!

  Albanesi watched as the tall man stalked his prey, moving to intercept Magolino and Adamo in their getaway car. The wise thing, he supposed, would be to run the other way and let them slaughter one another, hopefully forgetting all about Albanesi in the process. But the scene fascinated him, and he could not tear his eyes away.

  He saw the Lexus SUV charge forward, saw the bold American stop it with some kind of rocket or grenade then walk around and finish off the men who had been thrown clear of the flaming wreckage. By that time, against his conscious will, the ex-lieutenant’s feet were taking him directly toward the killing ground, approaching from the grim-faced killer’s blind side.

  Dredging up his voice while covering the stranger with his sidearm, Albanesi said, “Good shooting. “Now be smart, and drop the rifle.”

  * * *

  BOLAN TURNED SLOWLY, rifle still in hand, and saw a fat man in a rumpled suit pointing a pistol at his face. The guy was nervous, gun hand trembling, and his eyes flicked spastically, trying to cover every angle of the scene at once.

  “Who are you?” Bolan asked.

  Fumbling underneath his jacket with his free hand, the new arrival flashed a wallet, showing off a badge and I.D. card. “Lieutenant Albanesi of the Guardia di Finanza,” he replied. “And you, I think, are Scott Parker.”

  “Never met the man,” Bolan said.

  “We shall see. First thing, you need to drop your weapon. Make that weapons. All of them.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I will kill you. Either way, I am the hero of the hour. It’s ironic, eh?”

  Bolan had no idea what that meant, so he let it go. This was the worst scenario of any mission, running up against his own rule about police. Without that self-imposed restriction, Bolan knew he could have taken this one, even covered as he was. A feint, a duck, a quick shot from the hip, and he’d be clear.

  Not happening.

  But going into custody meant death at some point, likely sooner rather than later. He’d be disavowed by Stony Man and every other U.S. agency, covert or public. The publicity could damage Hal, the program Bolan served, his very reason for existing.

  “So, you want to be a hero?” Bolan inquired
.

  “It’s an attractive option,” the fat man said. “If you only knew my problems, but they’re none of your concern. The rifle first. Be careful when you set it down.”

  Surrender? Or a suicide by cop? He wondered if the lieutenant’s hand was firm enough to kill him with a single shot, or if he’d need a whole damned magazine to finish it.

  “Well?” Albanesi challenged him.

  “I’m thinking,” Bolan said. And he was watching, too, tracking another figure coming toward them, double-timing over fresh-mown grass. “Is this a friend of yours?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. I can’t be tricked that easily,” the cop replied. “I’m not—”

  “Lieutenant!” the new arrival said, slowing as he reached them, balancing a semiauto shotgun in his hands.

  “Captain Basile? What are you— I mean, it’s fortunate that you’ve arrived.”

  “Indeed,” the captain said. “Now, I will take charge of your weapon and your prisoner.”

  “Will you?” Albanesi bristled, small eyes darting back and forth between his adversaries. “And if I refuse?”

  The shotgun blast, from ten feet out, lifted the fat man off his feet and dropped him on his back, gasping his final breath on impact. Bolan stood watching as Basile turned to face him with a frown, and the muzzle of his shotgun sagged.

  “He was a useless bastard anyway,” Basile said.

  “Wanted to be a hero,” Bolan told him.

  “And perhaps he shall be after the reports are sanitized. It would not be the strangest thing that’s ever happened, eh?”

  “What now?”

  “Is she here?” Basile asked. “Our Mariana?”

  “You just missed her,” Bolan said. “Before you ask, she didn’t tell me where she was going.”

  “Just as well. It seems I can’t be trusted to protect her.”

  “I suppose you did your best.”

  “Not good enough.” Basile paused, glanced back toward Magolino’s burning house, then said, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “I have a good friend at headquarters,” Basile said. “In records. I can almost guarantee your dossier will disappear.”

  “Almost?”

  “Consider it a parting gift. As for the ’Ndrangheta—” he surveyed the scattered bodies “—I suspect they have forgotten you already.”

  “If you’re sure...”

  “Go with God, my friend.”

  Bolan turned and left Basile there, retreating toward the tree line as a pall of smoke descended over Magolino’s grand estate. He might not go with God—who really had a claim on that?—but he had caught a lucky break, and he’d live to fight another day.

  Likely tomorrow or the next day, when the names and faces changed, but Bolan knew the stakes would always be the same. Good versus evil, life or death. He raised on every hand, the only way he knew to play the game.

  All in.

  Epilogue

  Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport, Rome

  Bolan played it safe, using his backup passport to avoid relying on the Parker name while Captain Basile was purging the GDF’s files. He’d flown out of Reggio Calabria’s Tito Minniti Airport and landed in Rome without incident. Even then, he was watchful, aware that Basile might fail—or simply change his mind—and the net could drop at any moment.

  He’d been in touch with Hal, briefly, by scrambled sat phone to explain the situation as it stood. Brognola grumbled, as expected, but agreed that they should wait and see what happened in the next few days before they wiped Bolan’s alias off the books. The GDF captain had proved himself by saving Bolan’s bacon in a pinch, and if his follow-through was verified by Stony Man’s elite crew of hackers, “Scott Parker” could return to action in due time.

  Meanwhile, Bolan ate pasta and eggplant parmesan at the airport, cooled his heels and waited for his transatlantic Alitalia flight to JFK. He bought a fat paperback to fill any time he didn’t spend sleeping in transit and got through one chapter before thoughts of his mission distracted him.

  Bolan would probably never know what became of Mariana Natale, whether Magolino’s successors ignored her or spent their time hunting her down. The lady could make her own choices, for good or ill, and her fate was out of Bolan’s hands.

  Captain Basile was a little easier. With help from Hal and Stony Man, Bolan could keep track of the officer if he was so inclined. But to what end? Their worlds had intersected for a fleeting moment, but they likely never would again.

  The news on television, broadcast through the airport concourse, played up the Tropea massacre and stressed the death of a “heroic” GDF officer, as Basile had predicted. Higher-ups were covering themselves, whitewashing the force and its bad apple to defer any further scrutiny. Bolan had seen the same thing happen elsewhere many times before, from New York City and L.A. to London and Paris.

  Spin was in and always would be. After all, self-preservation was the first rule of politics. Some things never changed, and Bolan understood that all too well.

  It was the reason the world needed the Executioner.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9781460343876

  Point Blank

  Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.

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