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  “What’d I tell you in Pittsfield?” Gino replied, still a bit red in the face.

  “You told me to snap my fingers, Billy.”

  “It still goes, Mr. Omega. A guy needs a star to follow through troubled waters. Right? I don’t know what else to—”

  Bolan reached out and touched the guy’s shoulder. “This time it could be a comet. Keep the eyes wide open. Right?”

  The Head Cock flushed even brighter, obviously strongly affected by the open display of friendship from a man whom he believed to be a Lord High Enforcer. “I’m keeping them open, sir,” he promised.

  “That’s all I can ask. For the moment.”

  The guy wouldn’t give up, though. “What was Augie doing at Pittsfield, Mr. Omega? No offense. But I got to know.”

  Bolan’s reply was immediate, delivered in a solemn, almost sad monotone. “Running,” he said quietly. “Keep the eyes open, Billy. And keep on wondering.”

  “Bet on it,” the guy said savagely. He looked around him in some mute, helpless frustration, took another pull at his cigarette, then said, “We’re hard, sir. We’re ready for anything.”

  “I can see that,” Bolan told him.

  “Is that guy in our territory now?”

  The Head Cock was asking Bolan about Bolan. “Bet on that, too,” he advised him.

  “I already did,” Billy Gino replied solemnly. He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “Mr. Eritrea knows you’re here. I’ll take you on to the house. Then I gotta come back out here and check my defenses. This sort of thing is tough on the nerves. You gotta watch these guys like a hawk. They’re all good boys but—well, you know how it goes.”

  Bolan gave the guy the supreme compliment. “You run a hard palace, Billy,” he said, and meant it.

  Sure he meant it. It was no discredit to Billy Gino that he did not know his most feared enemy even while standing toe to toe and eyeballing him. Few men now living could positively identify that wraith of death called Mack Bolan. Even in their nightmares, the living enemy saw him only as a presence—a moving shadow which turned three-dimensional only when Death beckoned. Billy Gino knew this man only as Omega—one of those impressive and equally faceless wild cards from the Commissione’s hardshed. Not even the bosses knew for sure who their wild cards were at any given moment. The guys took on new names and new faces in the same routine with which ordinary men changed their clothes.

  So, no, it was no discredit to the Head Cock of the palace guard that he did not recognize his enemy. And Bolan saw enough during the brief ride down to the house to be glad that he had not come in hard himself. This would be a tough one to bust.

  Bust it he must, though—and the sooner the better.

  Eritrea stood at the library door and impatiently awaited the arrival of his distinguished guest. What the hell was the guy doing? Checking him out? Inspecting the defenses? Christ!—David could have walked from the gate in this time.

  Suddenly there he was. The front door opened and the guy stepped inside—or maybe glided was a better word for what that guy did—all muscle and grace and restrained power. In a different situation, in kinder times, David Eritrea could easily hate him. Somehow he made David feel less of a man, less in command—almost clumsy; and David Eritrea was known as a class guy himself. No matter, though. That was small stuff now. Right now the only visible heir to the Marinello throne needed that Black Ace if he really intended to grasp the reins of power from Augie’s dead hands. Omega could be the one to cinch the grip. As soon as David was home clean, of course, there would be some different calls from the huddle. Guys like Omega would never again have this kind of power. He’d never liked that setup, not ever. Too damn much autonomy, too much raw authority at their fingertips. King David would change all that, and with damn little loss of motion.

  For now, though …

  He stepped into the hall with a smile and a ready hand. “Omega! Glad you came. I’ve been worried about you. God, isn’t it awful what happened up there! I was worried that maybe you—well, you know, it was a lot of hell.”

  Omega grasped the outstretched hand and pressed it firmly, smiling solemnly for the occasion. “Close is good enough, isn’t it?” he said quietly, revealing nothing whatever.

  Eritrea steered the visitor into the library and saw him comfortably seated at a small table where orange juice, toast and marmalade awaited. Then he closed the doors and took a chair opposite his guest.

  “I didn’t wish that for Augie,” Eritrea declared in a hushed voice.

  “Course not—none of us did,” the visitor replied.

  “I didn’t even know he’d gone up there. I’m totally mystified—I’m—he was getting senile, you know. Paranoid, too. Of course, who wouldn’t—with all that’s been going on these past months. But I believe sometimes he even mistrusted me.” Eritrea sighed. “You can’t watch them twenty-four hours a day, can you? I want you to understand something one hundred percent, Omega. I was trying to protect the old man. I was trying to hold the thing together, trying to make sure that he died with dignity. I was trying to protect the tradition. It’s important that you understand that.”

  “I understand it,” Omega said, still holding off, staring distastefully at the orange juice.

  “Can I get you something more, uh—”

  “It’s okay,” the wild card said quietly. “I didn’t come to be entertained, David. I came to parley.”

  Eritrea nodded agreeably. “Okay. Fine. Let’s parley.”

  “You know what you have to do now. But you’ll have to move fast. It’s started already, with Augie not even planted yet. What are you doing about funeral arrangements?”

  “It’s scheduled for tomorrow. What do you mean? What’s started already?”

  “The scramble, David, has started already. I thought you had things nailed down a bit tighter than that. It’s only been a matter of hours since …”

  A cold chill chased along King David’s spine. “Well, sure, uh—I thought—you told me …”

  “I told you I’d help,” the visitor said softly. “I did not say that we were nailing it down for you. You know what you have to do, eh?”

  The chill hit him again. Eritrea hoisted the orange juice to cover any outward show of emotion as he assured the wild card, “I’m doing it.”

  “You need to call a council, too. Full table.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “You can work it in with the funeral arrangements. Delay the funeral, if necessary. Let’s give them all time to get here.”

  “Oh, sure. We’ve covered that. Everybody has been notified. They’re all coming.”

  “Good work. Okay. You need to lock it up before some of the old bosses have time to think about it. Guys like—well, never mind, you already know who they are. Tradition, David, is what they want.”

  The son of a bitch! Right between the eyes with it! Eritrea coughed delicately. “You said—”

  “What I said in Pittsfield still goes. You’ll get your support from my people—but after you’ve locked it up with the others. You need a majority, David. Give us something to enforce. Then we’ll do our job. There’s a possible hitch, though. I can’t cover it. You’ll have to.”

  Eritrea felt his dream squirming away from him. In a hollow voice he asked, “What’s the hitch?”

  “One of my kind,” the son of a bitch told him. “One guy I really can’t be sure about. He could toss it. You’ll have to get to him, and quick.”

  Eritrea knew it, goddammit! He never got spinal chills for nothing! “Which guy?” he asked quietly.

  “The one that got away,” the goddamned rockjawed bastard announced in that infuriatingly placid tone.

  David shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Augie was not alone in the Pittsfield stand, David.”

  “Oh. Well.” Eritrea sipped more orange juice. He could feel his soul sweating. How much did this cool bastard know? Really know! “I thought, uh … I heard—the word came down that
Mack Bolan was the one got to Augie. What are you saying?”

  “The same,” Omega coldly assured him. “But that’s only one of your problems. There’s a guy in Manhattan, David, who knows why Augie was at Pittsfield.”

  Sweating, sure. Sweating blood! He sighed. “I see.”

  “I can’t approach the guy. I’m not even sure who he really is. They call him Peter.” Omega was looking at his watch, lips pursed, eyes slitted. “He knows, David. You’d better find him. And quick.”

  Eritrea groaned aloud, allowing some of the tightly reined emotion to leak out, then tried to cover it with a growling comment. “He’s an Ace, huh?”

  “Odds-on favorite, yeah. Maybe you should let Leo the Pussy look into it. He has good instincts for such things.” The guy’s eyes warmed momentarily as he added, “They worked fine for him at Pittsfield, didn’t they?”

  Eritrea nodded agreement with that, not really giving a particular damn at the moment about Leo “the Pussy” Turrin and his survival instincts.

  Omega was suggesting, “Let Leo work it for you. He already knows, David. If you’re worrying about his loyalty … hell, man, it was Augie trying to set him up for the fall at Pittsfield, and he knows that, too.”

  “You’re right,” Eritrea agreed. He smiled suddenly. “You’re always right, aren’t you?”

  “As long as I’m alive,” the other said, grinning thinly. He looked at his watch again. “I’m on a tight timetable, David.” He got to his feet. “Tell you what. Contact me through Leo; let’s work it that way. Keep him advised of all developments, and I’ll work the liaison through him from here on. It’s better that way, eh?”

  “Better, sure, right,” Eritrea agreed as he left the table and accompanied the visitor to the door.

  “I’m keeping a low profile through all this. You understand.”

  “Low profile, right, that’s a good idea. Don’t worry—I’ll keep you plugged in via Leo the Pussy.”

  They were in the hall, heading toward the entrance foyer. Omega again consulted his watch. He turned on a bright smile and said, “Good luck, David.”

  But then, before any response to that was possible, it began to appear that King David’s luck was all running the wrong way. A white-hot light flashed through the doorway of the library they had just vacated, the floor beneath their feet shook and heaved, and the cataclysmic roar of high explosives battered the air around their ears. The wall at David’s left spilled open and a white cloud puffed through at about the same moment that Omega grabbed him and threw him to the floor.

  “What th’ hell!” Eritrea squawked.

  Omega was on top of him, protecting him from the shower of debris from the library, and other rumblings were moving across the grounds out front.

  “I guess it’s that other problem you have, David,” Omega told him, unflappable as ever, cool and possessed while all the world tumbled down. “I’d say you’ve got Mack Bolan right up your ass—right now.”

  The would-be king of crime shivered under the knowledge that it was true. He should have known it already. It was an occupational hazard for Mafia bosses—the very one which had given David Eritrea legs enough to reach for the crown.

  “Get that guy, Omega!” he groaned. “God’s sake, get him! Then you can write your own ticket with me! I’ll give you the fucking world!”

  Omega was already on his feet and sprinting through the wreckage toward the door, gun in hand and looking magnificent.

  And the vision of that made King David feel tremendously powerful—not at all clumsy or less the ruler. With a guy like that at his side—why God!—David Eritrea could have it all!

  There was a comfort.

  God yes, there was a magnificent comfort.

  3

  FROM THE PIT

  A bit of sleight of hand, sure, with all the magic being provided by the war wagon’s auto-fire system, but it had come uncomfortably close to the man behind it all, just the same. Each of the four big birds carried in the rocket pod had been programmed for individual targets on a sequence-time logic, with the first directed at the big east window on the ground floor of the mansion. It was pure luck that Bolan himself wound up in that room with the budding capo and still more luck that he was able to make the grandstand play over the guy’s cringing body.

  It had been designed as more than a stunt to cover his Omega identity, however. It was a seriously considered attack which had been designed to shake the swaggers out of these guys and to serve notice that there would be no free ride to glory over Marinello’s ashes. It was also a carefully calculated cover fire, in case Bolan needed a hard withdrawal from that joint—a circumstance which had not arisen, but which had to be covered in the planning of the mission.

  There was nothing wild-assed about this warrior. Bolan consistently picked missions up and put them down with the greatest of care and planning—and it was a tribute to his tactical genius that he had remained alive for so long under such incredible odds against survival.

  Actually, that mission into the Marinello palace had served several important purposes. “The one that got away” at Pittsfield was of as much concern to Bolan as it could possibly be to Eritrea. “Peter,” whoever he was, could mean big trouble for Bolan’s closest friend and ally, little Leo Turrin, who had been living the double life as undercover cop and Mafia big shot for quite a bit longer than Bolan’s war had been in progress. The Pittsfield thing had gone okay, with Leo actually stronger in the mob than ever before—but “Peter” could possibly undo it all. Bolan had to plug that hole, with any means available, and the tip to Eritrea represented but one avenue of attack into the problem.

  Bolan had also wanted personal contact with Billy Gino. He’d accomplished that, and hopefully he’d started something building in Gino’s mind which would help the Executioner somewhere downstream in this command strike.

  Otherwise, it had been an almost routine visit for Mack Bolan. He’d picked up a few vibes, sown a few seeds, and shaken their house a bit. Which was good enough for starters.

  He received visible evidence that it had been good enough the moment he hit the doorway in his withdrawal. A smoking section of porch railing was lying on the lawn beside a blackened body. Flames were leaping from the shattered east side of the house and a couple of men were scampering around over there trying to figure out what to do about it. The yard guard was in full reaction, with electrified flunkies running everywhere in grimly silent response to the attack—taking up defensive positions, probably, on some prearranged perimeter surrounding the manse. A crew wagon in the parking area was aflame beside the gutted remains of another which had obviously taken a direct hit.

  A man with a guard dog at his wrist stood stolidly in the drive at the front of the house—just standing there, waiting for what might come from behind the barrage. Bolan had to respect him. He stepped around him and climbed into the Ferrari. “Watch it, guy,” he growled in a friendly tone.

  The man was worried. He asked, “What is it, sir?”

  “Watch me go find out,” Bolan suggested, and sent the Ferrari screaming toward the front gate.

  It was real chaos down there. Bolan had sent the other two birds to this sector—one straight along the chute and into the west gatehouse, the other into a section of wall which bore the main power transformers for the electronic security system. The chute was littered with debris, impassable. Someone was moaning pitiably from somewhere in the wreckage of the guard shack, while others frantically tried to dig him out with bare hands.

  Bolan pulled onto the lawn and nosed along the wall toward the breeched section, seeking exit. He found Billy Gino there, arm-waving a reaction team into position to cover the break and also directing damage-control efforts.

  “Watch it, Mr. Omega!” the Head Cock shouted as Bolan drove up. “We got live wires here! Already fried a couple of boys!”

  “Clear me a path, Billy!” Bolan commanded.

  “Pardon me, sir, you shouldn’t go out there now!”
r />   He was running alongside the car as Bolan continued maneuvering through the litter. Bolan just gave him a look and kept on moving.

  “I’m the Head Cock, dammit, sir, and I say you should take cover and let my boys secure the situation! We got a full-scale assault here! I already sent a crew out! We think we know where to look! So please! Take cover!”

  Bolan growled, “Cover yourself, Billy!” and bulldozed on out of there. He cleared the wall and hit the roadway at full whine, taking off with a fishtailing squeal of rubber and putting that place quickly behind him.

  But it was no time for self-congratulations. This thing could go sour yet. Billy said he’d sent a crew out. Yeah. “Where to look” was a small knoll overlooking the estate from the western approach, the only really viable position from which the attack could have been launched. And, sure, that was the place. He had to get up there damn quick and cover that front. The war wagon was too valuable a piece of hardware to trade in for a mere Mafia hard-site.

  Bolan had his own damn palace to guard. Sure as hell he was not turning it over to one of Billy Gino’s crews!

  The war wagon was indeed a valuable piece of hardware. Conceived by Bolan himself, but actually put together by a team of moonlighting aerospace engineers who dubbed the resulting marvel a “terran module,” the new war wagon had served the Executioner well since its first use during the New Orleans campaign. The basic structure was a 26-foot GMC motor home with a 455-cubic-inch Toronado engine and tandem rear wheels with airbag suspension. She served multiple functions, as home for the warrior, field headquarters, mobile command post, armory, electronics surveillance post, and battle cruiser. Mafia bucks from the war chest had built her, sure, but the only mortgage on this item of space-age technology was written in blood—and the repossession notice would have to be written the same way.

  Bolan arrived on the scene just a couple of beats behind the head party. There were nine of them, standard crew with standard arms—couple of choppers, couple of shotguns, the rest with sidearms only. They’d pulled their vehicle into some trees about fifty yards below the battle cruiser and were cautiously debarking when the Ferrari pulled up behind them. Bolan recognized the crew chief as a guy he’d glimpsed at the hotel in Pittsfield, one Eddie Rainbow, and Eddie was looking as though he’d found his own pot of gold. Literally, he had. A cool million bucks was awaiting the possessor of Mack Bolan’s head.