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  "Watch him?"

  "Partly protection. Partly because some people think he may be contacted by a guy named Bolan. We've got a few guys on the job more interested in getting Bolan than in rescuing Gina Claw."

  "No idea where she is?"

  Campbell shook his head. "No idea. No contact. No nothin'."

  "What did they find out?" Coppolo asked. "I mean by interrogating Kruger."

  "She was snatched off the street. An old guy collapsed against the fender of a car, and when Kruger and Gina went to help him, he pulled a gun on them. Then the driver of the car shoved another gun in their faces. They got in the car, where there was still another guy. The old man walked away. The other two handcuffed them and drove off."

  "Descriptions?"

  "The old man was probably Natale Plumeri. The other two descriptions could fit anybody."

  "Plumeri's dead," Bolan told him.

  "You guys?"

  Bolan shook his head. "Dead when we got there. Together with a young family who lived in the next apartment."

  "Not reported yet, I don't think," Campbell said. "I… Hell, I can't call it in. Somebody'd have to know how I found out."

  "I want to talk to Kruger," Bolan said.

  * * *

  Kruger paced his room. He couldn't sleep; he hadn't even tried. A dozen times he'd called the number the detective gave him to ask whether there was any word. They'd lost patience with him and asked him not to call, repeating firmly their promise that they'd call as soon as they had even a scrap of information. And no, right now they didn't have a thing. There'd been no word. Not a ransom demand. Nothing.

  He guessed they suspected him, some way. He didn't think they believed everything he'd told them. He was angry as well as frantic. Bolan — Damn Bolan! Why didn't he call? Or come? Or did he even know Gina had been kidnapped?

  A knock on the door. What the hell? He opened it.

  "Hey, I didn't order…"

  The woman with the breakfast tray pushed her way past him and into the room. "Shut the door," she said curtly. "I've only got a minute."

  "Who the hell…?"

  He pulled off his blond wig for a moment, then he put it back on. "Joe Coppolo," he said. He was wearing a waitress uniform. The disguise was perfect.

  "Mack wants to see you. So you do like I tell you. Now, listen."

  Ten minutes later Eric Kruger walked out on the street. He followed instructions; he didn't look around to see the two detectives who would be following him. A cab was waiting at the curb, the Off Duty sign lit. He opened the door and got in. The cab sped off.

  "Jack of all trades," Coppolo announced, looking over his shoulder. He had rid himself of the waitress uniform but was still a woman, now a cabdriver wearing a baseball cap over the blond wig. "Don't look back. They aren't following yet, but they'll try. If I get stuck in traffic, they might catch up."

  Coppolo whipped the taxi through traffic as if he'd been driving a New York cab all his life. He drove a circuitous route until he was satisfied that they had shaken the two detectives. Then he headed east, for Third Avenue, where he soon turned the cab over to another driver — Saul Stein.

  Bolan was waiting in a rented black Ford. "Talk," he demanded as soon as Kruger was seated beside him. "Every detail."

  Kruger repeated his story, everything he had told the NYPD detectives three times over.

  "Again."

  "Man, I…"

  "Again. Every little detail you can possibly remember. What'd they look like? What kind of car did they take you in?"

  "The car was a red sports job. A real bomb. Cost fifty thousand bucks if it cost a nickel."

  Bolan pulled to the curb half a block farther on. "Joe, go in there and buy a couple of car magazines. We're going to see if we can find a picture of this vehicle."

  When Coppolo came out with half a dozen magazines, Bolan dropped them on Kruger's lap and told him to start thumbing through. They drove nowhere in particular, just kept moving, while Kruger searched.

  "Okay," he said finally. "Like that. The car looked a lot like that."

  Bolan stared for a moment at the picture Kruger was showing him. "Yeah," he said grimly. He turned and spoke to Coppolo in the back seat. "A red Maserati."

  * * *

  The doorman on duty in the lobby of DePrisco's apartment building presented a small problem. Bolan solved it by having Kruger go in first and offer the man twenty dollars to come outside and help him change a tire. The man accepted eagerly, and while he and Kruger jacked up the rented car and replaced the tire Coppolo had just deflated, Bolan and the Justice agent slipped into the building and took the elevator to the third floor.

  Coppolo was dressed as a man now, in a dark brown suit and a straw hat. The Browning rode in the harness under his jacket. Bolan was in a suit, as well, and carried the Beretta in harness, the Desert Eagle in his briefcase.

  The next problem was DePrisco's two bodyguards. The first man dropped under a quick, hard shot from Bolan's fist. The second one jerked a gun out of its holster and fell from a shot to the throat from Bolan's silenced Beretta.

  Johnny DePrisco was asleep, sprawled across his bed in a pair of red slingshot underpants. Bolan grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against the wall. As he rose to his knees, shaking his head, wondering what had happened, the warrior wrapped a hard arm around the guy's neck and began to apply pressure.

  "Starting to get the idea?" Bolan growled.

  DePrisco gasped and moaned, and tried to focus his eyes. "Hey, don't…" he muttered. "Wha' th' hell?"

  Bolan jammed the muzzle of the Beretta against DePrisco's temple. "Where is she, Johnny?" he asked.

  "Who? Where's who?"

  "Who do you think, Johnny?" Bolan snarled. "Let's suppose you just tell us where somebody is. Somebody you think we might be interested in."

  "You've got just one little chance, DePrisco," Coppolo added. "If we get the girl back alive, you might — you just might — make it. Otherwise… Well, you can figure. And we won't let it be easy. I hate animals like you. It won't bother me at all to work on you for a long time."

  DePrisco's eyes were wide with fear. He sucked breath and swallowed in a dry mouth. "Cape Cod…" he whispered. "Provincetown."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carmine Samenza telephoned Joe Rossi in Chappaqua a little after noon.

  "What word have you got?" he asked gruffly.

  "What word? No word. I'm waiting for word."

  "I got word. It ain't the word you're waiting for. Somebody blew Plumeri last night. And that ain't all. They came for me, too. it was a mistake. Not only did we get one of the guys, but who he was tells us for sure who sent him."

  "Natale…?" Rossi mumbled. He felt genuine shock at the loss of the old capo. "Who? How?"

  "Listen to me, Joe," Samenza growled. "We dropped a guy last night. Early this morning, actually. Guess who? Augie Karas. He worked for Arturo Corone, then Phil, now for Angela. No question about it, Angela Corone tried to hit me last night."

  "Then who hit Natale? Angela or Bolan?"

  "I don't know. But I'll give you a hint. McGrory tells me they worked the old boy over before they killed him."

  "To find out where we were sending the Indian girl!"

  "Yeah. Why else? So that means one thing," Samenza said. "Plumeri told somebody about his summer house on Cape Cod, and that somebody knows where your Mohawk woman is. Either Angela or Bolan. And either way, you got trouble."

  "Segesta…"

  "Segesta is holed up out on Staten Island. He's turned that place of his into a fort, called in half his guys to protect him."

  "How many men can you send me?" Rossi asked.

  "Send where?"

  "To Cape Cod."

  "Joe, I ain't sendin' nobody to Cape Cod. What I'm gonna do is send some guys to get rid of Angela. This is the end of the Corone Family, Joe. I didn't want war, but if that's what Angela wants, she's got it."

  "Carmine, what about Bolan? What about t
he plan to take Bolan?"

  Rossi understood that the brief moment of silence on the line was the time Samenza was taking to shrug.

  "Carmine?"

  Samenza spoke with cool precision. "Bolan's not my problem, Joe. The way I run my territory, the way Segesta runs his, Bolan would never have come to New York. You got Bolan for us — you and Luca Barbosa. So you take care of him. Barbosa might have helped you. But you had him killed. In a way, I don't blame you. Even Phil Corone might have helped you — temporarily, though what he really wanted was your ass. But you whacked him. too. Hey. Bolan's not after me. He's on your case, not mine."

  "But, Carmine…"

  "I wish you good luck, Joe. And if you want to have any, you better get out to where you got that woman boxed up. It's gonna come down hard out there, Bolan or Angela, and you got no capo on the scene. For once, my boy, you can't be 'Clean' Joe. You're going to have to get your hands dirty on this one."

  "You're right, Carmine," Rossi said somberly. "And no hard feelings. I see your point."

  "You can't afford to lose, Joe. You're playing for the big pot."

  * * *

  Joe Rossi and Salina Beaudreau arrived at Westchester County Airport less than half an hour after Samenza's telephone call.

  For almost the first time in his life, Rossi was carrying a gun. He didn't know much about guns, and this one had been given to him years ago and had remained hidden in a closet in his home in Chappaqua, wrapped in the shoulder holster in which he now carried it. It was a Government Model.45 Colt and it felt heavy under his left arm. He didn't know how he would handle it if, God forbid, he had to.

  Salina was comfortable with her weapons. She knew a great deal more about them, and she had selected for this job the iron she thought would most likely be helpful. The breakdown rifle with scope and explosive ammunition rode snugly in a leather briefcase. For her chief pistol she had chosen a Glock 17, an ugly 9 mm automatic. Ungainly as it was in appearance, it carried sixteen rounds in the clip and one in the chamber, and it was determinedly reliable. She was wearing a black paratrooper's suit that had plenty of pockets for extra ammo, a knife and some other things she might need.

  In a holster strapped to her leg, she carried a Baby Browning — just in case. In one of her pockets she had two watertight packages, one containing a hundred thousand dollars in cash, the other containing a forged British passport and twenty-five pounds sterling — also, just in case.

  Two Rossi soldiers had gone to the airport ahead of them. They were loading suitcases into the Lear jet as the Rossi Cadillac drove up to the gate at CEO Aviation. The pilots didn't know what was in the suitcases, but Salina did — she had packed them. They contained four Uzis and plenty of extra magazines.

  The chartered jet lifted off, climbed, and turned northeast. It was small enough to land on the short, rough runway at Provincetown, and fast enough to be there in half an hour.

  * * *

  Bolan watched the waters of Great Peconic Bay slipping smoothly under them at what seemed like high speed, but he knew it wasn't. The helicopter was making a hundred ten knots maybe — not much more. Low altitude gave the illusion of high speed. He glanced at Kruger. The young man obviously knew what he was doing. He was a pro helicopter pilot, but he couldn't coax another ten knots out of this little chopper.

  Getting their hands on the little ship had taken some doing — a call to Brognola, some calls around Washington by Brognola and finally a call from the White House. With that — half an hour after the process began — the Federal Bureau of Narcotics had reluctantly handed over to Sensitive Operations Group, in the person of Joe Coppolo, one equipped and fueled Bell helicopter without agency markings.

  Bolan sat in the right seat, beside Kruger. He had a little helicopter time and could have taken over if an emergency required it. In the two seats behind were Joe Coppolo and Johnny DePrisco.

  DePrisco remained terrified. He knew something even Bolan didn't know — that after they had bound up the second bodyguard in DePrisco's apartment and dumped him in a closet, Joe Coppolo had made sure of his keeping quiet by slugging him hard over the head with the barrel of his Browning. Bolan hadn't seen, nor had he heard the sickening crunch, but DePrisco had seen and heard; Coppolo had made sure of that.

  Johnny DePrisco, hands cuffed behind his back, squirmed occasionally to relieve the tension on his cramped shoulders but otherwise kept quiet.

  * * *

  Sitting in the cabin of the jet, Joe Rossi had no sense of the feat of airmanship the two charter pilots performed in putting the Lear down on the short, narrow, windswept runway at Provincetown. He and Salina stayed in the jet on the ramp while one of the hardmen went in and called the house. All four passengers sat and waited until the car pulled up beside the airplane. Then they got out with their equipment, and were driven to the house.

  Rossi spoke to the two Plumeri soldiers. He told them that Plumeri had been murdered and who had murdered him. "We think she'll probably show up here with some guys. That's why I brought my people with me."

  One of the two soldiers was named Malatesta. He was a beefy but hard-muscled man. His eyes kept shifting past Rossi, to Salina Beaudreau. "Who's the broad?" he asked.

  Rossi glanced at Salina to be sure she hadn't heard Malatesta and wouldn't hear his reply. "Don't let her hear you be so disrespectful. She'll put your lights out."

  Malatesta stared at her for a moment. "Hey, is she the hitter who took care of Grieco? And the lawyer at Kennedy Airport?"

  Rossi nodded.

  "I'll explain that to O'Brien," Malatesta said, nodding toward the other Plumeri soldier, a young redhead with a pale, freckled face.

  Rossi knew he could trust Malatesta. Plumeri had recommended the big, bearish man. But he had warned him about O'Brien, cautioning that he wasn't one hundred percent stable and had a streak of sadism in him.

  He knew he could trust Salina, too. He hadn't made up his mind as to what he would have to do about her. The Commission wanted her dead, and probably there was no way to avoid having to dispose of her. For now she was an important gun.

  His own two men, the dark, short, saturnine Appiano and the tall, bald cynical Uccello, were completely trustworthy. They expected big rewards from this day's work, and they were ready to take risks to get them.

  Rossi looked in on Gina Claw. She sat unhappily on a bed and had been staring out the window when Rossi opened the door. Her appearance was incongruous — stylish black minidress with dark stockings and shiny black shoes, and the chain around her ankle. She looked haggard.

  Salina stepped into the doorway beside Rossi.

  "You!" Gina shrieked.

  "I think she knows me," Salina remarked dryly as she walked away from the door.

  Rossi closed the bedroom door and walked out onto the front porch that faced the breakers fifty yards away. The house was half a mile off the highway, reached by driving a sandy track through dunes and thin salt grass. Anyone approaching from any direction would be seen a hundred yards away. The six of them, heavily armed, should be able to fend off whatever Angela Corone might bring.

  Bolan… Well, he didn't know. The stories were that when the Executioner attacked, you were in big trouble no matter what you had to use against him.

  But it wasn't likely Bolan would show up. He didn't know about this place.

  Salina came out and stood beside him. She lit a cigarette. "Beautiful place."

  Rossi nodded. "I expect she'll try some trick," he said. "I mean, Angela will say she wants to talk or something like that. Then she'll…"

  "Relax. I'll have her in my sights."

  * * *

  Kruger took off again after refueling on Nantucket Island. He didn't climb above two thousand feet. The little helicopter swept across Nantucket Sound, over a fleet of fishing boats working the fertile fishing grounds south of Monomoy Point. It crossed the Cape beach at South Yarmouth, crossed the Cape in less than five minutes, and flew north over Cape Cod Bay.

&n
bsp; "I swear I don't know, guys!" DePrisco whimpered. "I've never been to the place. All I know is what I heard them say, that they'd land her at Provincetown and the place wasn't ten minutes from the airport. And they talked about it being isolated, so nobody'd notice she was there. That's all I know."

  Most of the land on the northern hook of Cape Cod was within the Cape Cod National Seashore, so the number of private homes on the beachfront was severely limited. Even so, as the chopper approached Provincetown, Bolan could see a dozen or more possibles.

  Isolated, DePrisco had said. Yeah. Some of the houses were isolated, with the breakers crashing in front and low sand dunes rising behind. People walked along the shore, but the houses sat some distance back. They had their privacy all right. Also, they had good views and fields of fire. You couldn't just walk up to one of them.

  * * *

  Angela pointed, and Sandy Mac pulled the Cadillac into a small gasoline station at Truro. She got out of the car and walked into the little office, where an elderly man sat on a stool behind a dusty glass showcase stocked with cigarettes and candy.

  "Hi," she said brightly. "Nice day."

  The old man appraised the coarse, brassy woman who had come into his station. He noticed the sneering twist of her lips and noticed, too, that her blue jeans were much too tight for her ample hips. He nodded.

  "I'm looking for the house of a friend of mine," she said. "Thought you might be able to help me."

  "Who?" he asked.

  "His name is Natale Plumeri. Man of about seventy. Know him?"

  "Guess so. Yeah. Mr. Plumeri."

  "Right," Angela said, trying to hide her impatience. "Can you tell me where he lives?"

  "Yeah. Prob'ly can. Mr. Plumeri. Umm-hmm. He's not home."

  "Yes, he is," she contradicted. "He flew up this time. Landed at Provincetown early this morning."

  "Flew, huh? Well… He plannin' on goin' fishin'?"