Jersey Guns Read online

  “Later, just the same,” he murmured.

  “Mack Bolan, I believe you’re a hopeless prude,” she told him. She leaned across the bunk and pulled the sheet away from him, all the way, fastidiously folding it at his feet.

  This, Bolan was thinking, was where he’d come in.

  Except that now there was not even a towel to protect his sense of modesty.

  This was, however, very obviously no time for modesty.

  Sara was removing her dress, carefully folding it with the same studied movements with which she’d handled the bedsheet. She laid the dress atop the packing crate that Bolan was using as a night stand, then went to the window for a quick peek outside.

  “Am I ready for this?” he asked her, feeling silly with the words even as they left his mouth.

  “I don’t know about you,” she replied, turning to him with a solemn smile. “But I sure am.”

  “Well, hell …”

  Sara was removing her bra as she retraced the path to Bolan’s bunk. It was odd, he was thinking, how clothing made some girls look so underdeveloped when in fact they were not … like this one. She was beautifully put together. The breasts were on the delicate side, but perfectly formed, stiffish, and tightly packed—incredibly glossy.

  She put the bra with the dress, then hooked both thumbs into the waistband of her panties and just stood there gazing at him with those limpid eyes.

  She seemed frozen there, suddenly, the panties ever so slightly lowered, a statue in glowing flesh tones.

  Bolan noticed, then, that those hands were trembling. He took one in his and told her, “Be sure you know what you’re doing. This is very probably your last chance to back out.”

  “You’re not helping a bit,” she protested faintly in a wobbly voice. “I rehearsed and rehearsed. Had it all figured out—what I’d say, what you’d say—and you’re not doing it.”

  He said, “No rehearsals needed, Sara. Not if this is what you truly want.”

  She cried, “Oh, God, I do!” And with that she broke down completely, hiding her face in her hands and bawling her heart out.

  He pulled her on down with him, and gently made room for her, and consoled her with loving touches and reassuring words, and she very quickly became fully a woman in his arms as each to their own need they found that special healing which somehow seems to justify the pains of the world.

  And, some time later, Bolan admiringly told her, “You were right, Sara. You’re sure no kid.”

  They lay in slack embrace and talked of various things for quite a while—serious things, silly things, man-woman things—and after they’d run out of words they simply clung to each other in a silent communion outside of time.

  Later he donned the black suit for her pleased inspection, then left it on as they snuggled into another quiet mood.

  Somewhere along toward early afternoon, Bolan fell into a deep sleep. It was probably his most peaceful rest in weeks, and he did not know when Sarah left.

  He awoke with a start, alone, with the sun low in the sky and perfectly framed in his window—and with some animal comprehension of danger.

  There had been an outcry from down by the house—a human cry or shout or something—coming in right at the edge of his consciousness, but weakly commanding attention.

  He carried the AutoMag to the window and gazed down upon the familiar scene, normally so tranquil.

  This time, though, the view sent combat hormones leaping into his bloodstream and coursing immediately to every reach of his system.

  A strange vehicle was parked in the drive, near the house. Two guys in fancy silk threads were down there in open view, standing beside the car. One of them was holding a door open, and the other was trying to force a grimly struggling Sara Henderson into the vehicle.

  It was one of those sudden-confrontation situations that allow for no combat brief, no tactical planning, no exercise of the intellect whatsoever. And it was sheer conditioned reflex of the combat sense that sent the AutoMag crashing through that flimsy pane of glass, that lined up those doomsday sights, that squeezed the fist that closed the switch that sent 240 grains of screaming death sizzling across that forty-yard range to the target.

  The big magnum bullet tore past within inches of that lovely face he’d kissed so tenderly such a short while ago and thwacked home between two startled eyes with what Sara would later describe as “a horrible sucking sound.”

  Even as that first round was impacting target, the big silver hogleg was roaring another angry bellow, and missile number two was annihilating another firetrack; the dude at the car door found himself with an inexplicably exploding throat, and the two of them died hardly a gasp apart.

  Sara had collapsed onto her knees. She was kneeling there in the gore surrounding her, hands clasped in her lap, looking up at him and screaming something unintelligible.

  She had quieted down somewhat by the time he reached her, but she was still kneeling there between those two citations of sudden death, and her first anguished words for the Executioner were: “No, Mack, God, no, you shouldn’t have! Now they’ve found you!”

  He plucked her out of there and steered her toward the house as he replied to that.

  “They have,” he said icily. “The hard way.”

  4 THE MESSAGE

  He gave her brandy and scrubbed the blood spatterings from that beloved flesh as she chatteringly related the happening for his interested ears.

  The two mafiosi had barged in and searched the house, for the third time that week. They’d even checked the dirty laundry, counted toothbrushes in the bathroom, and pawed through the garbage cans.

  The younger one had been ordered to search the outbuildings, but according to Sara, he’d done no more than stroll nervously about the grounds and peer warily through partially open doorways.

  Then the big one had started pushing Sara about and trying to scare her with broad hints about the penalty “for harboring fugitives.”

  They’d tried to pass themselves off as “detectives.”

  It proved to be Sara’s undoing.

  She unloaded a pile of outrage upon them and finished off by denouncing them as “two-bit hoods.”

  Apparently it had seemed to the boys that she protested too much.

  They decided to “take her downtown” for “further questioning,” and that was where Bolan entered the scene.

  He was damned glad he had.

  There was seldom any return from those “trips downtown” with the Taliferi.

  He asked Sara, “The big guy seemed to be in charge?”

  She replied, “Uh-huh.”

  “Was his name ever mentioned? What was he called?”

  “Hugger. Yes, he called him Hugger.”

  Bolan showed her a thin smile and said, “Great. Now, let’s get the voice. Where was it pitched? Here? Here?”

  He was giving her a scale of probabilities, and she stopped him at about middle C.

  “Good girl. This could be important, so let’s make sure we get it right. How about tonal quality? Did he talk like this?” He’d offered her an example of a nasal sound; then he tried her with a grating foghorn: “Or more like this?”

  Sara was shaking her head and watching him with growing interest, thoroughly captivated by the virtuoso performance. He finally satisfied her on the basics, then went into accent and diction.

  He was speaking with both lips stiffened and the chin nearly frozen when she nodded and whispered, “Yes, yes, that’s him!”

  Holding that same voice, he suggested, “But not exactly, right? Right, chick? There’s no personality in this voice, is there? I mean—”

  “Whine a little,” she excitedly suggested. “Not overmuch, but sort of … sort of frustrated and mad at the same time, but you’re trying to keep it under control.”

  “Right. Right, dolly. Whatta I got to do, honey, kick the hell right outta you? Is that what you want?”

  Sara shivered. Her eyes dropped, and she told him, “That’
s just too real for comfort.”

  Bolan was guessing that it was no more than an approximation—but that was all most people heard, anyway. Something notable, something to hang an imperfect perception onto—it was that natural human frailty which made Bolan’s masquerades possible.

  She was asking him, “But what … why do you need …?”

  He told her, “Come and see.”

  They returned to the outside, and Sara stood stiffly in the drive, pointedly ignoring the crumpled bodies at her feet, as Bolan leaned into the vehicle and came out holding a microphone.

  He smiled at her as he depressed the mike button, pulled on his “Hugger” face, and started his act. “Hey! Wake up!” he snarled.

  A voice responded immediately from somewhere beneath the dashboard. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Little Red Riding Hood,” Bolan replied nastily. “Skipping merrily through the goddamn countryside. Who the hell you think it is?”

  “What you got, Hugger?”

  Bolan tossed the girl a salute as he replied, “What does it sound like I got?”

  “Okay, it’s the same everywhere. Boss says go on to the next place. Waitaminnit! Hold it!”

  Bolan told Sara in his own voice, “Maybe I blew it.”

  The other voice returned a moment later. “Okay, Hugger. Just got a report on th’other net. That farmer’s on his way back, just came off the turnpike at Hightstown. We want you to stay there and check ’im out.”

  “What for?” Bolan/Hugger snarled back. “Smuggling chickenshit back into Jersey?”

  “Boss says we check ’im coming and going, Hugger.”

  Bolan grimly smiled at Sara and replied, “Okay, but I think I’ll meet ’im on the way. Gettin’ dark soon. I don’t wanta be out here in the dark with a daylight crew.”

  “Sure. Whatever makes you feel safe, Hugger.”

  It was a sarcastic sign-off.

  Bolan was smiling coldly when he returned the microphone to its clip. He took the keys from the ignition and went around to open the trunk.

  The girl followed him, questions in her eyes. “What was that all about?” she wanted to know.

  “It’s called covering tracks,” he informed her. “When these boys come down missing in action, we don’t want their buddies beginning the search here, do we?”

  She soundlessly framed the reply “No” and moved out of his way as Bolan began the unpleasant task of stowing limp bodies and cleaning up gory evidence from the driveway. That job completed, he banged the lid on his cooling cargo, got into the car, and moved it to a place of concealment behind one of the sheds.

  As he strode back to the house, he felt the spring returning to his step, and he knew that his combat quickness was settling in on him again.

  He was healed and ready for battle.

  Almost ready.

  Sara was waiting in the precise spot where he’d left her.

  In a small voice she asked him, “What now, Mr. Bolan?”

  “Now, love,” he replied quietly, “we wait for the farmer. And his precious cargo from Manhattan.”

  The sun was disappearing into a red veil of smaze along the western horizon when Bruno Tassily wheeled his live-produce transporter with its empty cages into the farmyard.

  The girl fled to her brother’s arms and allowed herself a few luxurious tears as she greeted him; then she backed away, gave Bolan a somewhat embarrassed gaze, and ran into the house to quit that man’s world for a while.

  The men shook hands, and Bolan asked the big fellow, “How’d it go?”

  “Directly on your numbers, Sarge,” Bruno reported with a tired grin. “The stuff is in the tool well.”

  “Get it all?”

  “Yeah. Uh, that Meyer boy … you didn’t tell me. He’s a double amputee. But, hell, he—”

  “Yeah, he does all right, doesn’t he?” Bolan said quietly.

  “Like gangbusters, that’s all. Uh, he gave me a message for you. Says business is booming all of a sudden, the past few days. Selling to guys he never heard of before. Says the word’s out all over town. They’re recruiting guys right off the damn street corners. And he’s having a run on guns like he never had before.”

  Bolan was smiling, but only with his lips. “Guns for Jersey, eh?”

  “That’s the impression Meyer has. He thinks they’re fielding an army over here. And listen. I contacted that other friend of yours, too. He says … well, wait till we get inside. I have it written down.”

  They had moved on to the rear of the truck. Bruno was unlocking the tool compartment and ogling Bolan’s black suit, apparently having just taken note of it. “Where’d you get that?” he asked.

  “Sara made it,” Bolan told him. “Quite a gal.”

  “You’ll never know,” Bruno said admiringly. “Sara has talents she hasn’t even discovered yet.”

  Bolan could have told the big Romanian that his sister had discovered one or two that very day. Instead he said, “We had an incident, Bruno. Pretty unnerving for Sara. I had to shoot a couple of guys off her back. They’re over behind your equipment shed, with their car. I’ll be moving it away from here when it gets dark.”

  The big guy merely blinked his eyes at Bolan and began removing tools from the compartment. Then he got down to the part that counted, and Bolan began taking delivery of his new arsenal, checking it piece by piece as it came forth, grunting now and then with satisfaction over a particular item.

  It required ten minutes to transfer the stuff to the shed. When they finally got into the house, Sara had coffee wailing, and the three of them sat at a small table near a window that provided an excellent view onto the roadway out front.

  Bolan reminded his host about the “other message,” and Bruno hastily whipped out a small notebook and began flipping the pages while the man in black quietly loaded clips with big ugly rounds of .44 magnum ammunition.

  “Yeah, here it is,” Bruno announced. “You’d never make it out. I better read it for you.”

  The message was from Leo Turrin, Bolan’s secret comrade since almost the beginning of this war on the Mafia. Turrin was an underboss in a Massachusetts arm of the mob. He also was an undercover federal agent. Bolan scratched Leo’s back, and he scratched Bolan’s—in every way possible, and always at fantastic jeopardy to the man with the double life. It seemed as though it had been just days ago that the two of them had collaborated on Bolan’s hazardous assignment in Philly. And then Leo had come in when Bolan needed his cooperation to accomplish the job in Sicily.

  Stumbling as he deciphered his own notes, Bruno reported his conversation with Leo Turrin thus:

  “He says you should lie low, don’t move, don’t even breathe hard. Federal marshals and state troopers are watching every highway and all public transportation facilities. Uh, and, yeah, he says to avoid all urban areas like the plague, especially, uh, the Jersey City and Newark areas. Cruise, uh … oh, he must have said crews … crews are coming down from all around the Northeast to plug Jersey solidly. They smell your blood. Know you’re wounded and grounded somewhere. They’re moving in for the kill. Says if you have to move, then move toward the sea. Long Beach, Asbury Park, that area. But even there you should count every grain of sand before you trust your foot to it. Uh … Marinello? Is that …? Marinello is personally running the show. He takes it very personal what you did in Philly, as well as Sicily.”

  The big guy raised quizzical eyes to Bolan. “Who is Marinello?”

  “Boss of all the bosses,” Bolan said quietly.

  Bruno shivered and took a quick sip of coffee before resuming the reading.

  “He’s got rolling command posts all over the area. Radio-equipped, with the smartest enforcers in his outfit personally directing the operations. Mike, uh, Talifero? … is also out somewhere in Jersey with a, uh, posse of headhunters, swearing to get you, or else he’s not ever coming back.”

  Bolan chuckled at that, a chilling sound which momentarily clouded Sara’s eyes.

&nbs
p; “He says to give yourself a ‘well done’ for Philadelphia. The whole Angeletti family has fallen apart, or else at each other’s throats, or else running clear out of the state. But he says to stay clear of Philly for now. The feds are looking for you to fall back in that direction, and they’re primed and waiting for you to show.”

  Bolan lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into his hands.

  “Also he said be sure to give you this report on Frank the Kid. Who’s Frank the Kid, Sarge?”

  “The heir to old man Angeletti’s throne,” Bolan explained.

  “Well, not anymore. Here’s what your guy said. Tell the Sarge that Frank the Kid was executed less than one hour after his arrival in New York. He got there with the wrong head.”

  The wondering eyes came up again to lock onto Bolan’s expressionless gaze. “What does that mean? The wrong head?”

  “He thought he had mine,” Bolan said.

  “Oh.”

  Sara quietly excused herself and hurried out of the room.

  Bruno nervously shuffled the pages of his notebook and said, “That’s it.”

  “Thanks,” Bolan said. “Bruno, you’re a hell of a guy.”

  “Forget Bruno,” the Romanian replied in a very subdued voice. “What are you? How can you sit there all calm like that? Don’t you know what I’ve just been telling you?”

  “I know.”

  “You haven’t a chance. Not a chance in a million.”

  “Guess I’ll have to make one, Bruno.”

  “I … I know you can if anyone can, but …”

  Bolan sighed, squeezed the big man’s shoulder, and went to find Sara.

  She was on the porch, arms folded across her bosom, staring morosely at the spot in the drive where she had been a close bystander to sudden and violent death.

  He came up behind her and put his arms about her. “Don’t let it bug you,” he said, speaking softly with his lips at her ear.

  “Why not?” she replied with a strangled little sigh. “That was no message. It was a sentence of death.”

  “I’ve had them before,” he pointed out. “And I’m still here.”

  “Just barely.” She sniffed.