Sicilian Slaughter Read online

  Two men came next, throwing open the door and rolling in a wheeled stretcher, quickly closing the door behind them, snapping on the light. "Okay, Minnie. What the—"

  The soldier reached under his phony white hospital orderly coat and Bolan shot him between the eyes. He dived across the bed as the other man ducked low and pulled the stretcher over as a shield. Bolan pulled off three shots, spacing them along the length of the stretcher's underside. Both the second and third phutts from the silenced pistol brought screams of pain.

  That meant two down of a probable six, and maybe more.

  And Mack Bolan was trapped inside a hospital room five stories above ground. No going out the window here on sheets tied together, especially if the soldiers had been stationed properly. He'd be a target so easy, pasted against the wall, the soldiers would have time to send home for their wives to come share the victory.

  Bolan jumped back over the bed, jerked the stretcher aside, fell to his knees as the wounded soldier snapped off a shot Bolan felt clip through his hair. The blast resounded like a cannon shot in the small room, even loosening plaster and raising dust.

  Bolan shot the man through the bridge of the nose.

  He righted the stretcher, opened the door, heaved the first dead onto the punctured sheets, face down, then shoved the stretcher out into the hallway.

  They had both ways covered. Shots came from the right and the left, almost simultaneously. Bolan reached back and got the second dead, dragged him to the door, heaved him upright, then shoved him out.

  As the body toppled out into the hallway, shots came again.

  Bolan followed, squirming flat on his belly, as the shots at the dead man went high. He turned left, sighted and gutshot the soldier who stood like an old-time gunfighter, legs spread wide, arm thrust full-length, sighting. The man doubled in the middle, screaming, fell backwards, dropping his gun and holding his guts.

  Bolan rolled over twice, taking what cover the two dead men and the toppled stretcher afforded. A shot knocked a jagged hole in the tile floor four inches from Bolan's elbow. All along the hallway, patients screamed in terror. A nurse came rushing out of one room between Bolan and the live gunman, and the soldier used her as a shield to pop up and snap off a shot. The woman fell and Bolan thought she'd been hit, but she'd only fainted because he heard the crack overhead, then the bullet whacking into the wall.

  Mack Bolan had never killed an innocent person, never harmed one, nor any cop. He had, in fact, allowed himself to be shot by Leo Turrin's wife rather than kill her when she began pumping slugs at him from fifteen feet with a tiny .25 automatic back when The Executioner first declared war on the Mafia.

  But now....

  Maybe it had come to that point.

  If he tried to turn and run down the hallway toward the open end—where the gutshot soldier moaned continuously in pain—he left his back open for the other gunman. The hallway was too narrow for jinking, zigzagging with any real hope for success.

  With regret, Mack Bolan snapped off the last shots in the Beretta magazine to keep the gunman's head down, and at the same time undipped one of his grenades, pulled the pin, let the spoon fly, and with a swift, hard underhand snap-toss, skittered the frag down the hallway.

  He punched the button on the pistol, dropped the empty clip, pulled a full one from the leg pocket of his black combat suit and shoved it home, racked back the slide and chambered a round. He drew himself up into a coiled muscular readiness, and when the frag went in a thunderous roar of noise, dust, and whizzing shrapnel, Bolan charged.

  He was almost sick with relief when he reached the end of the hallway and found the grenade had gone off in to the stairwell and exploded between floors, and the only person hurt was the Mafia soldier who lay dead, his back shredded.

  Bolan went down the stairs at a full run. His only chance lay in total and complete surprise.

  He got past the fourth, then the third floor without interference, except for hospital personnel who kept trying to "capture" him, while screeching questions.

  As he broke loose and dropped free-fall five steps, then to the landing between the third and second floors, he came face to face with two gunmen. He hesitated only a fraction of a second, saw neither man wearing a police shield, then Bolan pumped two shots into each man, one, one, then one and one again, insurance.

  That was six, at least two more, the wheelmen, and somewhere down here Bolan knew the crew leader waited. Standard Operating Procedure, S.O.P., for Mafia hits, contracts. The crew leader never does the work himself except as a last resort. He uses young punks on the make, kids looking for a "sponsorship" into a Family, proving their worthiness by doing the dirty work. Sometimes they got paid off in lead, or concrete blankets, like Tenuto when he hit Schuster on Anastasia's orders.

  Noise no longer mattered, so as he charged out onto the ground floor, Mack holstered the Beretta and drew the huge silver .44 Automag. A security guard with drawn revolver stopped, mouth agape, started to bring his gun into action and Mack shot a hole in the floor three feet to the side of the guard's right foot. The thundering explosive power of the .44's muzzle blast and the shattered tile stinging his legs proved too much for the guard. He broke sideways, ducking low, and ran for cover.

  Mack went through the front door with such speed and power the doorframe sprung loose from its hinges. And then he was outside, in the dark, in the open where he could use his experience and cunning.

  Bolan saw the cars. They had been positioned well. One at each opposite corner, so the wheelmen could see a side and front, or the other side and back of the hospital. Just as Leo said. Bolan stopped in the dark shadows cast by the tall building, rested his shoulder against the brick, blew off one wheelman's head as the man opened the door and got out, gun in hand.

  Bolan ran for the car. As he crossed the street, the other car came rocketing around the corner, closing on him. Bolan dropped to his left knee, brought the Automag up and held it in both hands, and pumped three shots through the oncoming grillwork. The engine exploded and the car swerved, hit the curb, toppled over on its side, then rolled slowly over on its top.

  Bolan dragged the dead wheelman from the car at his side, got in and drove away.

  An hour later, Bolan stepped through the back door of a Village shop, attracted the attention of an elderly clerk, and a half-hour later emerged with a wardrobe somewhat more "fashionable" than suited his personal tastes; but he'd chosen the shop because the clerks were accustomed to freaks in such far-out clothing the gray-haired lady hardly looked at Bolan's black combat garb while outfitting him. Twenty minutes later, Bolan rented a shabby furnished room, slept until dawn, then hit the street again in his new clothes and found another shop which sold clothing of more conservative and nondescript styles. Here, Bolan completely outfitted himself, underwear outwards, for the long trip. Then he went to see a man about some papers.

  5: FLIGHT

  Captain Charles Teaf felt like an ass. Ten minutes ago he'd been inside the company office wishing like hell he could get a good charter, maybe to Cleveland or Chi. But it was probably raining both those places, too. Miami or Phoenix were too much to hope for, on this soggy wet day at Teterboro Airport, New Jersey. He had might as well wish for the friggin' moon, or another trip to Rome like he'd had ten days ago.

  That was ten minutes ago. He'd been grousing around the office, and hinting to Annabelle maybe they could slip back to the long-range jet, the one with seats on the starboard side aft that made down into a bunk, and rip off a little. But the gloomy day must have been working on her, too. She told him to go commit an impossible act with himself. As though she had some kind of treasure, saving it for the right guy.

  What a laugh. Forty, if she was a day, but she sometimes worked stew on charter jobs. The thing was, hardly anyone ever noticed her face. With tits like she had who cared? Throw a flag over the face and go for Old Glory. Just what the hell else she did, Captain Charles Teaf was not quite sure. A little typing, answered the
phone, spent a hell of a lot of time examining freight manifests, and when not in the office she was out walking the line, talking to guys and gals from the competition.

  That was ten minutes ago, when Teaf s mind was occupied with speculation upon whether Annabelle wore a 44D- or 42DD-cup bra. Now he had something important on his mind. Around aviation's somewhat incestuous circles, Captain Charles Teaf had an acknowledged reputation. The word was greedy. He would backshoot his nice little old gray-haired mother for a guaranteed profit.

  But Teaf found the man with the money rather frightening. A big, icy-eyed bastard with a bandage on his face who walked with a slight limp. And who insisted on such privacy that Captain Teaf stood outside in the goddam rain talking to him. Teaf's stiffly starched white shirt had turned to clammy glue against his skin, his fancy black shoulder boards with wide gold stripes dripped, and he knew the large wings above his left shirt pocket would need cleaning and polishing because they were brass, not gold.

  The thing was, the big bastard with the chilly eyes had a big fist full of money. But the guy had not let go of any of it yet. Teaf could hardly keep his eyes off the green. He knew it had to be some kind of smuggling job. That did not bother Teaf at all. He'd been there before. Except dope. Dope was too heavy. Dope was IN now, The Big Thing, with the feds, state and city and county cops, DAs; dope was Big, on TV, in the papers, so to hell with dope.

  Some creep might cave in his wife's skull for cheating on him and he'd hit the bricks an hour later on $1500 bond. Some college punk with a half-kilo of grass went so far back in the slammer they had to pipe air to him, $25,000 bond. So no dope, no matter how much money the big bastard offered.

  Christ, the big son of a bitch looked like he could snap a man in half with his bare hands, and he had a presence —brutal, as though he had cracked a few spines, crushed some ribs, snapped a neck or two.

  "Cut the crapping around and answer me," Bolan said. "What's the charter rate, long-range jet, to Italy?"

  The company would hang Teaf if he lied. "I can't kid you, mister. Or lie to you. Against company rules. Commercial carrier is cheaper."

  "If I wanted that, Teaf, I wouldn't be here."

  The big bastard fanned out the wad. If he had a dime he held twenty grand in those big hands. And how the hell does he come to know my name?

  "Okay, mister, I've told you. The airlines are cheaper. You dig?"

  "I dig. Talk to me."

  "I don't know what you want yet, so I can't quote a price firm."

  "Look, ace, I didn't come here to stand in the rain and bullshit. You dig?"

  Before Teaf could answer Bolan said, "I want a private, long-range jet charter to Naples. For starters. There may be more work. I can give you a ten grand deposit. Will that get you moving?"

  "Just one thing, mister. No dope. Absolutely nothing involving dope."

  "I ought to break your face."

  "Okay, okay, get hot, but just so you understand."

  "The ten Large do it?"

  "Well, depends on the party, baggage, freight if any, crew, maybe a particular kind of stew you want—" Teaf leered.

  "Get cute one more time, ace, and watch me vanish.

  This airport's full of grounded airplanes and non-flying pilots."

  "Deal!" Captain Teaf said fast.

  "Okay, I'm the only passenger. I have one crate of cargo and some personal baggage. No other crew. You alone."

  "When do you wish to leave, sir?"

  "I don't want the crate opened by Italian customs. That's why I came to you. It's not dope. You know that. Nobody carries crap from the outhouse to the bedroom, right?"

  "Can it sting me?"

  "Heavy, cap. That's what the bonus is for."

  "I've seen no bonus."

  Bolan peeled ten hundred-dollar bills from the wad and stuck them between the bottom two buttons of Teaf's shirt. He peeled another Large out and let Teaf have a look at it, then stuffed that inside the captain's shirt.

  "There's another three G after we get the crate past customs."

  Teaf nodded. "Like I said, deal." Teaf placed his hand on his belly and rubbed, feeling the green against his skin under his wilted shkt.

  "When do you want to depart, sir?"

  "Now."

  "You mean right now?"

  "Exactly."

  "No way, man."

  "Hand the bread back, ace."

  Teaf backed away. "Wait! I mean you need a passport, visa, innoculation certificates, all that stuff."

  "I've got them."

  "You ... have?"

  "My baggage and freight's ready to load."

  "Well, Jeez. I can't believe this. I mean only ten days ago I lucked out ... I mean a trip to Rome, some rush job for an oil company—"

  "So, what are you saying?"

  "Hell, man, I'm ready, too. I got all the papers. For myself and the aircraft. I mean, Jeez, it's like some kind of miracle, you know?"

  "Not exactly," Mack Bolan said. "I shopped around."

  It was the only way to go.

  As Mack Bolan had told the treacherous doctor: The Executioner did not go naked in the world, unarmed. Doing so invited certain death. The Mafia, the Outfit, the Organization, Cosa Nostra, whatever the media called it this week or today, still had a $100,000 bounty on Mack Bolan's head. Since he not only double, or was it triple-crossed them, sending their Wild Card's head back to them in a sack, maybe the ante had gone up.

  You get what you pay for.

  Pay cheap, get cheap.

  Blank check, expect the best. And have the right to demand it, by god!

  The Executioner knew the bounty had gone up. The sum he did not know, only that the Outfit would never stand for what he'd done, panic in Philly. Once more, he'd rigged it so the Families became involved in unremitting warfare against each other. The last thing in the universe they wanted.

  What am I worth to them now? Bolan wondered.

  A quarter mill?

  A half?

  The whole wad?

  One million dollars?

  Why not? Even the most conservative "experts" claim organized crime milks the U.S. public of $40 billion a year. A billion is a thousand million.

  "I can't think," Bolan wrote in his journal, "of figures that size. They are an endless number of zeroes to me, unreal, meaningless, and yet actual. Nickles, dimes, quarters, dollars, entire paychecks, into hock, into shylocking, vigorish, trapped, becoming prostitutes, numbers runners, pimps, drug pushers."

  Bolan had been there.

  He had a dead father, and mother, and sister, and maimed brother to show for it. And a girl he loved that he dared not go near, for fear he might be followed.

  Once already the bastards had kidnapped his brother Johnny, and Valentina. To get them back alive, he blitzed Boston—a real old-fashioned lightning war, and eventually exposed a man in the highest possible influential circles, social and governmental, as just one more asshole.

  That's what the cops called criminals. Assholes.

  Mack Bolan could think of no better or more descriptive word, when he really thought about what happened around that particular area of the human anatomy.

  Of course, Bolan had expected his documents source to betray him, after his experience with Dr. Wight Byron.

  Strangely, that had gone off with remarkable smoothness. Bolan wondered if it had been too smoothly. Thinking back, he wondered if he'd covered himself well enough, asking not only for the impeccably forged passport, but visas to France, Switzerland, and Algeria.

  Despite the dollar devaluation, most countries in Europe still eagerly sought the good old U.S. greenback and American tourism, and therefore required no visa whatever: Ireland, England, West Germany, Spain, Holland and Denmark.

  They made it hell for a phony to prove up his bona fides.

  Maybe the smoothness of his documentation had gone so well because the gut-hollowing footsteps in the parking lot had been those of Leo Turrin. And Mack Bolan knew that backing Leo stood roc
k-solid Bragnola, and, possibly, Persicone.

  Bolan could not bring himself to trust most FBI agents, despite the individual behavior of Persicone when panic went through Philly like sand through a tin horn. FBI types were too ambitious. And Mack knew they'd turn on their own kind—other agents, local cops, deputies, state policemen—and nail their hides to the barn wall for "civil rights violations."

  Given a million years, Mack Bolan could think of no man who violated more "civil rights" than he did himself in his declared war against organized crime. He was arresting officer, booking desk officer, judge, jury, and Executioner.

  About the only thing he did not do, in the Bureau's Book, was whip niggers over the head with pickhandles like guards in some prisons did. Mack never used that word.

  The charter flight was the only way Mack Bolan could have gone.

  His crate would never have passed U.S. Customs export control. Nor would it have passed the regular, scheduled airline customs in Italy.

  But more important than that, Mack had carefully checked out the new antihijacking security procedures at La Guardia and JFK. He saw no possible way he to bypass them while carrying his silencer-equipped Beretta and .44 Automag; and he was not about to enter Don Cafu's ballpark unprepared.

  If he played it tight, cool, smart, and had plenty of luck to back him, Bolan knew he'd get one good swing at the first pitch.

  And that son of a bitch would be a low outside curve, sure as God made little green apples!

  He settled back into the deep cushions of the chartered private jet and tried to get some rest. It would be a long flight.

  6: ANNABELLE

  Annabelle Caine had worked with and for the Mafia since she was fifteen years old. For the first two years she had not been aware who her employer was. Having excessively matured quite early, she won a beauty contest in her Ohio hometown. That same night the grinning master of ceremonies placed a rhinestone "crown" upon her blonde head, Annabelle learned the price of success. The emcee introduced her to a terribly handsome, mature, swarthy, impeccably tailored individual named Vito Rapace, head judge of the contest. Vito asked permission of Annabelle's widowed star-struck mother to take the lovely young winner out on the town, show her off. He hinted broadly about Hollywood connections. Annabelle would have gone no matter what her mother said. It was simply convenient and time-saving that mother said, "Yes, Mr. Rapace!"