Satan’s Sabbath Page 4

  “He’s headed for the grass!” the wheelman warned.

  Salerno flung his hand at the rear gunner and yelled, “Open fire!”

  It was the last thing any of them heard, for a while. The chatter of the Uzi was magnified tenfold within the tightly enclosed environment of that armored vehicle, battering the ears and assaulting all the senses with the near-unbearable racket.

  But Salerno could see all right. He could see the line of holes sprouting in that hot little car alongside, could see window-glass shattering, could see the flash of red arcing away as the Ferrari plunged into the park and ran ahead, then came back around broadside, passenger side to.

  For an instant, then—for one terrible, heart-stopping instant, all Joe Salerno could see was the golfball-size barrel blowing flame from that window, a flame which magnified instantly to engulf his own windshield in a fiery mushroom.

  And that, probably, was the last thing Joe Salerno saw.

  It was a long shot, he knew—certainly not an odds play with which any thinking man would be comfortable. But he also knew that winning plays, in this kind of game, were not necessarily the cautious ones.

  He saw the snout of the Uzi projecting from the gunport and knew that he would have to run a gauntlet of murderous fire, at almost point-blank range. That was not comforting. He knew, also, that a close-range attack with explosives would likely produce more damage to himself than to those others—and that was even less comforting.

  So how do you successfully attack a rolling, armored vehicle which is harder than anything you have to throw at it?

  The answer to that was both obvious and simple.

  In such a situation, you do not attack the vehicle. You attack, instead, those human systems inside it. Machines do not think and react on their own. Men do.

  So he was going for the men, not the machine, as he formulated the plan of attack. The windows of that dreadnought were treated with a substance which rendered them almost opaque from the outside view, so he could not see the enemy nor even count their numbers. He could see shadowy movement, nothing more. The gunport was obvious enough, though—the distinctive snout of the Uzi warning enough—but there was a weakness, there, a limitation designed into a vehicle built for defense, not offense—the Maginot reasoning: impregnability at the expense of mobility. He knew the Uzi well—knew its firing characteristics, weight, length, feed. And he perceived in that gunport a limitation in the lines of fire available from such a weapon. Except for a few arc-degrees of horizontal mobility, the Uzi would operate almost as a fixed weapon. Even so, it would provide a formidable gauntlet and a challenging test of Bolan’s driving skills.

  But it was possible to beat the Uzi.

  The chief consideration remaining was that of terrain hospitability. He needed lateral displacement—at least twenty yards of it—and he needed a fast track in the breakaway. He found both, at a point where the roadway bent back westward near the edge of the lake, the terrain sloping away gently easterly on firm ground to the water’s edge. This point probably represented the “now or never” of the attack plan—and Bolan went for it.

  He floorboarded the eager Ferrari, leapt past the rear bumper of the sedately cruising limousine, and peeled away at a sharp angle along the sloping terrain as the Uzi erupted and raked him in a rising pattern of fire which began its impact just behind the right front wheel, sliced across the hood, and climbed immediately to the roof line.

  So far, then, so good—without even a scratch.

  The ’79 was loaded and ready, extending a few inches beyond the right door, as he twirled the wheel hard right and slid into a bisecting course to rejoin the roadway.

  The timing was perfect, the moment correct, and the fates smiling. He rejoined at about 100 feet above the approaching limousine which now was burning rubber in fast pursuit, fired his round, and plunged on across the roadway to a rocking halt just short of a dense stand of trees.

  There had been no thought that a 40mm round of HE would actually breach the defenses of that Broadway tank. Such had not been the design of the attack. He was going for the human systems, not the engineering design of the machine. And apparently he’d found them. The HE impacted on the impregnable windshield directly in front of the driver seat, blew its fire in a trumpeting halo all about the forward compartment of that hurtling vehicle, and reached the reactive minds if not the flesh of the human components within.

  The limousine staggered abruptly, heeled right, and plunged into the trees at the side of the road, tried and failed to climb an old one, caromed off in a backward fling, wedged itself driver’s-side-down between two others.

  Bolan was already clear of his own vehicle and feeding another round of HE into the ’79. He sent it on ahead, this time with maximum effect. The armored hood to the engine compartment had sprung open, also a rear door. The HE impacted directly on target to lay another wreath of fire around the now vulnerable vehicle. It shuddered briefly, then gasoline vapors inside the engine compartment ignited.

  Bolan closed immediately, but warily, circling for the best firing line into that blackened doorway.

  But the time for caution was past.

  He counted four bodies in there, clothing smouldering on two in the rear, broken heads and bloody renderings mutely crying the fate of the two in front.

  There should have been six, in there.

  He threw a glance along the backtrack, pursed his lips in silent thought, then clipped the ’79 to his leg, closed the raincoat on it, and set off on foot, toward Central Park West.

  It was probably going to be a damned long day.

  CHAPTER 7

  PRIORITIES

  The big cop stood with both hands thrust deeply into his pants pocket and scowled into the wind, a faraway look in his eyes, as technicians carefully poked at the ruins of the armored vehicle and recorded the evidence. “Don’t care how you try to reconstruct it,” he growled to his undesired companion. “The facts remain the facts. Anyone with good eyes and police experience could tell you what happened here. The Ferrari overtook the Cadillac. He waited his chance, then went around at the bend in the road, cutting cross-country on wet grass, and he took seventeen slugs in the process. But he got ahead of them and he came back across, hell for leather. He fired a grenade right into their windshield. It didn’t penetrate but it must have been a hell of a thing to see and experience, right into the face that way. The driver of the Cadillac simply lost control of his vehicle. The grenade didn’t do it, except indirectly. The second grenade did not come until the Cadillac was lying on its side, right here, and this hard car had suddenly become very soft. Whatever the attempted reasoning, the intent at that point was purely aggressive and for no other reason than to seal the kill.”

  “It reads just as well the other way,” insisted the U.S. marshal, “and it’s a hell of a lot more believable. Whoever was driving the Ferrari could not also have been hurling bombs out the window at the same moment that he was fighting to control his vehicle. At the best, you have to allow two men in the Ferrari. Even at that, it’s utterly ridiculous to suppose that one or two men in a car like that would deliberately take on an armored vehicle with six heavily armed torpedoes aboard. You say yourself that Minotti left the scene of the fire in a hell of a lather. Let’s say that they pursued and overtook the Ferrari. Somehow they managed to maneuver him to the left side of the roadway and succeeded in running him completely off the road. His car was shot up and out of control on the wet grass. The Cadillac breezed on by, thinking their attack a success and now intent on putting the scene behind them. Enter, now, the unknown element. Maybe they were cruising back the other way, northbound. Or maybe they were just standing down here in the trees, waiting for them. Minotti and the other missing man, maybe. You tell me why these punks knock one another off, Captain, I don’t understand it. But we all know they do.”

  “So where’s the guy from the Ferrari?”

  The marshal grinned solemnly. “Where’s Minotti and the sixth man?
”

  “I wish I knew. But I can tell you this much. Your reasoning is inconsistent with the known facts. In the first place, nobody was ‘hurling bombs.’ We’ve got three witnesses that saw the man leave the burning building with a ‘strange gun’ in his hand. From the description, I’d call it an M-79 with a modified stock. That’s a grenade launcher, pal. And that spells Mack Bolan in my book, every time. So does the rest of it. We can place the same individual leaving the scene of the fire in a red foreign sports car. That was fully twenty minutes before Minotti and his crew even showed up there. So who pursued whom from the scene? I call it a classic Bolan hit, and you know it’s true. So why all the flak?”

  The marshal grinned and lit a cigarette, gazed along the park road for a moment, then replied, “For the press, Captain? A matter of priorities?”

  The orgcrime cop made a noise with his lips and stared at his feet. Then he displayed a brief, sober smile and said, “Okay, for the press, it looks like a gangland slaying. But we are pursuing other leads. Close enough?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” agreed the marshal.

  “Tell Brognola he owes me one. Tell him, also, that I will never forget a rainy morning in Queens when I thought my town was getting respectable. Tell him I’ve not given up hope.”

  “Thanks, Cap’n. I’ll deliver the messages.” The marshal touched the brim of his hat and trudged away.

  The cop called after him, “But tell ’im to put a rein on that guy. No more of this combat in the park bullshit.”

  The marshal did a walking pivot to toss off another relaxed salute. He went on down the road, climbed into an official U.S. government limousine, and settled with a sigh beside his chief.

  “They’ll cooperate,” he reported.

  “Good,” said Brognola.

  “What happened in Queens one rainy morning?”

  “We buried Augie Marinello.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah. Following the wildest goddam slugfest this old city has ever seen. That was Striker’s last visit.”

  “Rafferty wants you to curb him. No more public battles.”

  Brognola slid stiffly to the edge of the seat, hands clasped at his knees. “That’s really rich, isn’t it,” he replied soberly. “Wish I had the control over that guy all these cops seem to think I have. I’d pull him out of here in a twink.”

  “A twink?” the marshal responded, grinning.

  “Whatever. There’s nothing here worth his little finger. And look at the way he flings himself around. You saw the goddam Ferrari. Shot to hell. And he still hasn’t reported in.” He called forward to the driver. “Check the battleship again, George.”

  The driver picked up a microphone and spoke into it.

  The marshal reminded Brognola, “None of his blood back there, Chief. The way it reads to me, Minotti slipped away—either before or during the battle. I would guess that Striker is in hot pursuit.”

  “On foot?”

  The marshal smiled. “Pole-vaulting on his dick, if that’s the only way available. Tell you, I’d hate to have that guy on my trail. I would—”

  He interrupted himself to listen to the radio exchange, up front. A pretty female voice was responding to the call from the chief.

  “Babysitter.”

  From George: “Is he in?”

  “Coming in now, via radio. What’s your request?”

  Brognola snatched up the remote mike and replied for himself. “Personal status report, please.”

  From April Rose: “A-OK, subject is clean. Stand by.”

  Brognola sighed and shot a triumphant look toward his task force leader. “A-OK,” he repeated soberly.

  “Told you,” said the marshal, grinning.

  The head fed quickly lit a cigar and settled into the cushions.

  A moment later, April’s perky voice reported: “Subject requests identical replacement vehicle. Requests that it be left in parking garage at target central, keys behind license plate.”

  “Tell him it’s done,” Brognola replied. Then he turned to the marshal and growled, “Christ, we’ve got to find another damned red Ferrari, and fast. Get on that, Dave, will you?”

  “Sure.” The marshal stepped outside, then stuck his head back into the car to ask, “Who pays for all this stuff?”

  “He does.”

  “Where the hell does he get it?”

  “He collects it from the boys.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. How poetic can you get? He makes them finance their own destruction.”

  The marshal chuckled, closed the door, and went on to his own vehicle.

  Brognola called forward, “Let’s go, George. Just cruise the park, for now.”

  The vehicle got underway, then April returned to the airwaves.

  “Marco Polo got away.”

  Brognola replied, “So what is next?”

  “Target central.”

  The chief groaned. “Is that really necessary?”

  “He thinks so. Requests, also, info on female factor.”

  Brognola chomped on the cigar and gazed at the park scenery as he responded to that request. “No I.D., as yet, on the female factor. Condition guarded, prognosis unsure. Request subject supply amplifying data this regard.”

  April was obviously acting as a radio link between Brognola and Bolan. She came back after a brief pause with: “Sorry, no amplifying data available. Request maintain soft touch, priority handling. Subject is pursuing question of amplifying data. Requests diagnosis.”

  He replied, “Suspected narcotic shock of unknown origin. Tests underway to determine exact cause and treatment required. Prognosis uncertain, repeat, uncertain.”

  “Roger.” A moment later, then: “That’s all.”

  “Great,” Brognola growled beneath his breath as he hung up the microphone. He told his driver, “Let’s go back to the bus.”

  But it was not great. It was lousy as hell. New York did not need Mack Bolan. Certainly a nameless underage hooker, OD’d on God knew what, did not need him.

  Washington, dammit—Washington needed him.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE BUY

  If time could be bottled, somehow, and sold in a supermarket, its value would be difficult to determine. There were those “times” when ten minutes would slip by totally unnoticed, without apparent value, accomplishing nothing, meaning nothing. Other ten-minute stretches could be agonizing, ponderous, portentous, or tantalizing. Ten minutes with one’s hand held over a flame could seem a lifetime. Ten minutes worth of sexplay would be, to most, too little. On the other hand, a ten-minute orgasm could kill.

  Time, as Einstein noted, is always relative to the event, the fourth dimension of the physical reality.

  And so with warfare.

  Only ten unbelievably telescoped minutes had elapsed since Bolan ventured into Central Park on Marco Minotti’s tail. Emergency vehicles remained positioned outside Roman Nights. A few uniformed cops still wandered through the scene. Passersby on the park side continued to dawdle in small clumps—and Lou Nola still sat in a forlorn lump on a bench directly opposite his former place of employment.

  Bolan sat down beside the little man, nudged him with an elbow, and quietly said, “Cheer up, sport. The best is yet to come.”

  Nola did a double take on the impressive figure beside him, stiffened, opened his mouth, closed it, then sank back into the defeated slump. After a moment of strained silence, he muttered, “What the hell is going on here?”

  Bolan said, “That’s what you’re going to tell me, sport.”

  “That’s funny, that’s really funny.” Nola said it bitterly, almost defiantly. “I’ve been ordered around, pushed around, slapped around, kicked around. For a lousy three hundred a week.”

  “Plus all you can steal,” Bolan reminded him. “Don’t forget the incentives.”

  “Incentives bullshit,” Nola growled. “Marco says you’re a counterfeit. Are you?”

  “What do you say?” Bo
lan replied.

  “I say I don’t give a shit.”

  Bolan produced a sheaf of bills from an inside pocket, counted off ten one-hundreds as Nola watched curiously, placed the thousand in the little guy’s hand.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Incentive.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “I told you,” Bolan reminded him, “that the best is yet to come. I like the way you handled yourself, in there. And with Marco. I saw it all. I liked what I saw.”

  Nola was beginning to thaw. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Can we talk like men?”

  “I hope so, sure.” Nola put the money away and turned solemn eyes onto whoever the hell this guy was.

  Bolan told him, “Marco is on a sinking ship and he knows it. That’s why he acts like such a jerk.”

  Nola sniffed, “He’s always acted that way, far as I’m concerned.”

  “But lately it has been worse,” Bolan suggested.

  “Maybe so. Maybe you’re right. I never saw such a psycho bastard in all my life before. That son of a bitch is asking to get killed.”

  Bolan simply replied, “That’s right.”

  “One of these days, someone is going to do it for him.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’d do it myself.” Nola snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

  Bolan lit a cigarette, offered it to his companion, lit another, then said: “So do it.”

  “Is that what the grand is for?”

  “Course not. The grand is my way of apologizing to a brother. I had to set you up. I caused you pain. I’m just telling you that I’m sorry about that.”

  Nola shrugged. “I’m not bleeding anywhere. What’s the money really for?”