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  And Bolan knew it didn't really matter whether Nino had been accurate or not. He had a message for whoever was inside those closing limousines, one that would get to Don Minelli in a hurry.

  He sighted through the scope, following the lead car as it cleared the trees and straightened into its approach toward the house. They would have passed through a checkpoint when they left the highway, and the private road was marked along the way by spotters on the grounds; they were running clear now, clocking close to sixty-five along the narrow track.

  The marksman hurriedly worked out the trajectory and dropped as his finger found the trigger. At three hundred yards, his slug would be traveling just over eleven hundred feet per second — or some fifteen times the speed of his targets.

  He took a deep breath, held it. Sighted. Squeezed. The Marlin bucked against his shoulder, and he rode the recoil, smoothly flexing the lever action, ejecting spent brass and chambering another round.

  The bullet drilled through the lead car's forward fender into the engine block, which cracked like a slab of stone beneath a sculptor's chisel. Instantly the Lincoln's hood flew back, expelling smoke and steam, the driver blindly fighting with the wheel as the tank lost power, swerving, rumbling to a smoky halt some fifty yards along the track.

  Behind it the second car was suddenly aware of danger, slowing slightly, then accelerating, swinging out to pass. It swung toward Bolan, providing a perfect target and the Marlin spoke again.

  The tail car's left front tire exploded, collapsed into a wallowing rumble, the crew wagon slewing around in a half turn that ended when the engine flooded, stalling out.

  The soldier marked a point dead center on the hood above the carburetor and fired another screamer, observing through the twenty-power as it found the hot spot. At once the crumpled hood was airborne, and flames were licking up from somewhere in the Lincoln's vitals as the doors sprang open, passengers scrambling for safety.

  Bolan scanned the dozen frightened faces through his scope, recognizing Patriarcca and "L.A. Lester" Cigliano, who was beside Patriarcca, jabbering away. Their bodyguards fanned out, guns drawn, to form a tight defensive ring around the capos, searching for an enemy they could not see.

  And Bolan froze, his twenty-power framing yet another face he recognized too well — Sally Palmer.

  A former member of the singing, dancing Ranger Girls, she first had crossed the Bolan path in Vegas early in his war against the Mafia, and he had learned there was another side to the hottest lounge act in America. The girls were agents for Hal Brognola's Sensitive Operations Group, along with comic Tommy Anders and other unlikely players.

  Bolan didn't know Sally's game, could not be sure if she had come with Cigliano or with Patriarcca, but it was enough for now to know that she was in the line of fire.

  He scanned past Sally, past the shaken capos, settling the twenty-power on a hardman on the thin defensive line. There was no need to kill just yet. Perhaps an object lesson, just to put the wheels of thought in motion, set the West Coast dons to wondering who might arrange a hellfire greeting for their benefit.

  He gauged the drop and squeezed off, riding out the kick and staying with the target, kissing close through the telescopic lens. He saw the puff of fabric, spray of blood as slug met yielding flesh and fragile bone. The gunner wobbled, sat down hard, one arm coming up to clutch the ruined shoulder where the other dangled.

  One round remaining in the magazine, Bolan worked the lever action, tracking on to find another target as the line of gunners wavered, broke. One guy was out of there already, sprinting for the house two hundred yards away. Bolan let the twenty-power follow him, already leading, then dispatched a thunderclap that tore his knee apart and sent him sprawling on the grass.

  He caught a glimpse of Sally and the capos, crouched behind the stricken lead car, as he rose and backed away from there. It would not take the gunners long to get a fix on his position once they found their nerve. But he would be long gone before a strike team reached his vantage point. And in his wake, he would be leaving some unanswered questions for Minelli and his brothers of the blood.

  The West Coast bosses would have questions of their own, bet on it, and their reception almost on the doorstep of Don Minelli's manor house would not endear him to Patriarcca or Cigliano. Already suspicious, they would be verging on absolute paranoia by now, and it might not take much of a shove to propel them over the edge, into outright hostility.

  For Minelli's part, he would be wondering who dared to take such liberties on his land with his guests. If he ran true to form, he would begin by suspecting everyone and go from there.

  The riddle of the moment, though, was Sally Palmer, and as Bolan reached his rental, stowed the Marlin in the trunk and turned the engine over, he was concentrating on the presence of the lady Fed in such rough company. It was a role she had played before, of course, and with success, but Bolan wondered just what strings she must have pulled — or what she must have sacrificed — to get herself invited to a major sit-down.

  Before he reached the blacktop, Bolan knew that he would have to discover what she was doing there, find out if her mission was at odds with his or was simply one more piece within the larger puzzle. And in order to accomplish that, he would be forced to infiltrate the dragon's lair and have a close-up look at what was going down.

  It was a deviation from what had started out as Bolan's master plan. But plans were flexible enough to change at need, providing that a soldier had the nerve and the imagination to effect those changes.

  Bolan had the nerve, all right, and the experience to pull it off, but he would need a great deal more to come out the other end alive.

  The Executioner was not a superstitious or religious man, but he believed in fate, some universal guiding force behind the endless war games men played out with one another. And while he knew for certain that right could fail and evil triumph, he could not help feeling that something in the "rightness" of a cause emitted an energy, a strength, which sometimes, subtly, changed the odds.

  The white hats didn't always win, for sure, and he had seen too much hate and inhumanity enthroned to make himself believe that right makes might...but, then again, being right couldn't hurt.

  The Executioner was going in, with courage and with experience.

  To find a lady Fed.

  To find some answers, right.

  To find, perhaps, his death.

  8

  Don Ernesto Minelli surveyed the smouldering ruin of his limousine, wrinkling his nose at the stench of burned oil and rubber. The damned thing was a write-off, and he couldn't say much better for the second Lincoln, either. More than sixty thousand freaking dollars up in smoke, and still he had no firm idea of what in hell was going on.

  "That's some reception you arrange for guests, Ernesto."

  Patriarcca's voice was angry, but beneath the rage, Minelli heard a tremor of the West Coast capo's fear. Beside him, Lester Cigliano stood with both hands in his pockets, glaring at Minelli as he fought to keep himself from trembling visibly.

  "Hey, Jules... I'm sick about this thing, believe me. Thank the Lord it was a couple of my buttons who got hit, instead of you or Lester."

  "Dumb luck. If I'd've known that I was going to a turkey shoot, I would've brought a few more guns."

  "Same here," said L.A. Lester.

  "Could be I oughta make some calls an' have a troop fly out."

  Minelli did not like the way this was going, and he moved to head it off before it got out of hand.

  "Relax, all right, Jules? I've got people on this thing right now. They'll get some answers for you, an' whoever pulled this shit is gonna wish that he was born without a trigger finger."

  Patriarcca's silent scowl was like a slap across the face, and it was plain he did not think he had to look much farther for the author of the fireworks. Suspicious at the best of times, the capo of Seattle and his toady from Los Angeles were clearly thinking that Minelli was himself responsible.
r />   Right now, Minelli had to find out who was lunatic enough to come in here, on his land, and draw down on his guests. When he had answered that one, then they could see to business, with some good old-fashioned entertainment as a lead-in to the main event.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, a burst of static issued from the walkie-talkie carried by the houseman at his elbow. Don Minelli turned, waiting as the message was received.

  "We've got some cartridge casings here," the disembodied voice announced.

  The houseman pointed toward a rise about three hundred yards away where tiny figures stood between two trees in stark relief against the sky.

  "Go on."

  "Some kinda big-bore hunting rifle. Sucker must've used a scope."

  "What else?"

  "That's it. Five shots, five shells."

  "Damn, give me that."

  Minelli snatched the walkie-talkie from his houseman, fumbled for a moment with the transmit button, finally got it right.

  "There must be something else," he barked.

  The searcher's voice came back at him audibly tinged with fear and respect.

  "No, sir. Nothing. Too much grass up here to hold a footprint."

  Minelli fought an urge to dash the radio against the fender of his burned-out limousine.

  "All right. But keep on looking, anyway. The bastard didn't float in here, for cryin' out loud."

  "Yessir. Out."

  The walkie-talkie hissed at him, went dead, and Minelli passed it back to his houseman. He forced a reassuring smile and turned to meet the scowling faces of his guests.

  "They'll work it out," he said. "Don't worry. Anybody tries this shit with me is crazy."

  "Like a fox," said the capo from Los Angeles.

  Minelli's smile went stony, frozen on his face.

  "I guess I didn't get that, Lester."

  "Oh? Well, maybe I can make it plain."

  But Patriarcca raised a hand to silence his associate.

  "No more. It's hot out here, an' frankly, I'd feel better if we went inside. Whatever anybody has to say can just as well be said when everybody's here."

  A grudging nod from Cigliano, and Minelli's jaw relaxed.

  "You're right. Let's go up to the house and get some drinks, whatever. All your rooms are ready, an' the others should be here before you know it."

  "Hope you've got a lotta Continentals, Don Ernesto," Cigliano gibed.

  Minelli pretended he hadn't heard or understood. Patriarcca and his crony had brought three men each, together with the woman who stood beside Jules, watching everything and saying nothing. Too damn many for a showdown on the lawn, but if the skinny L.A. capo kept on needling him...

  And why, in heaven's name, did something like this have to happen now, when it was most important for him to present the image of a man in full control of his surroundings? As he walked back to the house, trying to make small talk with his shaken guests, Minelli's mind was working on the riddle, coming up with nothing that made sense.

  It seemed improbable that anyone intent on killing either of his visitors would do it there, so far from home, when they could easily have sniped them on their own respective turfs. A sniper with the skill of this one could have taken Patriarcca or his upstart colleague any time, and that made Don Minelli's problem all the more perplexing.

  Had the shooter known exactly who was riding in the limousines? Or was he firing blind, content to pick off anyone he found on Minelli property?

  Why had he settled for destruction of the cars, wounding a couple of Minelli's buttons, when he could have had the bosses just as easily?

  Had he been looking for someone else? Perhaps Minelli himself?

  Don Ernesto picked up his pace, suddenly anxious to be inside the house and out of the glaring sunlight. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and he cursed his faceless adversary.

  Someone was trying to upset his plans, to sabotage the meeting that had been long months in preparation.

  Someone.

  But who?

  It might be Patriarcca, certainly. Or Cigliano, though his mind rebelled at the thought of L.A. Lester laying out a plan without someone to walk him through it. Either way, complicity by one or both of Don Minelli's guests would perfectly explain their lucky break in slipping through the sniper's sights. And then again...

  Five more out-of-town guests and the four remaining capos from New York were arriving soon, and any of them might be seeking to profit by disrupting the conference. For any dozen men, there were a thousand different motives, and he could never hope to single out a culprit from the bunch unless the enemy got overconfident and tipped his hand.

  He glanced back, making sure everyone was keeping up, and saw the woman watching him through big designer shades. She smiled, and he returned it briefly, breaking off the contact as he concentrated on the house and sanctuary, closer now.

  Jules must be losing it, to bring a woman with him at a time like this. She was a looker, but Patriarcca should have had the sense to leave his squeeze at home while he was talking business with the brotherhood. Minelli wondered if his guest was getting sentimental, even senile, with advancing age. It couldn't hurt if push came to shove, and certain action was required to cancel out his opposition vote.

  Whatever, it was clear enough that he would have to keep an eye on his guests all weekend. None of them, including — or especially — those who had already pledged their fealty, could be above suspicion, now that violence had come out in the open.

  He would know precisely who his friends and adversaries were before the meeting ended, and he would deal with both.

  Minelli had a few surprises for his visitors, among them the disposal of a traitor who had done his best to blow the brotherhood apart. It should be entertaining for the troops, and it would win Minelli their respect.

  But there was more in store for Don Minelli's guests. The ritual elimination of a rat would be the least of it, when he was finished.

  Minelli frowned, decided he would have his men begin the excavation just as soon as it was dark. A grave or two, to keep their hands in, let them get in practice in case a greater number should be needed.

  Better to be safe than sorry.

  And if anyone was going to be sorry this weekend, it j would not be Don Minelli.

  * * *

  The gateman was in uniform, but there were three more guns in street clothes, hanging back, leaning against the wall and scrutinizing Bolan coldly as his rental coasted to a halt and idled. The uniform approached him cautiously, and Bolan noticed that the thumb-break strap securing his Colt revolver in its holster was unsnapped, ready for the draw.

  "Yes, sir? Can I help you?"

  Bolan shook his head disgustedly.

  "Damn right. You can tell the three stooges to stand clear and let me pass. I'm late already."

  The gateman looked confused.

  "Uh... late for what, sir?"

  Bolan let the shades slip down his nose an inch and stared across them, feigning shock.

  "Late for what? Where the hell have you been, Clyde? The Arctic?"

  "Sir..."

  "You've got a frigging meeting going on in there, and I've got news for Don Ernesto. That's important news, you understand?"

  The gatekeeper's face was reddening, but he controlled himself and played it by the book.

  "I'm sorry, sir. There's been a little accident, and..."

  "What?" Bolan stiffened, appearing to notice the distant pall of smoke for the first time. "Well, shit, it's started. Will you call your watchdogs off and let me in there?"

  "I'm afraid I'll need to see some kind of id, sir."

  "Goddamn it!"

  Bolan reached inside his jacket, noting as he did so that the nearest of the gunners in street clothes swung up a stubby 12-gauge, obliquely covering the new arrival from his place inside the gate. Mack Bolan passed a laminated card across, his eyes never leaving the shotgun.

  "Tell Elmer Fudd I'm out of season, eh?"

  The
gateman stared at the ace of spades, then back at Bolan's stony countenance, and finally retraced his steps to huddle with the hardmen just inside. They looked at Bolan with a new respect now — and a new suspicion. The shotgunner lowered his weapon a fraction, and when the uniform came back, he had the leader of the team in tow.

  This time the uniform stood back and let a flashy suit do all the talking.

  "No one tipped us you were coming, Mr... uh..."

  "Omega," Bolan told him. "Could be that you didn't need to know."

  "Yes, sir. It's just that, well..."

  "I understand." The soldier let his tone relax, however slightly. "Everybody's got a job to do. Right now, my job's inside there, and I'm late already."

  "Yessir."

  The suit passed his card back and stood clear, waving the other two gunners away from the gate.

  "Go right ahead, sir."

  Bolan powered out of there without a word of thanks, and he could feel their eyes upon him as he rolled along the drive. The passport of the Mafia's gestapo still had weight behind it, from appearances. At any rate, he was inside.

  A group of businessmen were surveying the remains of the crew wagons, some of them turning to watch his approach, drifting instinctively into a kind of defensive perimeter, the cars at their backs. He braked to a halt and was out of the car almost before the engine died.

  "How long ago did this happen?" he demanded of the nearest gunner.

  "Five, ten minutes. Say..."

  "All right, you'd better get this mess cleaned up. We don't want any other guests to get the wrong idea, now do we?"

  The housemen were glancing back and forth at one another, clearly trying to take his measure, but only one could find the nerve to question his authority.

  "I guess you're new around here, huh?"

  "A lot of things are new around here. Slick. New faces, new ideas." He pointed toward the nearest burned-out Lincoln. "New problems."

  "Uh, Mr. Minelli..."

  "Has his own problems, right?" Bolan countered. "You want to disturb him with some simpleminded chicken shit like this?"

  "I was jus' thinking..."