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  "Johnny, you still there?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What do you think?"

  Tallin let the curtain drop. "I don't know yet."

  "What the hell you mean you don't know yet? You're my fucking chief of security. You can't sit there and tell me you don't know yet."

  "I don't know yet," Tallin repeated, "but I'm going to find out."

  The old man sighed. "Johnny, I'm sorry I yelled at you. You're a good boy. Your father died protecting me when you were just a kid. You're good at what you do, but you're not hard like your old man. You take too many chances, Johnny. I don't want you getting hurt. A few years back, your old man would send a few soldiers out there to meet this joker and send him home with his head in his hand if he didn't measure up."

  "A few years ago was twenty years ago, Mr. Madrano, and things have to be handled a little differently now." Tallin didn't let the old man's anger touch him as he went over his ideas for addressing the situation that had been dropped into his lap.

  "You're right, Johnny. I got a mean temper. Your dad told you about that. It used to get me in a lot of trouble. I'm trying to be more mellow in my later years. I don't bounce back from this confrontation bullshit the way I used to. And these new guys I'm constantly tripping over, this new Mafia that don't know how to act or dress or be gentlemen, you never know when one of these guys is going to blow your head off your shoulders just to make a name for himself."

  "I know, sir."

  "You're a good boy, Johnny. I know you'll take care of me and Gina."

  "Yes, sir, but I need to go meet this guy."

  "Let me know what you find out as soon as you can."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And take care of yourself. I know Gina cares for you a lot." The line clicked dead.

  Did the old man know about him and Gina? Tallin wondered as he punched in the numbers for the gate security extension. It wouldn't surprise him if Madrano did. The old fox was still as alert as hell and, even though it seemed sheer torture to spend the days apart, he and Gina didn't get together very often. The old man had never named a heir after Adelio was sent away, never named a chief executor to manage the family business until Adelio got out. If he got out. Was it because he had someone in mind? And was the guy's name Johnny Tallin? Tallin shook his head as he heard the phone ring at the other end. Things were already confused enough trying to honor his father's sense of loyalty to Patrizio Madrano and honor his own debt to the old Mafia lord for the education he had given him. His love for Gina Madrano had only complicated things further. He pushed the thoughts away.

  "Yeah?"

  "Mike, it's Johnny."

  "I was just thinking about calling you, Johnny. We got, maybe, a problem."

  "How long's the car been there?"

  "You know about that?"

  "It's what I get paid all those big bucks for, Mike."

  "Terrific. Wait until you're still getting paid all those big bucks lying in a hospital bed with hoses running in and out of you, staring at the ceiling and wondering if you're going to catch the next episode of The Young and the Restless."

  "How long?"

  "About fifteen minutes."

  "How many occupants?"

  "One."

  "Any ID on him?"

  "Can't even promise you it's a him, Johnny. The windows are so goddamn polarized you can't see inside."

  "Mr. Madrano said it was a guy."

  "How the hell would the old man know?"

  "The guy called him on his private line and said he wanted to see him."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah. You or Bobby made any effort at contacting the guy?"

  "I sent Bobby out there a few minutes ago to see if it was somebody who just got lost. Before he could get close to the car, it rolled away from him. When he came back to the gate, the car rolled up again."

  "I'll be there in a minute, and when I get there I want the guy's plates run and I want to know the car phone number." Tallin hung up and left the room.

  He felt cold and edgy as he trotted down the carpeted winding staircase. What kind of guy would have the balls this guy was showing? How many men had Madrano had killed over the years for showing this kind of disrespect?

  Karl, the night doorman, pushed himself out of the recliner beside the staircase as Tallin hit the floor. "What's up, chief?" the man asked in his thick Cajun accent.

  "Maybe nothing," Tallin replied as he strode to the door, "but watch your ass just the same. Nobody goes in or out of this door unless I okay it."

  "You got it, Johnny."

  Tallin heard the locks click into place behind him as he moved toward the garage. Ignoring the selection of cars inside the building, he turned and lost himself in the carefully spaced trees covering the estate, making his way through the shadows to the gate house. Security lights cut blue-white swaths through the early-morning darkness with a collection of bugs at each one looking like miniature comets locked in some erratic orbit.

  He rapped on the back door of the gate house, saw the peephole go dark for an instant, then stepped back as the door swung out. Mike Blackmon's iron-tough bulk dwarfed the security chiefs slender build as he walked inside.

  "What do you have?" Tallin asked as he waved away the chair Blackmon offered. He peered through the one-way glass of the gate house, staring into the twin beams of the waiting car. What kind of nerveless bastard was sitting behind the steering wheel? Didn't the guy know there was enough firepower around the estate that would ensure he didn't penetrate the mansion's defenses? And if the guy meant harm, why the hell come head-on like this?

  "Got the car's registration and car phone number like you wanted, Johnny," Blackmon said. He waggled a finger at the other man inside the gate house.

  Tallin watched Bobby Carloni shift on the small metal desk and take a piece of paper from a pad under the house extension. Carloni and Blackmon were a mismatched pair. The old and the new, Tallin couldn't help but think every time he saw the men together — Blackmon, older and bulky with knotted muscles and a penchant for revolvers, who resentfully stepped into the automatic pistol Tallin had ordered for him, and Carloni, younger and blond, thin and sallow-faced with an affinity for computer dialogue and programming, who had been only too glad when Tallin upgraded the current computer Madrano had on hand.

  Tallin scanned the paper and asked, "Where'd you get this?"

  "DMV, but they don't know that," Carloni answered with a shy smile that hid the killer Tallin knew the man to be.

  "Herman, P. W.," Tallin read. Then he checked the mobile phone number. "And the phone?"

  "Ma Bell," Carloni replied, flexing his fingers in front of him like cat's claws. "Though the system put up a hell of a fight. That number's new, just like the car, and was restricted. If we didn't keep someone on the pad there for the latest access codes, I couldn't have found it out."

  "Who's it registered to?"

  Carloni's smile turned into a smirk. "Herman, P. W., same as the car."

  "Bastard's got some sense of humor, Johnny. He's sitting out there in a brand-new Ferrari in the middle of the last place he should be and he wants us to think he's Pee-Wee Herman," Blackmon said.

  Tallin tapped the paper thoughtfully as he looked back out at the dark bulk of the car. "How new are the car and phone?"

  "Two, three hours at the most," Carloni answered.

  "Can you track anything farther back on this guy?"

  "No. Any information on this guy dead-ends two or three hours ago. I'd have to have his birthdate to track him through the police computers."

  "Let me have the phone."

  Blackmon handed over the handset, and Tallin punched in the number. The voice that answered was deep, tightly controlled, threatening under a thin veil of civility. "Yeah?"

  "Johnny Tallin."

  "You're not the guy I want to see."

  "I'm the guy you're going to see before you see anybody else." Tallin felt a chill creep down his spine, knowing it was produced by th
e tone of authority in the unknown man's voice.

  "The old man's got cold feet, right?"

  "The old man didn't get to be old by being stupid."

  "How do you want to handle this?"

  "Meet me at the gate house."

  "I'm not leaving the car. Madrano's got a lot of reason to be nervous right now, and I'm not about to step into a line of fire."

  Tallin was silent, wondering what to do. The guy was too cocksure of himself to come in empty-handed, too alone to be a cop on some kind of bust.

  "I know about Kirby Howell, Johnny. The guys Madrano hired missed the hit on Howell in D.C. I'm here on Family business."

  "Who are you?"

  "A guy, Johnny. A guy who's getting tired of sitting out here."

  "What do you know about Howell?"

  "Not enough. That's why I'm here to see the old man. People on the Witness program are dropping dead like flies. Some concerned Family heads asked me to check it out."

  Asked? Tallin turned it over in his head. Who the hell would be asked by any Family to do anything? Unless the guy commanded some kind of respect. And the guy with the graveyard voice had said Family heads. More than one.

  "Come on, Johnny, I don't have all night."

  "I'm coming out," Tallin said with more conviction than he felt, "and I'm wearing my gun."

  "That's fine, Johnny," the stranger replied. "I'll wear mine, too."

  The line clicked dead.

  "You can't be serious about going out there, Johnny," Blackmon protested.

  Tallin handed him the phone. "Yeah, I am. There's something about this guy, Mike, but I can't put my finger on it."

  Tallin let himself out the back way and told Blackmon to secure the door. He felt the darkness of the New York night close starlessly over him as he walked into the twin beams of the sports car with his hands out away from his body. The Colt Delta Elite was lodged in Bianchi breakaway leather, and he was confident he could get to it quickly despite the jacket. As he tried to peer through the dark glass of the car, he attempted to put it together in his mind. He knew about the Howell hit, and even protested it to the degree he was entitled to, warning the old man about working outside the Family. Sure, protocol had dropped off considerably since the Bolan days had thinned out a lot of the old blood, but there still existed a lot of the framework that had brought the Families from the old country. And there had been other reasons, as well. Since he'd become head of security two years ago, he hadn't sanctioned any executions and only operated in a retaliatory manner to save Madrano's life or preserve someone else closely linked to the old man. There was no innocent blood on Johnny Tallin's hands, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  Yet this guy who had appeared from nowhere with more information than he should have was going to challenge that.

  Tallin stopped in front of the car, barely able to distinguish the man in the dark interior. A window hummed down, and the soft tones of a radio playing contemporary music wafted on the still night air.

  "Get in, Johnny," the stone-cold voice ordered.

  Tallin moved around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. He slid in, wary for any movement on the other man's part that might signal hostility.

  The man was dressed in black, melding into the dark interior of the car, vanishing against the polarized windows. The smell of new leather, from the bucket seats and the short-waisted jacket the man wore, tickled Tallin's nose, and he had to stifle the urge to sneeze. The guy wore dark sunglasses over bronzed skin and showed no emotion as he stared back.

  "Who are you?" Tallin asked, surprised at how loud his voice sounded in the confines of the car.

  "A guy doing an errand."

  "I don't buy that."

  The stranger grinned, and Tallin was surprised at the warmth it contained. "I wouldn't, either, Johnny."

  "So what do you want?"

  "To talk to Madrano»

  "About the Howell thing?"

  "About who he hired to do the Howell hit."

  "If you know so much, why don't you know who did the hit?"

  Mack Bolan moved his cuff to glance at his watch. "I was told you were a smart guy, Johnny. I wish I had the time to examine the length and breadth of all that intellect, but I'm a busy man and the numbers on this one are falling fast. I'm about two steps ahead of a federal agency, and I want to keep it that way."

  "I don't think Mr. Madrano wants to talk to you, which means we've got a problem."

  "He's going to talk to me," Bolan replied calmly, "because he doesn't have a choice."

  Tallin took out his cigarettes and started to light up. "As long as I'm here, he has a choice."

  "Put the cigarettes away."

  Tallin glanced at the guy, stung by the force of the command.

  "Look, Johnny, I don't mean to make your life hard, and I don't mean to deprive you of a smoke, but if I were you, I would have stationed a guy with a sniper scope inside the gate house and told him to take out the driver of this car when he lit a cigarette and cast some light on things. You understand?"

  Nodding, Tallin put the cigarette and lighter in a pocket. This guy was definitely one cagey customer.

  "Madrano will see me. Just tell him I have this." Bolan handed him a flat rectangle.

  Tallin took it, shifting in his seat to take advantage of the illumination from the car stereo controls. When he saw the black ace of spades, he felt a shiver ripple through him. A Black Ace. One of the enforcement arm that settled inter-Family disputes, with the power to execute a Mafia don of even Madrano's stature without being held accountable for the action. He had heard Madrano and his father talk about the men in fear and awe. When he looked back at the guy, the easy smile was back in place.

  "Give the old man a call, Johnny, and see what he says. I'm willing to bet we don't have any more problems. Here, use my phone. I have the number." He handed Tallin the phone.

  After punching in the number, Tallin looked at the mansion, staring at the dark window that belonged to Madrano and wondering how much trouble the old man was in, wondering, too, what he would do if the guy sitting next to him had come to execute Gina's father.

  7

  Bolan followed Johnny Tallin into Patrizio Madrano's fortress, aware that at least half a dozen hardmen had stepped into position somewhere behind him. Aware, also, that if he didn't play his cards right, he'd be a dead man. But according to the rules the Mafia don played by, an ace of spades couldn't be beaten. And Bolan intended to live the role of the Ace to the hilt during his interview with the man.

  Under the supervision of the Taliaferro brothers, Pat and Mike, the Aces had come into legendary power among the Families in their ability to finalize whatever disputes came to their attention. Madrano had been around long enough to know better than to question a Black Ace who appeared before him. That Bolan was allowed entrance to the house was proof of that. But the threat, the image, of the force he purported to be, that had to remain constant in the old man's eyes, or blood would be spilled.

  Dressed as he was in the black leather jacket and matching gloves, black slacks and black turtleneck, Bolan knew he'd fulfill Madrano's visual expectations. The swagger, the superciliousness, the ego, those he'd deliver in the way he moved and in the way he talked.

  Johnny Tallin hadn't said a word since speaking with the old man over the car phone and had instinctively taken the lead when guiding Bolan to his boss. According to Kurtzman's files on the security chief, Tallin had blood ties linking him deeply to the old Mafia that had been smashed by the Executioner's onslaught in past years. But he seemed to be turned in a different direction. Tallin's record was clean, even after serving as Madrano's head of security. From intel gleaned from FBI files, Tallin was drug-free and remained his own man.

  Bolan saw Tallin wave the doorman to one side, then followed the younger man up the winding staircase. How many other men were inside the house? Bolan figured the numbers would steadily increase the whole time he talked with Madrano, and ho
ped the security chief could keep the guns in line.

  Tallin paused at a door at the end of the hallway and rapped softly.

  "Johnny?"

  Bolan recognized the old man's voice from their earlier conversation on the phone.

  "It's me, Mr. Madrano."

  "You alone, Johnny?"

  "No, sir."

  "Let me see the card."

  Tallin looked at Bolan expectantly. Bolan gave him the card, regulating him to his continued role as messenger. Tallin took it and slid it under the door.

  Looking at the expensively faked veneer of the wood, Bolan figured that nothing less than steel plate swung on the ornate hinges. There was a momentary pause while the card disappeared, and Tallin's eyes never left Bolan's face.

  "You recognize this guy, Johnny?" Madrano asked.

  "No, sir. He's had plastic surgery."

  Bolan gave him a thin grin, impressed that Tallin had noticed the minute, telltale signs left from the high-quality work the government had paid for the last time he'd gone under the knife, when he had joined the Phoenix program.

  Bolan addressed the door, keeping his eyes on Tallin. "If I had all night to talk to you, Madrano, I would have come in the morning and saved us both some sleep. I've got a lot of things to secure between now and morning, and cooling my heels here isn't going to get them done."

  "In my time," Madrano said, "a young man knew how to respect his elders."

  "Even in my time," Bolan snapped, "it was a matter of respect to keep Family business within the Family."

  A lock clicked back in the door, followed by two more.

  "Let him in, Johnny, and come in yourself."

  "Yes, sir." Tallin pushed the door open and allowed Bolan to precede him.

  Bolan didn't hesitate, knowing an Ace would recognize the respect due him in this situation and show no fear of the security chief.