Shock Waves Page 8

  The soldier swiveled, pinned him with a stony eye. "Why aren't you ready?" he demanded.

  "Ready? Hey, ready for what? Who the fuck..."

  The Ace of Spades cut off his words as effectively as a garotte and left the banker sucking like a mackerel out of water.

  "They'll be here inside a ten minutes," Bolan told him fiercely. "You're suppose'ta be finished."

  "Ten minutes? Finished? What is this?"

  "You mean you never got the word?"

  The banker spread his hands. "I dunno what the hell you're saying, Mr..."

  "Weil, goddamn it. Someone was supposed to call." He made a show of glancing at his watch. "Forget that, now. We've still got time, if we get the lead out."

  "Time for what?"

  "You're being raided," Bolan told him flatly. "Feds. We have to get this bread out, like right now."

  "A raid? You gotta be... they were supposed to let me know before they pulled this shit."

  "Somebody blew it. Look, I don't have time to stand around and yap. You wanna bag this up, or would you rather tell the don to take it out of your allowance?"

  The banker hesitated, finally nodded to the hardmen on the money detail. They packed up the Samsonites in record time and double-locked the bags, taking no chances. They were moving on to the coins when Bolan's voice stopped them short.

  "Forget about the change," he growled. "Just pocket what you can and leave the rest. You've got... six minutes now."

  "The bags..."

  "They go with me," he told the banker, already hefting one, then the other, moving toward the alley exit.

  The banker tailed him closely, red-faced, clearly worried now.

  "Hey, I'm supposed to be in chargea that," he whined.

  "So, whadda you want, a receipt?"

  "Well, let's say somethin' happens..."

  Bolan stopped ten feet short of the doorway and stood there, the heavy bags dragging at his arms.

  "Okay. You take the full responsibility, I leave 'em here."

  The banker thought it over briefly, finally shook his head, a nervous negative. "I guess I got enough to do."

  "I guess that's right."

  A cold-eyed gunner held the door for Bolan and he stepped through, glancing up and down the alley, veering left in the direction of his waiting rental car. He felt the banker watching him a moment, then the metal door clicked shut behind him and he was alone.

  He almost chuckled, picturing the chaos back inside the bank as they prepared to face a team of nonexistent federal raiders sweeping down upon them any moment. It would take some time to realize they had been conned, and then the shit would really hit the fan.

  But nothing compared to Don Gregorio's reaction when the news got home. It would be worth the ticket price to see the banker's face as he recounted his excuses for delivering a fortune to a total stranger off the street.

  The Ace of Spades would raise some eyebrows, right, and set some wheels in motion where it counted. Tom Gregorio, like other ranking mafiosi, had survived through middle age by cultivating paranoia in his daily life, suspecting everyone and everything around him, always. He would be far beyond suspicion now, approaching apoplexy, and his rage would need a target, someone to absorb its grim, destructive force.

  The banker would suffice for openers, but he was clearly not the brains behind an operation of this scope. The don would have to shop around among his many enemies to find a scapegoat, and with skill, a dash of luck, the Executioner might just be able to assist him in his search.

  The game was getting dirty in New York, and there was worse to come.

  Before the day was out, there would be dirt enough to cover all concerned.

  And Bolan knew the only way to sponge the city clean, damn right, was through a bloodbath.

  12

  Bolan inserted the coins and punched a number from memory, keeping his eyes on the parking lot around him, the busy street beyond. A squad car drifted past, neither of its occupants giving him a second glance.

  The phone rang half a dozen times before he finally got an answer.

  "Yeah?"

  The soldier recognized Tattaglia's voice at once.

  "I'm calling for LaMancha," Bolan told him.

  "Uh, he isn't here right now. You got a number there? I'll have him call you back."

  He rattled off the pay phone's number, listened while Nino repeated it back to him. The connection was broken, and Bolan cradled the receiver, waiting.

  It was a system of communication he had first worked out with Leo Turrin, when the little Fed was undercover in the brotherhood. So simple it was virtually foolproof, the technique let Bolan keep in touch with Hal Brognola's man inside, without attracting undue notice to the agent or himself. Within the next ten minutes, Nino would excuse himself and find a telephone he trusted, returning Bolan's call. If time ran out, it meant that he was unavailable for any one of half a hundred reasons, and the Executioner would try again later.

  Eight minutes on the nose this time, and Bolan lifted the receiver on the first long ring.

  "LaMancha."

  "Right, It's lucky that you called. I've got a message for you from your uncle."

  Bolan stiffened at the coded mention of Brognola. "So?"

  "He had some kinda sudden business here in town. He'd like to see you, if you've got the time."

  The warrior frowned. "It's tight. He have a place in mind?"

  "The Cloisters. Said he'd be there till they close, in case you get hung up."

  "I'll see what I can do. When are you going in?"

  "About an hour. From what I hear, you're keeping busy."

  "Trying all the time. You'll find some changes in the atmosphere around Minelli's."

  "Yeah, I figured. There's a chill in the air around my place already."

  "It should be heating up before too long."

  "I'll dress accordingly. You do the same."

  "Bet on it."

  Nino broke the link and Bolan hung up, moving swiftly toward the rental car. His mind was racing, trying to extract the meaning of Brognola's presence in New York. He might be there to help, of course; it would not be unheard of. Or he might be there to warn the Executioner away, to head him off before his blitz proceeded any further.

  Either way, Mack Bolan knew that he would have to meet with Hal and find out what was on his mind. He owed the guy that much, at least. But if the Fed was selling any more "portfolios," attempting to recruit him or, alternately, divert him from his course, the Executioner was going to walk away.

  He never once considered that Brognola might have laid a trap for him at the Cloisters. Another cop, perhaps, but not Brognola. They had traveled down too many long and bloody roads together, butted heads on more than one occasion and remained the closest friends throughout it all. If there was any man alive who came as close to Bolan as his own surviving flesh and blood, that man was Hal Brognola. And there could be no thought of a betrayal by the man from Wonderland.

  He followed Henry Hudson Parkway North, beside Fort Tryon Park, and took the single access road that carried him beneath a grassy overpass and north again, inside Central Park now, circling around the Cloisters.

  Bolan found a parking place close by the entrance, dropped a dollar "voluntary" entrance fee in the collection box as he passed through the turnstile. The building was arranged around a square central tower, with most of the ground floor devoted to an open courtyard. On Bolan's left as he entered was the Treasury, with its priceless collection of art, the Glass Gallery, named for its roundels and stained-glass panels dating from the fifteenth century, and the small gothic chapel filled with effigies and slabs from ancient tombs. The main displays were all upstairs, and Bolan found Brognola in the Spanish Room.

  "How's everything in Wonderland?"

  "Ass backward. You know how it goes. So how's with you?"

  "I'm keeping busy."

  "So I hear. They're howling all the way to Albany."

  "So soon?"

>   "Somebody's got a lot at stake on this one. They can't afford to see it fall apart."

  "Minelli."

  "At the very least. He's got a lot of friends."

  "Some enemies, too, I'll bet."

  "Safe money. You can't please all the people."

  "Have you heard from Rafferty?"

  "First thing. I want to thank you for the lady."

  "Half a job. I'm working on the rest of it."

  "Go easy, huh? We want him, but there's more at stake."

  "Like Flasher?"

  Brognola turned to face him squarely for the first lime, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. "There anything you don't know?"

  "Plenty. What's her job with Jules Patriarcca?"

  "The usual. Preventive intelligence."

  "Is he that big?"

  "Could be. Seattle's done its share of growing since you busted Al Nyeburg's balloon."

  "Might be worth looking into."

  Hal frowned, a mixture of uneasiness and pure concern.

  "Right now, Jules represents a major voice of opposition to Minelli. Throw him in with half a dozen others, and they've got the weight to block him, maybe tilt the axis westward."

  It was Bolan's turn to frown. A realignment of the Mafia, a new and stronger coalition, was the last thing he had in mind.

  "I don't think it will get that far," he said.

  "You planning an appearance at the sit-down?"

  "I need Eritrea first, if I can get him. After that..." He let the sentence trail away, unfinished, and Brognola didn't push.

  "I hate this goddamned job," said Brognola.

  "That's bull."

  "You think so."

  Bolan smiled.

  "There any way of getting Flasher clear?"

  "I don't see how."

  "Forget it. She's all right."

  A hollow feeling in the pit of Bolan's stomach mocked his words.

  "You know," Brognola said, "this time next year, I'm looking at retirement."

  Bolan smiled.

  "What's funny?"

  "You, retiring."

  "Yeah, I know. But I've been thinking maybe I should go for it."

  Bolan shook his head. "You're too damned good at what you do."

  "Old Mr. Indispensable, that's me."

  "So, give it time. You've got a year. Things may look different."

  "They may look worse. It's never finished, guy. You know that much as well as I do."

  "I gave up looking for the finish, Hal. It's strictly day to day."

  "So tell me something, will you? How in holy hell do you keep going? I mean how can you keep pushing it?"

  The soldier's smile was almost wistful as he answered. "No one ever said I had a choice."

  "Goddamn, I hate this job."

  "I'm late. I've got some other stops to make before the main festivities."

  "Be careful, huh?"

  The big Fed knew it sounded lame and shook his head disgustedly. "Hey, scratch that shit. You never learned what careful means."

  "I'll see you."

  "Yeah."

  He left Brognola standing there, among the trappings of another age, and started back in the direction of his modern war. The enemy was waiting for him, out there on the streets, and there could be no cloistered hideaways for Bolan, not while one of them survived to prey upon the weak and innocent.

  Who ever said I had a choice?

  The war was in his blood, and it would be there, burning, driving him to action, every moment of his life until that blood was spilled out on the earth.

  Brognola had been right about one thing.

  The war was everlasting, stretching out beyond the barriers of time and space. It had been going on for countless centuries before Mack Bolan's birth, and it would certainly survive him.

  But for now, this moment, one determined man could make a difference.

  A man like Bolan.

  All he had to do was try his damnedest, give his utmost to the cause, retaining nothing for himself.

  And he would keep on trying, sure, until his time ran out.

  If necessary, he would die trying.

  13

  Bobby D'Antoni drew deeply on the cigar, bringing it to life, and finally waved the houseman back. The sterling-silver lighter snapped shut close to his ear and then was gone.

  "Awright, go on. So what's your point?"

  The consigliere, Joe Marcellino, leaned across the table toward him, talking with his hands.

  "I don't like all this shit that's going down next door, is all. I say it stinks, and this is no time for a sit-down, when they're in the middle of a war."

  D'Antoni spread his hands and blew a cloud of smoke toward the penthouse-apartment ceiling.

  "War? I don't know anything about no war." He glanced around the table at his caporegime. "You boys know anything about a war?"

  They glanced at one another, shook their heads, gestures that rippled around the table, counterclockwise.

  "People's gettin' killed," Marcellino told him, bending forward so far that his chin was almost scraping on the tabletop. "No matter what you call it, now, the shit is in the fan."

  "So stand upwind." The capo waited until his underbosses chuckled dutifully. "I don't see any blowin' our way yet."

  "Why push it, eh? The meet's been waiting this long, it can wait another day or two."

  D'Antoni bristled.

  "Wait, nothing. Don Minelli's counting on me to be there. I give my word. I don't show up, somebody's gonna take it hard... and I don't want them bastards makin' any plans behind my back."

  "Minelli, hmm..." The little consigliere made a sour face. "I never trust him. You're smart, you don't trust him, either."

  "As far as I can see him, Joe. If he's got anything in mind for us, I wanna see it coming from a long way off."

  One of the under bosses raised a hand.

  "Yeah, Paulie."

  "Hey, I think Joe's onta somethin' there, with this Minelli business. Nobody seems to know that much about the guy, you know? An' I been checkin' since this trouble started, too. Seems like his family is the only one not takin' any hits."

  D'Antoni chewed that over for a moment, puffing rapidly on his cigar, his eyes screwed tight against the rising smoke.

  "Okay. So, le's imagine that Minelli has a thing against his neighbors. Could be the best thing ever happened to us, if the five families start chasin' each other in circles. Could make for lots of opportunities across the river, there."

  "Could make for lots of headaches, too," Marcellino grumbled.

  "So, I keep my date with Don Minelli, listen close to what he says. I take along some extra muscle for security... nothin' threatening, just common sense. I don't like what I hear..."

  The massive picture window on D'Antoni's left, overlooking downtown Newark, appeared to shiver momentarily, the center of it puckering as if an invisible finger was being poked through frozen cellophane. The illusion collapsed in the space of a heartbeat, along with the window, and everyone was scrambling for the far side of the room, all tangled up in chairs and table legs, recoiling from the shower of fractured glass.

  Everyone, except Joe Marcellino.

  D'Antoni saw his consigliere die, the gray hair lifting as a bullet took him from behind, the time-worn face exploding like a melon with a cherry bomb inside. His brains were on the table, glistening wet, and then D'Antoni felt the contents of his stomach coming up as he was diving toward the floor.

  His houseman took a little two-step toward the shattered window, dropping the lighter, one hand inside his jacket as he fished for his side arm. He almost made it, had his hand around the weapon's grips when he was lifted off his feet and hurled against the wall ten feet away. He hung there for an instant, crucified, and when he slithered down, he left a crimson track behind him on the paneling.

  D'Antoni heard the gunfire then, as distant as the street sounds coming up to him from twenty floors below. A big-game rifle, the bullets traveling ahead of sound; the
ir work was completed long before the victim had a chance to realize he had been shot.

  The capo wriggled on his belly through a littered mess of broken glass and blood. Overhead, the rounds were coming in with mechanical precision, smacking into walls, furniture and flesh with fine impartiality.

  One of his underbosses broke from cover, stumbled, finally found his balance halfway to the door. He took two strides before a spectral fist struck him hard between the shoulders, driving him face-first into the floor. He crumpled there, his leaking body serving as a doorstop, keeping out the gunners who were hammering to gain admittance.

  Almost as an afterthought, the sniper answered them with two rounds through the center of the door, big elephant loads blasting holes the size of baseballs and driving back the rescue squad outside. A voice was screaming in the anteroom, and Bob D'Antoni wished to hell someone would pull the plug on that one.

  A ringing silence settled in above the battlefield, the stillness almost suffocating in the aftermath of violent death. It took a moment for the street sounds to return, and with them came the sounds of moaning, weeping, someone mumbling a childhood prayer.

  D'Antoni used a high-backed chair to pull himself upright, keeping well clear of the window as he made it to his feet. He deliberately avoided looking at Marcellino, slumped across the table where he had been arguing effusively just moments earlier. The consigliere's voice was still now, his throat spread out across the conference table, blood soaking through the carpeting.

  Two others dead, one slightly wounded there, at least one other outside the door.

  The sniper knew what he was doing and Bob D'Antoni had already missed his chance to bag him. He would be long gone by now.

  But there was time to send the message back. Repay the debt with interest — if he only knew precisely who the sender was.

  One way to find out would be to keep his date with Don Minelli. Show up at the sit-down right on schedule and pretend that nothing strange and lethal had gone on in his own damned home.

  D'Antoni would be keeping his appointment, but he would travel with a full security detachment, and never mind appearances. If someone thought that he was being rude, displaying lack of trust, then they could take a look at Joe Marcellino, make up their minds for themselves.