Somebody like Mack Bolan.
Another problem would be Bill Rafferty, an honest cop as devoted to his job as the soldier was to his private war. If Rafferty decided to reject the Bolan truce, if duty ordered him to intervene between the lone crusader and his marks, there would be hell to pay. Brognola knew that Bolan would not drop the hammer on a cop, but he had been in towns — New York included — where the law had issued orders for the soldier to be shot on sight.
He had known all that, and yet he could not say as much to Rafferty when they were on the phone. Rafferty had lived through other Bolan wars, knew well enough his modus operandi, and he would avoid an escalation of the killing if he had a chance.
Another problem in New York was Flasher, Hal Brognola's second undercover agent on the scene: he had lied to Rafferty, of course, about not having anyone on the scene. If their positions were reversed, Rafferty would undoubtedly have done the same.
But Flasher was a wild card in the game — unknown to Bolan, unknown even to Tattaglia. The agent's presence was a variable that could distort the whole equation. A time bomb for both sides.
There had been no reason to alert Tattaglia, and no safe way to clue the hellfire warrior in on something that his contact did not know.
Tattaglia was a born survivor. Flasher was a battle-hardened pro. And Bolan was a combination of them both.
Whatever happened in New York, the Executioner would meet the threat head-on, as always, with explosive force. If undercover agents crossed his path, they would be on their own. Survival of the fittest, and in the meanest jungle of them all.
Knowing he could not return to sleep, Brognola finally gave up trying. There would be something he could do around the office, certainly, if only staring at the silent, mocking telephone. In time, there would be word from Rafferty, from Flasher, from Tattaglia — from someone.
Whichever way it went.
And any way it went, Manhattan would be bracing for a firestorm. With all of New York's families involved, and dons from half a dozen other states arriving for the sitdown, the explosion would dwarf the blasts produced by Bolan's prior visits, create shock waves felt from coast to coast.
Brognola knew exactly what was going on in New York, no matter what he said to Rafferty. He knew the who and what and why of it as well as he knew anything on earth. The only open question that remained to haunt him now pertained to names of the survivors. And there was no earthly way to answer that one, not before the guns went off.
He wished them all the best. Bill Rafferty. Tattaglia and Flasher. Holy warrior Bolan.
He wished their enemies a living hell on earth before oblivion eclipsed them all.
He could do nothing to change the odds, nothing to alter whatever might be preordained for Bolan in New York.
Or could he?
Hal Brognola ceased his pacing and pounced upon the telephone.
7
Don Ernesto Minelli's retreat was located on Staten Island, overlooking Great Kills Harbor. Mack Bolan found the name ironic, almost prophetic, as he stowed the rental car beneath a stand of trees and locked it, moving swiftly back to lift a long bundle from the trunk.
Great Kills.
All right.
The place might live up to its name before he finished with Minelli and the other New York families.
A thirty-second jog brought Bolan to a hilltop overlooking the Minelli hard site, with a sweeping view of house and grounds, part of the harbor and the private access road that ran through gently rolling, sparsely wooded hills to terminate on Don Minelli's doorstep. New arrivals would be forced to use that road, unless they came by sea or helicopter and landed on the estate grounds. In any case, the soldier had them covered from his vantage point.
And arrivals were expected, Bolan knew, at any moment. Tattaglia had briefed him on the ETAs of seven capos coming in from out of state, and all would be arriving through the morning, driving in or chauffeured from the airport by Minelli's fleet of limos. Add the ranking New York bosses, and you had an even dozen of the nation's leading cannibals beneath one roof, a target Bolan could not resist.
But chief among the soldier's personal priorities was the rescue of Dave Eritrea.
He crouched in the shadow of an elm and peeled away the wrappings from his bundle. Nestled in the sackcloth was a Marlin Model .444 lever-action big-game rifle, fitted with a massive twenty-power telescopic sight. He raised the weapon to his shoulder, balancing the almost eight-pound weight of it in skillful hands, and leaned into the eyepiece of the scope.
Below, Minelli's house sprang into sharp relief, appearing almost life-size at a range of some three hundred yards. He scanned the grounds, picked out a hardman masquerading as a gardener out back, and knew there would be others in the house or among the trees, awaiting the arrival of their capo's guests.