Shock Waves(15)

The rifle's magazine was already loaded to capacity with four of the big .444 magnum cartridges, each capable of delivering 675 foot-pounds of energy on target at the range he had in mind. Bolan worked the lever action now to chamber up a live one. Operating by touch, his eyes never leaving the compound below, he fed another round into the magazine, giving himself a five-shot capability.

And he would need it, oh yes, before the day got any older.

Two sleek Continental limos were approaching from the west along the private access road. If Tattaglia was correct, the first arrivals would be West Coast capo's Lester Cigliano and Jules Patriarcca, traveling together for convenience and as a symbol of their solidarity.

Based in Seattle, Patriarcca ruled an empire spanning the Pacific Northwest, with connections in Canada and along the Alaskan pipeline. Jules was considered the man in the West and Minelli would require his help — or, at the very least, Jules's tolerance — to stake out any Western claims.

As for "L.A. Lester" Cigliano, he was a newcomer, the surprised recipient of a battlefield promotion after his superiors turned up among the dead in Bolan's latest Hollywood campaign. Some said Lester was leaning heavily on guidance from the older, wiser Patriarcca and that Cigliano was a Patriarcca stooge, cooperating in the annexation of L.A.

Whatever else the two men had in common, they were vocal in their opposition to the East Coast hierarchy — and Minelli in particular — when it came down to sharing votes on la commissione. If Jules and Lester had their way, the rumors ran, there would be changes in the brotherhood from top to bottom to reflect the changing times, the westward shift in profit-turning rackets through the past ten years. Lately they had been gathering adherents in the families of the South and Midwest.

And so Minelli's sit-down could as easily become a showdown. Bolan would be counting on the everyday suspicions, doubts and paranoia that the average mafioso carried with him, and the Executioner planned to do everything within his power to heat things up inside the hostile camp.

Divide and conquer, sure.

It was a strategy as old as man, as old as war itself.

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.