Shock Waves(18)

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.