"How long ago did this happen?" he demanded of the nearest gunner.
"Five, ten minutes. Say..."
"All right, you'd better get this mess cleaned up. We don't want any other guests to get the wrong idea, now do we?"
The housemen were glancing back and forth at one another, clearly trying to take his measure, but only one could find the nerve to question his authority.
"I guess you're new around here, huh?"
"A lot of things are new around here. Slick. New faces, new ideas." He pointed toward the nearest burned-out Lincoln. "New problems."
"Uh, Mr. Minelli..."
"Has his own problems, right?" Bolan countered. "You want to disturb him with some simpleminded chicken shit like this?"
"I was jus' thinking..."
"Don't. I come up short on any thoughts, I'll let you know."
There was a snicker in the ranks, and the houseman flushed, glaring at one of his companions. But he was used to taking orders, deferring to strangers, and for the moment, at least, he was fresh out of questions.
"All right," he barked at the others, "let's get this cleared away."
Bolan returned to his car, fired the engine and maneuvered around the second Lincoln on his way toward the manor house. At fifty yards, he marked the gunners clustered on the wide veranda, and he slowed for the approach, following the drive around toward a parking area on the side. He wedged the rental between a Caddy and a bright red sportster, noting in his rearview mirror that one of the housemen had detached himself from the rest and was walking toward him.
He palmed the ace of spades and held it ready as the guy approached, suspicion written on his face, his jacket open to provide him ready access to the holstered hardware underneath. When Bolan flashed the death card, he was visibly surprised. It took an instant for him to collect his thoughts and give them voice.
"You must want Mr. Lazarus."
Bolan filed the name away and shook his head.
"Don't bother him. He's got enough things on his mind right now. I need to double-check security around your new arrivals."
"We've got everything in place," the houseman said, his tone defensive.
The Bolan sneer was withering.
"I just dropped by your outdoor body shop, all right? So cut the crap and show me where they're staying. Now."
The guy was clearly pondering an answer, but discretion got the better of his temper and he nodded, turning on his heel to lead the Black Ace around the great house to the rear.
Aside from Don Minelli's mansion, half a dozen bungalows were arranged around the grounds, connected by flagstone footpaths. Bolan had observed them through the sniperscope, but the buildings were larger than he had thought. And the would-be king of mob land could secure an army on his estate, damn right, if he was so inclined. Or hide a meeting of his fellow capos from the prying eyes of law enforcement, sure.
"The Cigliano party's here," the houseman told him, pointing out the nearest cottage on their left as they approached. "Don Patriarcca and his people are next door."
As he spoke, Sally Palmer suddenly emerged from Patriarcca's bungalow and set off toward the house with long, determined strides. Mack Bolan seized the time and brushed the houseman off with thanks, pursuing her along the flagstones, swiftly closing on her flank.
"One second, ma'am," he called to her.
The woman hesitated, turned, her face a study in curiosity and irritation.
"Yes?"
The soldier waited until he was close enough to speak without the houseman overhearing him.
"Long time no see," he said, flashing her a smile before his face went blank. "How's everything in Wonderland?"
9
The woman's first reaction was a puzzled frown, and then her eyes went wide behind the designer shades. She glanced around, marking the houseman as he retreated, watching for any other source of danger as she took a cautious step toward Bolan.
Sally Palmer had not seen the soldier since their last encounter in New York, before he shed his face and took another to resume the war on other fronts, but there was recognition in her eyes, damn right, and in her voice, as she addressed him in a whisper.
"My God, what are you doing here?" It clicked a heartbeat later, and her cheeks went red. "Goddamm it, that was you back there, with all the fireworks."
"Guilty."
"What's the big idea? I've been working Patriarcca for a year now, and you damn near gave him heart failure."
Bolan smiled.
"I'll bet his heart can stand a good deal more than that."
She hesitated, chewing her lower lip, the first hot rush of anger and confusion slowly cooling off.
"You're right, but dammit... I don't even know what to call you."