Tattaglia's first call, naturally, had gone to Hal Brognola.
And his second, at the big Fed's urging, had been patched through blinds and cutouts to Mack Bolan, via brother Johnny and the San Diego Strongbase.
It was time to move, and Bolan finished checking out his mobile arsenal. The warrior was in blacksuit, hands and face obscured by Special Forces war paint. Underneath his arm, the sleek Beretta 93-R was secured in its harness, built to accommodate the special silencer it carried. The silver AutoMag, Big Thunder, rode his hip on military webbing, and the canvas pouches circling his waist held extra magazines for both weapons and a selection of grenades. The pockets of his nightsuit held stilettos, strangling gear... the grim accessories of death.
Though he was going in with thunder, he preferred a silent probe to a violent confrontation. A quiet in-and-out would suit him fine, providing the hostile guns cooperated, and providing he found what he was looking for.
The Mafia safehouse was a rambling split-level on Long Island Sound. Its wooded grounds provided solitude, but from the terrace, facing westward, the Bronx was visible, and the speckled darkness of Connecticut farther north. It was the kind of view some people mortgaged lifetimes to secure, but tonight no one in the house cared about it. The focus lay within.
A sentry was posted in the front, another in the fear, but neither seemed much concerned about the possibility of meeting an intruder. It was the kind of duty that consumed so much of any soldier's time with watching and waiting, usually in vain.
He approached the front man from behind, looping taut piano wire around his neck while the guard was gazing at the stars. Bolan followed up with a twist and drag to throw the guy off balance as the wire sliced through his larynx, blocking his intake of oxygen and slashing his jugular. Then the Executioner rode him down, maintaining pressure while the blood spewed and the tremors faded, finally passing away. He used the slim garrote to haul the straw man out of sight beneath a hedge, and moved toward his second target.
Standing on a narrow pier that thrust out twenty feet or so into the sound, the sentry was staring distractedly across the calm obsidian water toward the mainland, heedless of the gliding death approaching on his flank. The soldier could have advanced upon the pier itself and been within striking range, but it was too damned risky. One sound, one creaking board beneath his feet, and nothing in the world would stop his target from unlimbering the stubby scattergun tucked beneath his arm. Then, no matter if Bolan won or lost the draw, the sound would rouse his enemies in the house and blow away his slim advantage of surprise.
He slid the Beretta from leather, eased off the safety, braced it in both hands and sighted upon his target, who faced away from him at a distance of thirty yards. Bolan lightly stroked the trigger, riding out the recoil to assess his shot. The parabellum mangier drilled a tidy hole behind an ear and expanded into bone and brain, its force contained within the gunner's skull. It lifted him off his feet and threw him overboard, the splash muffled by the wind rising off the sound.
Bolan doubled back to the house. He crossed the patio, its windows obscured by the curtains drawn across French doors, and circled around to a darkened window standing open to the night. Whatever else they were, the occupants were sloppy when it came to defense, and he was counting on that edge to see him through the next few moments.
Bolan pushed back the curtains, letting his Beretta lead the way inside. With a single fluid motion he cleared the sill, discovering himself inside an unoccupied bedroom. He reached the door and eased it open minutely, gun in hand, studying the corridor beyond. The sound of talking reached him.
"She's too damned old for me," one guy was saying.
"Yeah? So what the hell do you know, Junior?"
"Young or old, it's all the same," a third voice said.
"My ass."
"Could be. I haven't tried it yet."
In the ensuing chorus of hoots and jeers, he eased the bedroom door a little farther open, risking one quick glance down the hall in each direction. To the right, the hallway ran some twenty feet and ended at another door, evidently opening upon another bedroom. To the left, in a brightly lighted sunken living room, several gunners were lounging, their jackets off, revealing holstered hardware.
"We'd better get her ready," one of them said; Bolan ducked back under cover as an armchair groaned beneath the soldier's shifting weight.
"She's ready now," a second gunner chortled.
Bolan wondered if the troops were using alcohol to pass the time. It would not hurt his chances any if reaction times were down, the combat reflex slowed by liquor. Any edge was a welcome one.
A burly gunner passed before him, visible in profile through the crack of the open door. He waited long enough to let the hardman reach his destination, heard him fumbling with keys and chanced another glance along the corridor.