She did not have the capo of Seattle wrapped around her finger, not by any means. But he would trust her to a point, and there was just a chance that any accusations coming from Minelli's camp could backfire, be construed as last-ditch efforts to impugn the West Coast family's honor.
It was a shot. And it was all she had.
She freshened her lipstick, fluffed her hair and kept the comb in hand as she emerged from the lounge. Before the door closed, she saw the two men coming toward her from the far end of the corridor, but Sally kept it cool, ignoring them, making a show of returning the comb to her purse. As if they were invisible, she turned her back, proceeding along the hallway toward the living room.
And spied the soldier who had tailed her from the cottage, waiting for her at the other end.
"One moment, please."
A cultured voice, but still terse and threatening.
They had her boxed, and Sally hesitated, turning back in the direction of the voice.
"I beg your pardon?"
Tall, dark and attractive, the leader closed the gap with easy strides. His flanker was a classic button man, devoid of all originality.
"A word, if you don't mind, about your phone call."
Sally arched an eyebrow, striving for the sort of arrogance Mob courtesans reserve for underlings.
"And if I do mind?"
"I'm afraid I must insist."
A finger snap, and suddenly her shadow was beside her, taking her by the arm and steering her along the corridor. She tried to pull away, and then the button had her other arm, his fingers digging in like talons, hurting her deliberately.
Her mind was racing as they trailed the tall man along the hall, toward the center of the house. Unbidden, Bolan flashed across her thoughts and then was gone, replaced by brooding dread.
She was in trouble, and she knew it.
16
David Eritrea shifted on the metal cot, searching in vain for a comfortable position. The lumpy slab of mattress was bad enough, but he was further limited in movements by the handcuffs that secured his left wrist to one leg of the cot, which in turn had been securely bolted to the floor.
He knew he wasn't going anywhere until Minelli thought the time was right. The disposition of his case was preordained, of course. He had informed, and never mind the reasons that had guided his decision. The penalty for violation of omerta's silent code was death. The only question left concerned the time and method of his execution.
Minelli had some use for him; that much was clear. The hit team could have killed him in his home with far less effort than they spent abducting him, his wife...
The thought of Sarah, never far from him through the past three days, made Eritrea sick at heart. Minelli could not let her live, not now, and for Eritrea, there was no way to skirt the guilt that came with knowing she faced death because of him.
She might be dead already, and for a stomach-churning moment, he almost hoped it was true. If they were in a hurry, they would not have the time for... other things.
Eritrea had seen and done enough himself to know what might befall his wife in hostile hands. He blocked the grisly images with force of will alone, and concentrated on the question of his own continuing survival.
In the federal witness program, cut off from the day-today intrigue of Mafia life, he had lost track of the contenders for old Augie Marinello's empty throne. Minelli was a fleeting memory, a lowly troop commander at the time Eritrea made his power play and ran headlong into the Bolan juggernaut.
Mack Bolan.
Dave Eritrea could never hear the name without a flood of mixed emotions. Bolan had destroyed his dreams of empire, boundless power, forced him into exile, in the company of strangers. And yet...
At another level, almost subconsciously, Eritrea retained a grudging admiration for the soldier who had brought him down. The guy had guts and style, no doubt about it. He had suckered everyone, the whole five families, and had them dancing to his tune as neat as you please. Nobody else had come as close to standing the brotherhood on its ear.
He almost wished that Bolan was around today, to shake things up... and maybe take Eritrea the hell away from there. It would have been a handy out, but David knew the hellfire guy was dead.
It had been a jolt, those newspaper headlines, laying down how Bolan had flamed out in Central Park. Right there on Eritrea's own home ground, but too damned late to do the former mafioso any good. The stud had pushed his luck too far, misjudged the opposition, and his time ran out. Spectacularly.
The bastard even died with style.
And at the same time, Dave Eritrea had felt a twinge of sadness at the soldier's passing. Not that they were friends or anything, far from it. In his day, Eritrea would have gladly gouged the warrior's eyes out with his fingers, given half a chance.
But you had to have respect for someone who retained his sense of honor to the bitter end and never gave an inch. He lived and died by the vendetta, sure, and that was something any mafioso could relate to. The blood debt, sometimes spanning generations, aching to be paid in still more blood.