Shock Waves(44)

"Done."

Then the capo left, relaxing slightly when the study door had closed behind him, cutting off the reptile stare. He made a conscious effort to unwind as he paced down the corridor of the meeting hall.

They would be gathering to hear him soon, to listen with their varying degrees of loyalty or suspicion, thinly veiled hostility or cool respect. It was a loaded audience, he knew, but Minelli felt a power growing within him now, the strength that was his birthright flowing electrically in his blood.

He could do anything tonight, and screw the Feds if they had any thoughts of pulling the net around him now, when he was so damned close to having everything. They were too late, and knowing that increased the bounce in his stride.

So what if Patriarcca's bitch was working for the government? She had attempted one phone call since her arrival, and had failed to make connections then. She left no message for her boss — whoever he might be — and any information she had passed along before arriving in New York would deal with Jules and no one else.

If anyone was on the hook, therefore, it would be Patriarcca, and that suited Minelli fine.

A federal prosecution might remove him from the scene and make room for a more deserving candidate.

Like Lazarus, perhaps.

The Ace was getting too damned big for Minelli's liking, and his attitude was verging on insubordination. When everything was settled at the conference, there would have to be some changes in the capo's own security machine, and there should be no problem in finding someone capable of taking up the slack once Lazarus was gone.

The Aces, after all, were known as much for their adaptability as for their grim ferocity in punishing La Cosa Nostra's enemies.

That settled, Minelli allowed himself a smile, the first sincere one of the day. His morning had begun with grim foreboding, but the night was proving to be another game entirely. Everything was coming off as planned, and just a few more hours would confirm his grip upon the reins of power in the brotherhood.

The boss of bosses. Capo di tutti capi.

The hungry smiles became a booming laugh, which carried Minelli on toward the meeting hall and destiny.

* * *

The Executioner was rigged for doomsday in the dark. The hidden pockets of his blacksuit were filled with the grim machinery of silent death. His hands and face were camouflaged with jungle war paint, making sure that nothing brighter than his eyes would catch a moonbeam and betray his presence on the grounds before he meant to make it known.

Big Thunder, the .44 AutoMag, rode his hip on military webbing, and the sleek Beretta nestled underneath his arm. Extra magazines for both the side arms circled Bolan's waist, the pouches interspersed with smoke and frag grenades arranged for quick retrieval. Other bandoliers of ammunition and explosives looped across his chest and further weighed the warrior down.

Bolan's main weapon for the strike was an Uzi submachine gun, selected for its convenience and firepower. Just under eighteen inches overall, with folding stock collapsed, the little stutter gun's effective killing range of one hundred yards would easily exceed the soldier's needs this time around.

When the killing started, Bolan would be thrown to center stage of what was shaping up as the most concentrated gathering of mafiosi since Miami, early in his private war. He wanted there to be no doubt of where he was and what was happening. It was another bloody generation's turn to live — and die — with terror, as countless of their victims had been doing since the Executioner's own "second mile" against the Mob.

They had grown soft, complacent, cocky in his absence, and the warrior was ready to begin his purge. But there were treasures hidden among the trash. Three lives, two of them more important to Mack Bolan than the third, but all inviolate while he survived, his honor pledged to bring them out intact... or die in the attempt.

Sally Palmer.

Nino Tattaglia.

Dave Eritrea.

He might have let Eritrea die, chalking it up as payment in arrears for ancient crimes, but after meeting Sarah, knowing of Brognola's promise that exclusive testimony would be bought with sanctuary, Bolan had no righteous choice.

The outer wall of Minelli's hard site posed no problem for the Executioner. He vaulted it and landed in a combat crouch inside, instinctively staying in the shadows there, his senses probing for any hostile challenge, finding none. When he was satisfied at last, the soldier cautiously advanced across the gently rolling, sparsely wooded grounds, his Uzi up and ready. Navigating by his instincts and the information gathered from his survey of the grounds that afternoon, he put a hundred yards behind him prior to meeting any opposition.

The capo had his sentries out, predictably, and they were circling the grounds in teams of two and three, one man in each team carrying a shotgun or an automatic weapon. Bolan heard the first pair coming and he melted into a shadow, letting them pass within arm's length; they suspected nothing. He had other games in mind just now.