"He's Augie's son."
"Where is he, Sal?"
"I don't know." Sudden recognition, burning in the blue eyes like a cobalt flame. "Oh no, the cars."
Bolan didn't hear the rest. He was taking the stairs three at a time, sprinting through the hellgrounds toward a deadline he could not afford to miss.
A family reunion , right, with Grim Death serving as the host.
* * *
Ernesto Marinello pushed Eritrea in front of him, his heavy Colt revolver prodding at the captive's back and urging him to greater speed. The smoky atmosphere of the narrow passageway was heavy with a smell of burning dreams.
It was only another fifty yards to the rear garage, where Marinello kept his backup wheels. The sleek Mercedes would be perfect, he decided. Power underneath the hood, and just enough room for himself, together with his ticket out.
Eritrea was coming with him, he decided; far enough to get him through the cordon that the police were throwing around the house. From the living room the sirens had been audible above the gunfire, and he had seen the flashing lights of cruisers circling the driveway, hemming in the tanks that had spearheaded the attack.
No point in wondering which family had betrayed him in his hour of triumph. There would be time enough for that when he was free and clear. To plot his comeback, right, and never mind the saying that you can't go home again.
He had achieved it once, or nearly so, and he would pull it off yet. His father's legacy was waiting for him, and he had already come too far, expended too much time and energy — too damn much money — to let it slip away without a fight.
Eritrea could help him there. The Feds and strike-force cops were jealous of their witnesses, and they would offer him safe conduct if he played it right. Then, once he cleared the cordon and was running safely...
Despite the smoke, Marinello smiled. He studied the back of Dave Eritrea's head, calculating where the bullet would go. He owed the bastard something, for the way he had moved in on Augie's territory when the old man bought it in New Jersey. Don Ernesto might have put it all together then, if only this one had not stepped in first and brought the whole damned Bolan mess right down around their ears. There had been chaos and disorder, territorial wars and prosecutions in Bolan's wake.
Marinello shrugged. His time was coming, and even the most bitter disappointment could not hold him off forever. It was coming, over Dave Eritrea's dead body.
Ahead of them, his pointman opened the person-sized door to the garage, giving them a breath of cleaner air as he stepped inside. He slapped the light switch with his palm, and brilliance filled the cavernous interior. Behind him, Marinello shoved Eritrea, propelling him inside.
"I'm taking the Mercedes," Marinello told his bodycock. "You get the door."
The gunner glanced inside the two-seater and frowned. There was a certain sluggishness as he did his capo's bidding, reaching for the switch that would open the electric door and roll it back against the rafters.
"What about me. sir?" he finally asked.
"You won't be coming this time, Charley," Marinello answered. There was secret malice in his smile. "Somebody's got to keep an eye on things."
"You'll need a driver, Mr. Marinello.'
"No, he won't."
The voice came to them from the darkness, just outside the open door, its tone invading Marinello's bones with ice. His bodycock was swiveling in the direction of the sound, and Marinello stepped across to stand behind Eritrea, one arm around the captive's throat, nestling the muzzle of his Colt against the pigeon's spine.
A black-clad figure stepped into the light, one arm outstretched, his fist wrapped tightly around the biggest goddamned silver hog leg Marinello ever saw. The muzzle, aimed directly at his face, looked big enough to fire a gold ball. A sheen of perspiration formed on the capo's face and hands.
The guy was like no goddamned cop that he had ever seen before, and Marinello knew instinctively that he would have a tough time buying out of this one, with Eritrea or otherwise.
This guy was death, and he was there on business.
"Take him!" Marinello barked, and Charley made his move.
It wasn't even close.
The silver cannon swung across, the muzzle turning from Marinello to belch a tongue of fire directly in the hardman's face. Before the capo's eyes, his head evaporated into crimson mist, the shards of bone and greasy droplets of his essence spraying over Marinello and Eritrea, small pieces of him clinging wetly to the mafioso's face, his suit. Then Bolan's weapon swung back to Marinello.
Held rigidly by Marinello, Eritrea eyed the man in black as if he was some kind of ghost. Marinello jammed his Colt against the pigeon's skull, forcing his head over sideways at an awkward angle, grinding steel against bone. He swallowed hard and tried to put steel in his voice.