The Executioner (№3) - Battle Mask

Bonelli was twisted into a caved-in section of the roof, partially pulped and obviously dead. Bolan wrestled his head clear, just the same, and shot him between the eyes. Then he began the back track of strewn bodies.

Willie Walker was the nearest. Part of his head was missing and the legs were bent into an impossible configuration under his back; Bolan had to settle for a bullet between where the eyes had been.

Harold the Greaser Schiaperelli was next. He was partially decapitated and one hand was missing. Bolan drilled another hole between the gaping eyes.

Mario Capistrano lay on his side in the sand. He was weeping and contemplating a number of jagged ribs which protruded from his side. Bolan rolled him face up, said, "Close your eyes," and promptly gave him a third one which could not be closed.

Lou Pena was on his knees, watching Bolan's advance. His right arm was missing, from the elbow down. The nose was smashed and two teeth protruded through his lower lip. In a strangely quacking Donald Duck voice, he said, "I got it. I got Bolan's head."

"Do tell," Bolan said, and shot him between the eyes. He caught the torn body as it toppled forward and felt through the pockets, finding Brantzen's sketch next to Pena's heart.

Bolan struck a match and held the flame under the sketch, turning it carefully to insure an even burn. Then he scattered the ashes in a fine powder across the sands as he retraced his steps to the roadway. He returned to the Mercedes, looked it over, and wrote it off. He opened the gas tank and encouraged a flow across the parched land until he was a safe distance removed, then he struck another match and touched it to the spillage.

The flames raced quickly along the gasoline trail. Bolan was already trudging toward the Palm Springs and did not even look back when the explosion came. A terrible force was afoot in the land, he was thinking, when a man like Jim Brantzen could be reduced to a mound of mutilated meat by the likes of that back there.

And there were more, like those back there, up there across that horizon. Mack Bolan's new horizon had never been closer, nor more passionately sought. Death on the hoof was moving toward Palm Springs.

Chapter Twenty-One

The squeeze

The sun was approaching the high point in the sky when Bolan staggered into Palm Springs, picked up a taxi, and went on to his hotel. The desk clerk gaped at this appearance and said, "Did you have an accident, Mr. Lambretta?"

"I lost my car," Bolan told him. "Get me another one just like it, will you."

The clerk's chin dropped another inch. "Yes sir," he replied crisply.

"Send up a couple of buckets of ice."

"Yes sir, and the liquids that go with it?"

"Just the ice," Bolan said tiredly. "I'll need the car in an hour." He swung about and wobbled toward the elevator.

"Uh, Mr. Lambretta, we might have to compromise a bit on the color. The Mercedes, I mean."

"I said just like it," Bolan snapped back. He went on up to his room, stripped off the sweat-soaked clothing, and moved immediately to the bath. Shocked by his own dust-streaked image in the mirror, he scowled at the still strange mask of Frank Lambretta, stepped into the shower, and luxuriated there for several minutes, frequently raising his face into the spray to suck the water into the parched membranes of his mouth and throat.

Two small plastic containers of crushed ice were on the dressing table when he returned to the bedroom. The dust— and sweat-encased clothing had been removed; his revolvers lay on the bed beside a layout of fresh underwear.

Bolan got into the underwear and stuffed a small snowball into his mouth, then reached for the telephone and called the unlisted number in DiGeorge's study. Phil Marasco's voice broke into the first ring. "Yes?" he said softly.

"This is Frank," Bolan said. "Tell Deej that order's been filled."

A short pause, then: "Okay, Franky, I'll tell him. Where are you?"

"At the hotel. I'm beat. I'll be in pretty soon."

Bolan could hear DiGeorge's quiet rumble in the background but could not distinguish the words. Marasco said, "Deej wants to know about the picture."

"What picture?"

"The subject was supposedly carrying a surgeon's sketch of another interesting subject. Do you have it?"

"Of course not, Bolan snorted. "I don't go around collecting souvenirs."

Another background rumble, then: "He wants to know where you left that contract."

"Where the mountain meets the desert," Bolan reported cryptically, "and where one subject might wait for another."

"Okay, I got that. Deej says come home as soon as possible."

"Tell Deej I took a five-mile stroll in the sun. Tell him I'll be home when I can forget that."

Marasco chuckled. "Okay, Franky, I'll tell him. Get yourself rested, then come on out. There's things you should know about."

"I'll be there," Bolan said. He hung up, stared at the floor for a moment, then opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit one, and stretched out across the bed.

"Yes, I'll be there," he repeated in a dull monotone, speaking to himself. "With bells."

Philip Marasco led the search party out the little-travelled desert blacktop which links Palm Springs and Palm Village. Two cars, each carrying five men, made the short trip to the crossroads and found the scene of Franky Lucky's "hit" with no difficulty whatever.

The ten Mafiosi ran excitedly about the scene of action, poking, pointing, and animatedly reconstructing the details. Marasco searched each body thoroughly, went over the vehicle with precision, then arranged his troops at arm's-length intervals for a wide scrutiny along the entire length of the death car's travel.

Returning to the villa, Marasco dolefully reported to his Capo, "If Lou had a sketch, he must've ate it. And you should see the mess this Franky Lucky made of those boys. I never saw nothing like it."

"It don't make sense that he had no sketch," DiGeorge argued fretfully. "He had to have something up his sleeve or he wouldn't have been beating it back here. I guess there was nothing left alive, eh?"

"Not hardly," Marasco replied, shuddering. "There wasn't hardly anything left even whole. I never saw such a mess. This Franky Lucky is a mean contractor. And let me tell you, Deej, he don't mess around on a hit. Remember those six-to-one odds we was talking about last night?"

DiGeorge soberly nodded his head. "Didn't mean much, eh?"

"It wouldn't have meant anything at twelve to one, Deej. I tell you, when this Franky Lucky does find himself a piece of that Bolan, I want to be around to see what happens."

DiGeorge was staring thoughtfully into empty space. He noisily cleared his throat and said, "I wonder if you've thought of something, Phil. I wonder if you realize that someone has been playing games with old Deej."

Marasco inspected his Capo's face, found no clue to his thoughts, and replied, "What kind of games, Deej?"

"What was it Franky Lucky was telling me about this fight he had with Bolan? He said he saw Bolan down at the corners, and he recognized him, and they shot it out. And this was just a few days after Bolan ducked us over at th' Village. Right?"

"Yeah." Marasco was chewing the thought. "But I . . ." His eyes widened and he said, "Whuup! Willie Walker says on the phone that Bolan got his face carved the day of the hit."

"That's just what I been thinking, Philip Honey," DiGeorge mused. "Now somebody has got a story crossed. I wonder who?"

"Why would Franky want to cross you up, Deej?"

"That's what I have to wonder about, Phil. We're just saying if, now. If Screwy Looey was telling it straight. Have you ever caught Lou in a lie, Phil? I mean ever? An important lie?"

Marasco was thinking about it. He shook his head and replied, "I don't believe Lou ever gave you anything but a straight lip, Deej. But we got to remember one thing. Lou could have thought he had something. Maybe someone else wanted him to think that."

"You ever know any boys that got face jobs, Phil?"

"Yeah. It used to be the fashion back East."

"How long before they're out of bandages?"

"Oh, two or three weeks."

DiGeorge grunted. "And the boys I knew, they went around with puss pockets and Band-Aids for sometimes a month after that. It's a messy thing, this face job."

"They're even moving hearts around from body to body now, Deej. Maybe they got better ways to give face jobs now, too."

"I want somebody to find out about that," DiGeorge commanded.

"Sure, Deej."

"Meanwhile, Franky Lucky is right back in probate. If Bolan did get a face job, Franky didn't see him at no desert corners a few days later, no matter how fancy they get with face jobs. There's only one of two ways, saying that Bolan did get carved. He either saw him in bandages, or he saw him wearing the new face. Now that's plain, ain't it? Franky Lucky could not have recognized Bolan three days after a face job!"

"That's a fact, Deej," Marasco said. He appeared to be slightly out of breath. "Saying, of course, that Lou had the straight lip, then Franky Lucky has been using a curved one."

DiGeorge sighed. "That's a fact, Philip Honey." He sighed again. "You say the boy shoots a hard hit, eh?"

"You'd have to see what I saw, Deej, before you could ever know."

"Wouldn't it be hell," DiGeorge said tiredly, "if Franky Lucky turns out to be this Bolan's new face."

Marasco lost his breath entirely. His face paled. "I wouldn't go that far, Deej," he puffed.

"I would," DiGeorge stated matter-of-factly. "That's why I'm the Capo, Philip Honey. I would. When is Victor Poppy due in?"

"L.A. International at two o'clock," Marasco replied mechanically. "Franky might have lied a little, Deej. About shooting it up with Bolan. Just to get your attention."

"I thought of that, too. I have to think of everything, Phil. Don't worry, I'm thinking. I sure want to see this gift Victor's bringing us."

"I'd have to guess that Franky Lucky is straight, Deej," Marasco stated, phrasing the strongest argument he dared.

"You do the guessing, Phil," DiGeorge replied with a weary smile. "I'll do the thinking."

Bolan stopped at a secluded public telephone booth and gambled on finding Carl Lyons at the contact number. The gamble paid off. Lyons immediately asked, "What do you know about the events at Palm Village early this morning?"

"Enough," Bolan said. "I'll trade some intel with you."

"No trades," Lyons clipped back. "Tim Braddock's at the point of death, and the most grisly damn piece of . . ."

"I know all about it, Lyons," Bolan said humbly. "Will Braddock make it?"

"The doctors are hopeful, At the very best though, he'll be out of things for quite a while."

"He's a good cop," Bolan said, genuinely regretful.

"Better than some I know," Lyons replied in a faint self-mockery. "What'd you call about, Pointer?"

"My cover's in danger. I need some intel."

"Just a minute . . . Brognola's here and frothing. He was doubling up between us and Braddock, and . . . just a minute, Pointer."

Bolan heard a whispered consultation, then the light click of another receiver coming on the line.

"Okay," Lyons said. "Brognola's on with us. You give us some words first. Who made that hit up there this morning, besides Pena?"

"I don't know all the names, but you can identify the remains," Bolan replied. "You'll find them scattered around the junction of the Palm Springs high and low roads. Six of them, including Pena."

"All dead," Brognola's smooth voice stated.

"That's right," Bolan said. "Now can we talk about my problem?"

"Who killed them?" from Brognola.

"Call it a double contract," Bolan said. "Julian DiGeorge got the idea that Pena has been informing. The other five boys were siding with Pena."

"Then the rubout had no connection with the murders of the Conns and the plastic surgeon?" Brognola asked.

"I didn't say that," Bolan replied.

Lyons snarled. "This guy is playing games with you, Hal. Bolan, you executed those men, didn't you!"

"Who's he talking to?" Bolan asked Brognola.

"They found out that Brantzen had altered your face, and they went up there to wring something out of him! That much is obvious so save all of us the time and stop playing games. You happened along, saw what they'd done to your doctor friend, and went gunning for them. Now you're saying that your cover is in jeopardy. What kind of information did Pena get back to the mob before you killed him, Bolan?"

"Just a moment, before you answer that, Mr. Pointer," Brognola said. "Please don't leave the line."

Again the sounds of a muted, off-phone discussion came to Bolan's ears. Then Brognola came back on. "Mr. Pointer," he said, "we appreciate the work you've been doing for us, and we have no wish to compromise your position. You don't have to say anything to incriminate yourself."

"Fair enough," Bolan replied.

"We are not questioning your identity. Just tell us this much. Were the murders at Palm Village this morning ordered by Julian DiGeorge?"

"No," Bolan said. "It was all Pena's idea."

"I see. And now Pena and his squad are dead."

"That's right."

"At DiGeorge's orders?"

"There was a contract out on Pena"

"I see," Brognola replied with some confusion.

Bolan sighed. "Okay, Lyons," he said. "I don't want you people to start questioning my intel. You're right, it's no time for games. Besides, I'm about as incriminated as one person can get already. This is Bolan. I've penetrated the DiGeorge family, and I pulled off the hit on Pena this morning. I was acting purely for myself on that one, though. You saw, or heard, what they did to Brantzen."

"Yeah," Lyons said softly. "Braddock gave a pretty good description of the guy who helped him, Bolan. It fits a man who was sitting in my car the other night, in Redlands."

"Yeah," Bolan said. "About my problem."

"Go ahead," Lyons sighed.

"I hear that: the Commissione employs a private staff of enforcers. I need to know who runs that show."

"That's your department, Hal," Lyons said.

"Presently only ten bosses sit on the Commissione," Brognola reported. He rattled off the names. "You'll note that DiGeorge's name is not present. He walked out in a huff two years ago over some dispute about the narcotics traffic. He sits in from time to time, though, when some subject important to him comes up for discussion. Technically, he still has a voice on that council."

"But there are tensions?" Bolan asked interestedly.

"There are tensions," Brognola assured him. "The council wanted to regulate prices. DiGeorge won't go for it. He controls a big slice of their narcotic imports. He feels that the pricing is his affair, and he wholesales to the other families on his own terms. Yes, there are tensions."

"Thanks," Bolan said. "That gives me something to parlay, I'm especially interested in the council's enforcers, though. What can you tell me about that?"

Brognola coughed and said, "The Talifero brothers, it is said, have the most feared crew of enforcers in the country. These brothers are loosely called 'Pat and Mike.' They are . . ."

"Okay, I've heard of Pat and Mike. What you say wraps it up. Maybe I can keep my neck out of . . ."

"Be careful, Pointer," Brognola urged. "These Talifero boys are double trouble. It's said that once they get their orders, they are like guided missiles, there's no way of calling them back or scrubbing the hit. The triggermen in their crew are like an elite Gestapo, taking orders from no one but Pat and Mike. The brothers themselves operate directly out of the Commissione."

"Exactly what I wanted," Bolan commented. "I'd better bug off now."

"Uh, Pointer . . ."Brognola said hurriedly.

"Yes?"

"I'm flying to Washington tonight. I'd like to make a representation on your behalf."

"What sort of representation?"

"A sort of unofficial 'forgive and forget' representation. Do you follow me?"

"Who's playing games now?" Bolan said, chuckling.

"He's dead serious, Bolan," Lyons broke in.

Brognola said, "Rather, uh, high offices have been apprised of your successes here. We've suspected your true identity and now that you've confirmed it . . . well . . . I'm not promising anything, but . . . I believe I can get you a portfolio — unofficially, you understand — if you'll agree to continue on in your present role."

"It is my intention to continue," Bolan said. "Unless I die soon."

"You aren't going to die soon, are you?" Lyons said, chuckling.

"Not if I can help it."

"Can we do anything to help?"

"I doubt it. I guess it's my show — win, lose, or draw. Uh, you might look into the death of Charles D'Agosta two years ago, age about 20, supposedly drowned on a boating accident off San Pedro."

"Mafia rubout, Bolan?" Lyons asked.

"Let's can him Pointer," Brognola broke in nervously.

Bolan laughed and said, "The rubout is an outside chance. Look into it, will you?"

"I'll do that," Lyons assured him. "Anything else?"

"You might pray."

Lyons and Brognola chuckled. Bolan said, "Well . . ."

"Braddock says thanks," Lyons added hastily.

Bolan said, "Sure," and broke the connection. He returned to the new Mercedes, checked his gunleather, and set off for the villa. Police-community relations had never seemed better for Mack Bolan. He wondered vaguely what was implied by acquiring a "portfolio."

"Maybe it's a license to kill," he muttered to his Mercedes. "And then again," he added thoughtfully, "maybe it's a license to die."

Either way, Mack Bolan was not too impressed with licenses. He had his rage to keep him warm.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The enforcer

The gate guard grinned warmly and said, "Hi-ya, Franky. God, I heard about the fracture this morning. They say it was like a wild man. I wished I'd been with you."

Bolan kept his face straight and said, "You might get a chance, Andrew Hardy." He soberly winked one eye and eased on over to his usual parking place. He noted that the gate guard had trotted down to engage another guard in an animated conversation.

Benny Peaceful appeared as Bolan was leaving the Mercedes. He showed Bolan the peace sign and said, "Somebody has been waiting for you by the pool for a couple of hours. Somebody's gonna be terrible disappointed if you don't go in that way."

Bolan acknowledged the message with a nod of his head. He paused to light a cigarette and said, "What's rumbling, Benny?"

"The whole joint's rocking over your work this morning," the youth replied, laboring to maintain a sober visage. "Don't surprise me none, of course. I knew what you could do, Franky."

"I need your help, Benny Peaceful," Bolan said, staring over the boy's head. "I think I know what you can do, too."

Benny seemed to grow an immediate inch. Following Bolan's lead, he averted his eyes in a casual inspection of the sky. "You just say it, Franky Lucky," he said solemnly.

"A boy like you can change his thinking when the right time comes," Bolan suggested.

"You watch me."

"Pat and Mike could use a boy like that."

The youth's breath hurriedly left him. He staggered slightly, regained his balance, and then gave way to the glowing smile that was fighting for control of his facial muscles. "God!" he exclaimed. "I knew you was something special."

"A boy that knows when to keep quiet, and then when to come running at the right time — he can be a valuable boy," Bolan pointed out.

"You just snap your fingers, Franky Lucky," Benny assured him.

"Okay. You be ready for the snap." Bolan tossed away the cigarette and entered the enclosed patio. Benny Peaceful came in several paces to the rear and took up station against the wall, his face glowing like the sunrise. Bolan went back to him and said, "Listen, I made a decision, you're my second here. You know?"

The news was almost too much for Benny Peaceful. His lips trembled, he drew in a ragged breath, and he gasped. "I'm your boy, Franky. What's going on?"

Bolan leaned closer. "I told you, Benny, a valuable boy has to change his thinking. Deej is out. Understand?"

The youth nodded his head in an uncoordinated jerk. "I been hearing," he replied. "I been changing my thinking, since a long time back."

"Okay, now you round up the other boys that've been thinking. We don't want the good to go down with the bad, do we, Benny Peaceful? I'm making that your Number One job for right now. You mark the ones that are fit to save. You know?"

"God, I know, Franky."

"Okay. You get these boys aside. Boys who have been thinking ought to know that what happened on the desert this morning was nothing but a prophecy of things to come. You know what I'm saying?"

"Screwy Looey had that coming," Benny Peaceful agreed eagerly. "A lot of muscle around here has got it still coming."

"It'll get to 'em, don't you worry," Bolan declared somberly. "It's up to you, Benny, to cull out the others so they don't get hurt. I don't have the time, so I'm depending on you. Now you get these boys aside and you tell 'em what's what. And you tell 'em to wait for your fingers to snap."

Benny Peaceful fought down another broad grin. "My fingers? Sure — sure, Franky."

"Get your crew organized."

"I'll get right to work, Franky."

The youth took off on a strangely hurried-casual gait, disappearing around the corner to the parking area. Bolan clucked his tongue and went on over to the pool and Andrea D'Agosta.

"What was all the chatter with Boy Blue?" she asked him.

"Got rid of him, didn't I?" Bolan replied, smiling.

"Don't look so happy," she said. "I've been waiting out here for hours. I'm afraid your moment has almost arrived, whoever you are."

Bolan leaned down and brushed her cheek with his lips. "Yeah?"

"No time for that," Andrea fretted. "Victor Poppy is here with that man from Florida. They're all in Poppa's study right now."

Bolan clung to his smile. "Did you get this man's name?"

"I heard Victor call him Tony. That's all I know. Little man, sallow, skinny, scared. About 40."

Bolan sighed and said, "Thanks."

"Don't thank me, just get me out of here."

"Are you ready to go right now?" Bolan asked her.

Her eyes flipped wide. "Are you serious?"

"I guess it's now or never," he told her. He looked her over and added, "You're dressed fit to travel. Leave everything else behind. Do you know where you're going?"

"A bee-line to Italy," she said. "I'll visit Momma for a while."

"And you don't care what becomes of your father?"

Andrea stared curiously at Bolan for a moment, then: "Poppa didn't consult me when he went into this business."

Bolan took it as a reply. He said, "Okay, come on, I'll get you out of here. Then I have to . . ."

He had Andrea by the arm and was helping her out of the chair. Phil Marasco appeared in a doorway across the court and yelled at him. Bolan looked up and waved a greeting. "Deej is waiting for you," Marasco called out. "Come on, he's getting impatient."

Bolan released the girl. "Sit tight," he told her. "I'll be back."

"I wonder," she murmured, and fell back into the chair with an unhappy sigh.

Bolan walked briskly across the patio and joined Marasco in the doorway. "What's up?" he asked.

"I dunno," Marasco replied nervously. "Th' old man is sitting on needles, though, and he wants to see you in the worst way."

They walked elbow-to-elbow along the corridor toward DiGeorge's study. "I told him the order was filled," Bolan growled. "What's he worrying about?"

"He would have cancelled that hit if we could of got to you, Franky," Marasco confided. "Don't mention it, though, it'll just make him nervouser."

"You don't cancel, hits, Philip Honey," Bolan snapped.

Marasco grunted and said, "Now you're talking like a family man."

"I like you, Phil," Bolan said, slowing his pace. Marasco slowed to match him.

"That's great, I like you too," he said without embarrassment.

"You know, in the old days of Egypt and places, when a king died they buried all his household with him. Servants, slaves, and everything."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Those Egyptians figured when the king stopped living, all his cadre had a right to stop living too. Stupid, huh?"

Marasco halted completely. "What're you getting at, Franky?"

Bolan swung about to face him squarely. "Pat and Mike say a king has got to go, Philip Honey," he said soberly.

The blood drained from Marasco's face. He said, "Oh my God. I knew it was something like that."

"I been hoping you ain't no Egyptian, Philip Honey," Bolan said.

Marasco snatched a cigarette from his pocket and thoughtfully placed it between his lips. Bolan lit it. He took a deep drag and puffed the smoke out in tight grunts. Presently he said, "I'm not no Egyptian, Franky Lucky."

"I'm glad to hear that." Bolan began moving slowly toward DiGeorge's door. Marasco reached out and placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"Wait a minute," Marasco said. "Before you go in there. They got a turkey in there waiting for you."

"What kind of turkey?" Bolan asked casually.

"A guy says he knew you back when. But he says also you died in Vietnam, in the army. Is this guy part of your cover, Franky?"

"Maybe. What's his name?"

"Tony Avina, He says you grew up on his block in Jersey City. Says you got drafted and got killed. Is this gonna embarrass you in front of Deej?"

"Is this guy in the organization?" Bolan asked.

"Naw. A nobody. Prison gray sunk in all over him."

"Look, Phil," Bolan said conspiratorially, "my name ain't Frank Lambretta."

"Yeah, I figured that about a minute ago," Marasco replied. "So what're you gonna do about this turkey?"

''I'm gonna scare the turkey-shit outta him, that's what," growled Franky Lucky Bolan. "Come on. Let's go see what color he drops."

Carl Lyons paced the floor excitedly, glaring at Howard Brognola. "But this could be dynamite, Hal, if we could just get it into Bolan's hands!" he cried. "Somebody bought himself a coroner on this deal, and you know it as well as I. That inquest should have come out with murder written all over it."

"I know, I know," Brognola said gently. "But you have to remember, Carl, the name Lou Pena wasn't half the flag two years ago that it is now. There was never any suggestion that this Louis Pena who was driving the motorboat was the same infamous Lou Pena of the roaring thirties, no suggestion at all The coroner could have quite logically arrived at a valid decision when he ruled in favor of accidental death. The damages were settled out of court, no trial, no charges, no nothing, and everybody appeared satisfied all around."

"But for God's sakes," Lyons argued, "a sailing boat always has the right of way over a powered launch. The D.A. should have brought charges, if nobody else. Pena simply sliced through that little sailboat, hung around long enough to make sure the job was thorough, pleaded an unfortunate accident, and walked away with everybody happy. Now that's not justice, no matter how you slice it. We can even prove motive. You take a . . ."

"In aftersight," Brognola said, trying to calm the angry policeman. "There was no access to these records two years ago. Not even now, for ordinary circumstances. If I hadn't had a bell ring over that name D'Agosta, you still wouldn't have any lead on the motive."

"Well, I have to get hold of Bolan," Lyons said. "I have a boney feeling about this. Bolan is out there in a den of vipers, and he needs all the ammo we can feed him. Do you realize that we've never been able to get an informer inside the Malta?"

"Do I realize?" Brognola replied, laughing.

"So okay," Lyons snapped. "Let's not mince around, with our man's neck on the block. Bolan gave us the number. I say we use it."

Brognola put on a pained expression. "That will have to be your decision," he said. "Call him there if you think you must. But don't ask me to second the motion."

Lyons unfolded a scrap of paper and stared at a telephone number written there. It had been included in the last package of information which had been passed to them by the man they had then known as Pointer.

The words "For Red Alert Only" were above the number, then the name "Lambretta," followed by a Palm Springs telephone number.

"I wonder where this telephone is located," Lyons muttered.

"I guess you'll never know until you call it," Brognola said.

"I could give it to the phone company. They'd run it down for me."

"By that time, perhaps the time for action will have passed," Brognola sighed.

"Yeah," Lyons said. He stared hesitantly at the telephone. Then he pulled the instrument toward him, acquired an outside line, began dialing, then abruptly re-cradled the transmitter. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath. "I wasn't cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff."

Bolan and Marasco strolled into the Capo's inner sanctum in controlled good humor. Marasco remained near the door. Bolan proceeded on, flipped a high-sign to DiGeorge, and dropped into a leather chair.