He was at his car before anyone noticed Jo Jos absence.
It was nearly an hour later when a waitress went into the private room and found Jo Jo.
Don Carlo Nazarione sat at the big desk in his office on the third floor of his mansion and shook his head.
How many men we lost on the Chief Smith hit? Ten? Are all of them dead?
The other man in the room, Ardly Scimone, his second in command, stared at the godfather.
Im afraid so, Don Nazarione. Five shot, the others dead from hand-grenade fragments, and the fires. It has to be the Executioner again.
Hes cutting us into hash! Why cant we stop him?
We could call for help from the commission.
Hell, yes, but by the time reinforcements get here well all be dead. How many men did we lose on that try against Jansen?
Four.
The tall man stood and walked around the putting green, elevated to allow for the holes with their small flags.
Well, we missed him, but theres a chance that they got the head man, Smith.
If thats so, then one of our men could move into the chair. Pacing, he lit a cigar and puffed.
Weve still got the resources and the men to pull off the grab. Well continue. Keep everything on schedule. Weve got the two inspectors and the two city councilmen on the payroll. Theyll do what we tell them. And we have a hand-picked candidate for the new chief when we need one. Yes! Nazarione smiled.
So keep everything moving. Were going ahead. Ard, let me know of any problems. We have two more days. Lets hope nothing else goes wrong.
Nazarione saw Ardly out and descended in his private elevator to the home apartment on the second floor. This was sacred territory. No stairs led here, only the private elevator. Here Carlo Nazarione became a family man.
His wife, Sydney, smiled at him. She was his rock. Here he was totally away from business. None of the hardmen ever came here. They were not allowed. Only personal servants and just three of them were admitted. It was essential to him to keep his family and business separated.
Tall and blond, Sydney was not the good Italian girl he was supposed to marry. But she had been good for him, good to him and never thought about another man. Their two children, fourteen and sixteen, were away at school.
Hard day? she asked.
Seems theyve all been hard lately. But I want to forget that. What are we doing tonight?
A movie, the one everyones been talking about I got a video cassette of it. We can see it right here.
Carlo laughed. You know just how to pick me up when Im down. I hope itll always be this way.
It will. Soon the kids will be grown and gone and you and I will be old and gray and well sit on the beach in Acapulco or maybe Greece.
He kissed her forehead and led her to a soft chair in the living room where an enormous TV screen covered one wall. He adored Sydney but did not share her faith in the future. He lived in such an intense world, with so many pressures. The police and the government were easy to battle. Now he was suddenly faced with an enemy who thought the way the family did and who fought with intense savagery without holding to the strict ethics of the police.
Carlo tried to throw off the black mood. Then he thought about all his men who had died in the past two days and a tremor darted up his spine.
No! It could not be. He would not let it happen. He had let the Executioner invade his headquarters once with that fake story about his friend Augie Bonestra. That would not happen again. They had Mack Bolan right there! They should have killed him a dozen times, yet he had escaped, laughing at them, and knowing a lot more about them. Carlo would never let anything like that happen again. Security was of the utmost importance.
Carlo prayed that it was not too late, that he had not made a fatal blunder, one that could not be corrected.
8
That evening at nine-thirty, Assistant Chief Gene Vincent finished work, signed out at the front desk and went to his car. Lately he had been working overtime on a secret report on gambling in Baltimore and how it had touched even some police officers. There still was a lot of work to do, but he was making progress.
Vincent entered the official car and locked it. His mind was still on his report. Yes, he was right in presuming that the more money offered, the more takers you would find in any kind of a bribery situation. Just what it took to push a normally honest cop into going on the take, he was not sure. If he were lucky, he might find out.
He left the parking lot and headed for the expressway. As usual during the forty-five-minute drive home, he would relax totally.
He turned right and took his usual shortcut along a side street toward the highways access ramp. He saw a car coming up fast behind but decided it had time to slow down.
It did not slow down.
The other car rammed the chiefs rig, slamming it across the curb and into a pole. The seat belt held, but Chief Vincent swung forward and hit the steering wheel with his chest and the windshield with his head. It was not enough to make him lose consciousness. His first thought was that he would be terribly late getting home.
The car stopped, and someone ran to it, banged on the door, then smashed the window to unlock it.
Vaguely he saw a face over him, then felt something wet splashed over his face and suit. It smelled strange whiskey! He was being soaked with booze! He tried to call out, but his mind was still foggy from the knock on the head.
He was being held in place. He heard the car keys come out of the ignition, the trunk opening and closing, the keys shoved back in the ignition.
For an instant his vision cleared and he saw two men staring at him, and then a .45 automatic moving toward him. The blow on his temple didnt seem hard, but the whole scene suddenly became too difficult for him. He saw the darkness closing in and then he relaxed and let it come and fell into a drifting, uneasy unconsciousness.
Something sharp, painful stung his nose. Chief Vincent turned away but the smell followed, stringent, biting, strong. He moved his head once more but the smell again followed. Vaguely he recognized the odor as smelling salts.
I think hes starting to come out of it, a voice said from a long way off.
Chief! Chief Vincent! The voice was closer this time and he blinked and saw lights.
Pain darted through him as his eyes opened.
Assistant Chief Gene Vincent knew he was alive.
What...
Then he heard a soothing and familial voice.
Take it easy, Chief. You dont seem hurt bad. Knock on the head where you hit the windshield. Dont see how you didnt get battered up more since you didnt have your seat belt on.
Chief Vincent blinked again, and stared at the fuzzy shapes and forms. He shook his head and the pain knifed through him again.
He blinked and his vision cleared. Leaning into the car over him was Capt. Harley Davis, the gambling specialist.
Davis, Chief Vincent said. What happened? Somebody rear-ended me?
Chief. We got it all under control. You sure did get a jolt in the backside, but whoever it was tore out of here. A patrol car has already sent in a report. We got cops all over the place, so just relax.
Head... hurts like hell.
Yeah, lacerations. Doesnt seem too bad. Can you move? Try your arms.
He moved his arms, then his legs.
Get me out of here, Davis.
Yes, sir. Weve got an ambulance on the way.
Slowly they pulled him from the small space between the seat and the steering wheel. The wheel had not collapsed or crushed, Vincent noticed. Wasnt it supposed to?
He swung his legs to the sidewalk and remained seated.
Chief, you smell like a roadhouse. We found an open bottle of bourbon on the floor. You taking a little shot on the way home?