Fuck you, Bolan. The cop fired two shots; both missed. The Executioner moved behind the tree. He knew he had to get around behind the rig and spray a new line yet stay out of the light.
He walked deeper into the brush, then ran to one side and sprayed the fire line again. The gasoline burst into flames in the air and worked back toward the nozzle, but Bolan stopped the stream.
Two more shots came, one nicking the metal sprayer tank.
The fire line vanished for six feet across the back of the U.
Bolan ran toward it. He sensed the cop making a dash for it, too. There was not enough time for the Executioner to run there and reestablish the flames.
Instead he turned and drew a new line closer to the car, directly in front of the running cop. The thin line of fire and the lawman got to the same point simultaneously. After a second, Daviss saturated clothing burst into flames.
Davis screamed.
Bolan stopped squirting and stared.
Davis became a six-foot torch. The flames shot up his pant legs and across his jacket in one whooshing vapor explosion. His hair sparked like fireworks in tiny balls of flames, then burst into fire as he screamed and tried to beat it out with his hands.
Somehow he had lived through the vapor explosion when the oxygen in the air around him had been sucked into the fire. Now he staggered and fell, trying to roll. His screams came one on top of another.
As he rolled, the fire snuffed out under him, but as soon as the air hit his clothing again the gasoline reignited and burned fiercely, as only a petroleum fire can.
Davis rolled again and again. His hand came out, seeking help.
For a moment in the firelight, Bolan saw the captains face clearly. His eyebrows were gone, his hair was blackened stubble, his ears were on fire. Now his eyes made one last frantic appeal. Then his hand fell, and his lungs filled with the inhaled gasoline vapor. Flames danced over his body. The vapor in his lungs exploded and Capt. Harley Daviss chest erupted outward, blowing vital organs onto the pavement and snuffing out any life that had persisted through the twenty seconds of the immolation.
Bolan returned to the woods beyond the parking lot. Already the fire was going out. Scraps of clothing on the body only smoldered once the gasoline had burned away.
The Executioner dropped the sprayer and moved through the woods toward the second parking lot. Hearing sirens, he ran, started his Buick and drove out the far park entrance and continued slowly back toward town.
Davis had had a choice. He could have cooperated if he had wanted to. Essentially hed killed himself. Bolan had only made it convenient for him to do so.
Somewhere along the drive, Bolan peeled from his hands the thin surgeons gloves he had worn during the confrontation and threw them out the window.
He still did not know when the takeover would be attempted, but realized it would be gradual. The public would not stand for a coup. The Mafia had its fangs so deeply into the department now that the takeover was almost complete. But Bolan figured they were planning a day or an event to wrap it up. He would find that out tomorrow.
He drove back to his small hotel and slept until dawn.
10
Mack Bolan crouched behind a tree next to the Nazarione estate. He had been up with the morning sun, checked with Nino Tattaglia and found out that the Mafia turncoat still did not know when the final thrust of the Mafias takeover of the police department would occur.
Bolan had to know today. So he planned a lightning raid on the godfathers own fortress by daylight. He knew just enough about the layout to get by. If he was lucky, and no one tried to be a hero, he would succeed.
Then there was his ace in the hole. He watched a guard patrol the cement fence. The sentry made the circuit every twelve minutes. Such punctuality could get him killed. Bolan waited until he had passed, then looked into the parking area behind the mansion, where four crew wagons sat.
Nothing big was scheduled for this morning, or the wagons would be in front ready for loading. A mechanic came out, tinkered with one of the engines for a minute, then slammed the hood and went into the big house.
The Executioner looked at the cars, hoping that at least one of those in which he had planted the radio-detonated bombs was in the group below. There was only one way to find out.
It was time. Bolan took out the small black box, opened it and thumbed a toggle switch to the On position. There was no one around the crew wagons. He put his finger on the red button and pushed.
Immediately the peaceful neighborhood was rocked by a pair of explosions from the parking area. One of the crew wagons lifted off the ground and came down with its rear wheels on top of another Cadillac. The second blast tore another crew wagon in half, throwing the engine and front section ten feet across the yard, leaving the rest of the body and rear wheels where they had been.
While the debris was still falling, men ran out of the house and garage. People were everywhere. The guards charged into the area, their handguns out and ready.
As Bolan hoped, the sentries had left their posts, and he scaled the wall and hid behind the shrubbery that would give him cover and a safe route all the way to the mansion.
He made the run without attracting attention. Then he heard someone shouting at the guards to return to their posts.
Bolan rose and examined the closest window. It was locked from the inside. Breaking it would make too much noise. As he stared, a woman appeared, looked back at him, grinned and raised the window.
Looking for a way inside? she asked.
It took Bolan that long to recognize Angela Albergetti, Jo Jos widow. Now she wore a blouse, and her blond hair was combed, brushed and set beautifully.
Come on in before they find you. We wouldnt want to get blood all over that nice sport shirt.
Bolan went over the sill and into the room. He was on his feet at once, and she stood in front of him.
That should be worth at least a thank-you. I know Ive seen you somewhere before, but I cant quite place you. Oh, Im Angela.
He nodded.
She laughed. Well, are you going to say hello, or blow up the rest of the house? You made a good start on the motor pool out there.
Hello, Angela. The house is safe. That was what we call a strategic diversion.
I dont know who you are, but I like you. And Im not overly delighted with the management right now. They moved me out of my house because they thought Id shout everything I knew about these guys to reporters. I just might have. They got my old man killed yesterday or the day before. Sometime. She looked up and shrugged. Whatever. Whats your line of work?
I help people to change their minds about things.
Im ready.
Later. First I need to do some research upstairs.
In Don Carlos office?
Right. And Ill have to come back through here when Im done.
She nodded.
Bolan smiled and moved silently, swiftly to the hall door. This was the south wing. He had to get to the main wing, third floor. He hesitated at the door.
Want me to show you the way?
Yes, and be a cover for me.
Hey, this could be fun. I want to see Carlos surprise when you walk in.
He should be in the motor pool by then. Lets go.
They moved down the hall, upstairs to the third floor and to a connecting door that led into the main wing. No one was on duty outside the godfathers sanctum.
Bolan knocked, waited, then opened the door and slid inside, leaving Angela in the hall.
The room looked as it had before. Now there was an unfinished handwritten letter on the desk, and behind it a big chart on a bulletin board.
Bolan stared at it, then studied the names on lines under it. Three assistant chiefs of police were listed, along with Chief Smith and Lieutenant Paulson. At the bottom of the chart were a number of dates, but one had been circled. Tomorrow! On a note beside it was a phrase. At the Mayors State of the City Speech.