"No I guess I don't." DeGeorge had heaved to his feet and was walking warily toward his desk.
"You know what I want, Phil," Bolan stated softly.
Marasco beat DiGeorge to the desk and leaned against it. His hand went inside his jacket and stayed there.
"Hey what the hell is this?" DiGeorge asked, his voice shaking.
"You want me to take Deej out for some air, Franky?" Marasco said.
"He looks like he needs some," Bolan replied. He relaxed further into his chair. "Yeah. He needs some air, Phil."
"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge yelled.
"I'm not pulling nothing, Deej," Bolan said. He smiled at Victor Poppy. "Hey, Victor, take your friend and go on back to Florida. Stay awhile. Get some sun. Tony looks like he could use some. And you . . ."
"Where d'you get off telling my boys when to go and where to go?" DiGeorge screamed.
"Is that guy still here?" Bolan asked, still looking at Victor Poppy. "I thought Phil was taking him out for an airing. Huh? Is he still here?"
Victor Poppy was moving for the door, pushing Avina ahead of him. "What guy?" Victor Poppy asked nervously. "I don't see nobody but you me and Tony, Franky."
"That's what I thought," Bolan said contentedly.
"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge screamed.
"The hell I can't," said Franky Lucky Bolan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Blood springs
Victor Poppy and Tony Avina almost ran over someone in the corridor. Bolan could hear them apologizing. The .32 was in his hand and muzzling for the door when Andrea D'Agosta stepped through. In her hand was the little nickel-plated .22 Bolan had taken from her some days earlier.
She sized up ,the situation in a quick circular glance, then stared soberly at Bolan's weapon. Her nose quivering, she said, "I want my Poppa."
"Someone else already has him," Bolan told her.
"I take everything back," she said. "I want him."
"Andrea, get outta here," DiGeorge growled.
"I've been listening," she said. "I know what's going on here." Her eyes flared pure hatred at Mack Bolan. "You're worse than any of them," she spat. "I didn't want to believe the stories I've been hearing today but they're true. You're a kill-crazy hood and now you think you're going to kill my Poppa."
"Aw hey, bambina," DiGeorge pleaded. "Go on outta here and let us men handle our business. You got it all wrong."
"She has it all right, Deej," Bolan said.
"Well, for God's sakes ain't you got no sense of . . ."
DiGeorge's protest was cut short by the capgun plaap of the tiny revolver. A vase shattered behind Bolan. He grinned and said, "She's got the drop on us, Phil."
"I'll drop you, too," Andrea angrily told him. "Don't think I can't handle a gun."
"I don't think that," Bolan replied, still grinning.
"Come on, Poppa," Andrea said.
"For God's sake, Andrea, this guy is playing with you. He can shoot both your eyes out before you know he's moving. Get on outta here."
"I said . . ."
"Go on, Deej," Bolan said, cutting Andrea off. "I'm not gunfighting your kid."
DiGeorge said, "That means you get off easy. You get me to running and all you have to do is sit back and laugh and send out your boys to shoot Deej in the back. On some streetcorner. In a car somewheres. I ain't going. We settle this here."
"Don't argue with him, Deej," Marasco pleaded.
Andrea elevated her pistol to shoulder level at full arm-extension, sighting on Bolan. "We leave right now, together, or I start shooting," she warned.
Bolan's .32 was still in his hand. He casually angled it toward DiGeorge. "When I go, Poppa goes," he said simply.
"Deej, get outta here," Marasco urged him.
"I ain't forgetting you, Mr. Philip Honey full of stingers. I ain't forgetting,"
"Just go," Bolan said.
DiGeorge went. Andrea went out behind him, the little gun still trained on Bolan. She closed the door and Marasco said, "Well."
"There's still the contract," Bolan philosophized.
"Deej ain't no clown," Marasco said, wetting his lips nervously. "He won't go no further than the first bunch of boys, then he'll be coming back here with 'em."
"I'm not letting him go," Bolan said. He stepped over to the French doors and tugged at the latch. "I didn't want the kid in the middle of this."
"I sure hope there ain't no mistakes about this, Franky," Marasco worried aloud. "I mean, hitting a Capo just don't happen every day. Maybe we should check it first. Just to make sure."
"You crazy?" Bolan said. "Who you think you're gonna check with?" He pushed the doors open and stepped onto the lawn. Marasco leapt after him.
"Well, who issues th' contract, Franky?"
"You crazy? Who the hell you think can order a hit on a Capo? You gonna ask 'em if maybe they haven't changed their minds? You, Philip Honey?"
"Not me, Franky," Marasco replied quickly.
Bolan fired three rapid shots into the air. Several men whirled and raced toward him. "What's up?" one of them shouted.
"You know Benny Peaceful?" Bolan yelled.
"Hell, yes we know 'im! Is his fingers moving?"
"They damn better get to! I want the gates sealed! Nothin' gets out!"
"Nothin' it is!" the man shouted back. He ran toward the front, two others following. A fourth man stood fiat-footed, gawking at Bolan. Bolan raised his .32 and shot him dead where he stood.
"Hey!" Marasco cried. "What's that for?"
Bolan whirled on him with a savage snarl. "Only two kinds are here now. Those that live and those that die. And Benny Peaceful is the line that divides."
"That punk?" Marasco yelled unbelievingly.
"Yeah, it's kind of poetic, isn't it?" Bolan said, suddenly dropping the mask from his Lambretta voice. "Of all the senseless, idiotic killings you lunatics are in for, what could be more senseless and idiotic than letting a Benny Peaceful separate the sheep from the goats?"
"Huh? What?" Marasco was confused and mentally reeling. "I don't get . . . what the hell is . . . for God's sake! You're Bolan!" He was failing away in shock, clawing for his gun.
"That's right," Bolan said, and put a bullet through the base of his nose. Marasco went over backwards, alarm and betrayal and outrage and fear all evaporating in that final mask of death. "Sorry about that, Philip Honey," Bolan said, actually meaning it, and then he began reloading the .32 and went in search of more game.
Bolan's gun was pre-empted by his own strategy, however. Everyone, by this time, was shooting at everyone. A squad of guards with Thompsons were mowing down everything that moved in the vicinity of the gate. Two vehicles in the parking area were burning. Bodies were strewn about the grounds in various poses of death and near-death. Bolan gave up looking for targets and concentrated on finding Andrea. He did not find the girl outside but he did stumble upon the man who had eluded him on the cliffs of Balboa. Julian DiGeorge lay like a split sandbag with his guts oozing out upon the soil of his kingdom, victim of his own trained assassins and their ever-willing Thompson subs. The big .45 calibre bullets had torn him open, but the Capo was still trying to show his dominance of the forces about him, trying to stuff his own entrails back inside with manicured fingers that had not yet received the summons of death. Staring down at him, Bolan was thinking of Doc Brantzen and Genghis Conn and a sweet-faced little lady he had met only in death. He saw the face of pain and surprise on Big Tim Braddock, and he saw the embalmed faces of his own father, mother, and kid sister. He saw the seven grotesque remains of his death squad, and the scores of Mafia dead and dying who had met the Executioner's guns . . . and then he saw only Julian DiGeorge, squirming in the dirt of a kingdom that had not been worth it, and Bolan wondered if anything was worth it. War and violence and death had walked the mountains and valleys of his life for as long as he could remember, and Bolan suddenly could not find any meaningful reasons for any of it. His nose twitched with the smell of death, his ears roared with the screams and moans of the dying, and his eyes smarted with the sight of suffering and torn bodies and blood blood blood everywhere.