He chuckled to himself and quickly glanced around to see if Cartwright might have grown suspicious of his sudden merriment.
The guy was fading fast, no doubt about it. He had never been a ramrod, not like Farnsworth, but at least he had maintained a kind of dignity before this whole Brognola business blew up in his face. If he had handled it correctly, following advice from Gianelli rather than relying on his cloak-and-dagger bullshit, they would both be in the clover now, instead of going on the lam. Brognola would be worm food, with his family and Mack the Bastard right there in the hole beside him. Nicky Gianelli would have been the freaking Boss of Bosses, and Cartwright could have asked for anything... within reason, of course.
But he had blown it, fucked the whole thing up so badly that they were preparing for a predawn flight to nowhere. That was Cartwright's fault, and never mind the fumble with DeVries. If Gianelli had been guilty of miscalculation there, his error should have granted Cartwright all the warning that he needed to prepare a decent trap at Arlington. And failing that, he could at least have scrubbed the hostages instead of letting them escape and sing for every goddamned federal agency in town.
The guy was all washed up, and just in case he didn't know it, Gianelli meant to break the news, up close and personal. It was the least that he could do for someone who had scuttled all plans and left him in the middle of a shit-storm.
But tomorrow would be soon enough. The white deserted beaches of the Virgin Islands were ideal for such a conversation... or perhaps the boss of Washington would rent a car, go driving in the forest with his friend and confidant. Whichever way he played it, only one of them was coming home from the enforced vacation, and it wasn't Cameron Cartwright.
He would have liked to plug the bastard here and now, but there were still amenities to be preserved. Besides, his piece was safely packed away in the luggage.
It could wait. Anticipation only made the execution that much sweeter. In the meantime, he could put a few refinements on the basic plan, some personal embellishments to make the job his own, a memory to cherish in the coming years. He might decide to make the bastard crawl a while before he...
"Ready, Boss."
"Okay."
He turned to find the man from the CIA staring at him intently, dark suspicion in his eyes. He wondered for a moment if the bastard might be psychic, finally decided he was simply shell-shocked from the beating he had taken in the past six hours. If he had an inkling that his flight would be one-way, well, what the hell? So much the better. Let him stew a little, sweat it out while Nicky put the final touches on his plan. It served the bastard right.
"Let's go."
The guy was edgy, and look at how he almost jumped when Gianelli spoke to him. The capo fought an urge to laugh out loud. It wouldn't do to make him bolt before they reached the airport. Better to pretend that everything was hunky-dory until just before he sprang the trap.
Cartwright scrambled in before him, Nicky bringing up the rear and settling back into the Lincoln's rich upholstery. Up front, his driver had the wheel, with Vinnie riding shotgun, armed and always itching for a fight. If anybody tried to stop them on the road, the dirty bastards would regret it... for about a second and a half before they died.
"C'mon, already. Move this thing."
The edginess was catching, dammit, and he forced a laugh to let his loyal subordinates know that he was cool. From where he sat, the boss of Washington could almost smell the fear that radiated off of Cartwright in offensive waves.
The engine growled to life and high beams speared the darkness of the curving driveway. They were leaving fear and danger behind for a little hunting trip, with Cameron Cartwright in the role of pheasant.
"Hey, what the hell..."
The exclamation had erupted from his driver's lips, and Nicky was already craning forward, peering through the windshield as a black-clad figure seemed to rise from nowhere in the middle of the drive, his face all painted like a minstrel and the biggest silver cannon in the world protruding from his fist, the muzzle pointed square at Gianelli's nose.
The mafioso felt his bowels begin to loosen, clenched his knees against the shameful legacy of childhood, biting back the sudden fear that wrapped around his heart.
"Goddammit, Eddie, punch it! Run the bastard down!"
Bolan heard the tank before he saw it coming, dinosaur V-8 announcing its arrival with a roar. A heartbeat later, the headlights burned around a corner of the driveway, pinning him at center stage. He raised the silver AutoMag and braced it in a two-handed shooter's grip, sighting down the slide, aiming square between the dragon's glowing eyes.
Fifty yards, and Bolan waited, knowing that the limo would be armored fore and aft, perhaps impregnable. And yet he had to try. If they missed Gianelli now, if Cartwright was allowed to slip away, it might be months or years before they reestablished contact. Too much could happen in the intervening time, and Bolan would not tolerate a debt so long unpaid.
At forty yards he squeezed the trigger, riding out the Magnum's recoil, squinting in the lights and watching as his bullet etched a harmless smudge across the windshield, inches from the driver's scowling face. He dropped his sights and triggered three more rounds in rapid-fire, aware that there would almost certainly be armor plating on the grille and praying for a chink, a weak spot, anything at all.
The whining ricochets were drowned by growling engine sounds, the throb of Bolan's pulse inside his ears. At twenty yards he knew that it was hopeless. He threw himself aside before the tank could plow him under like some disoriented chipmunk caught out on the center stripe by rolling death.
He landed painfully and rolled, aware of screeching rubber as the wheelman swerved to take him, missing him by inches, almost losing it before he straightened out again and pushed it to the limit. Bolan twisted, gnashing teeth against the sudden, stabbing pain as he unloaded with the AutoMag, one bullet spanging off a hubcap, two more flaking paint from armored fenders as the crew wagon rolled on.
The AutoMag was empty, its slide locked open on the smoking chamber, and he didn't have the time to slam a fresh clip home, assuming it would make the slightest difference. He might as well have peppered Gianelli's wagon with a BB gun, for all the good that he had done.
And the man who tore Brognola's world apart, who tried to set up Bolan for a fall, was escaping.
Brognola struggled free of the clinging hedges, muddy to his knees and reeking of the dusty juniper that had already gouged his face and hands unmercifully. His complete attention was focused on the winking taillights of the Lincoln, on the bulky weapon in his hands.
The tube was made of fiberglass, designed to telescope for storage but extended full-length now and primed to fire. The LAW — light antitank weapon — was, in essence, a disposable bazooka with a one-shot capability and an effective range of some four hundred meters.
More than twice the distance to the armored limousine, if he was quick and sure enough to do it right.
Brognola stumbled, cursing bitterly before he found his footing in the middle of the driveway, feet braced wide, the LAW across his shoulder. One hand was wrapped around the firing lever, mounted topside like a clothespin. He was watching as the man in black bailed out, his Magnum rounds deflected by the Lincoln's armor plating.
Gianelli had them beaten if Brognola missed his one and only shot. There would not be a second chance if he muffed it now.
And he was counting down from five, aware that flankers could be closing on him from behind, a backup car with gunners meant to convoy Gianelli out of town.