"Big Tim" Braddock was a man on his way. A dozen Mack Bolans would not stand in that way. The heat was on, Big Tim was stoking the boiler, and it could not be said with any certainty whether Hardcase described the operation or the man who was directing it. In either event, the heat was on. Hardcase was set.
Chapter Five
The Track
Emilio Giordano would not be any man's funny bunny. Only once during his thirty years of manhood had any man made a monkey out of him, and that man had died quickly and violently. Not once during the past fifteen years had any man spoken to him in disrespectful tones, except that stupid senator on the crime commission and that ignorant Sacramento lump they called an Attorney General—and both of these were now smarting under the lash of unrelenting political pressures. If a damn dumb sergeant—a deserter, at that—a common thief and gunman thought he could make Emilio Giordano roll over and play funny bunny for him, then by the blood of Saint Matthew that damn dumb sergeant was going to die with a Giordano grapefruit up his ass.
Fifteen years had passed since 'Milio had last worn a gun. He still knew how to use one. Yeah. Some things a man never loses, like his touch with a fine pistol. He inspected the shiny .38, took a couple of familiarity pulls on the trigger, then loaded it and stuffed it into the holster on the backside of his hip. Next he withdrew his wallet and shuffled through an assortment of cards until he found the gun permit, checked the expiration date, then carefully inserted the permit into a prominent display envelope and returned the wallet to his pocket. No dumb moves by 'Milio, like packing hardware without a license. Hell no.
Take it easy," Varone had advised him, when Giordano called him earlier that afternoon. Sure. Take it easy. Play funny bunny. Let the miserable dumbhead tie you to a manure heap. And rob you. And walk all over you like you're not 'Milio Giordano, Il Fortunato, in whose blood rages four generations of Maffio. Take it easy? Emilio Giordano would never take it that easy.
"He wants you to play his game," Varone had said. "Can't you see what he's doing? He wants you to run scared and do something stupid. Now don't play his game. Don't play, "Milio."
Well, 'Millio would play. He would play the game. But not dumbhead's game. He would show the sergeant a game or two.
Giordano moved around his desk and depressed an intercom button. A fluttery male voice responded immediately. "You got the money, Jerry?" Giordano asked.
"Yes sir. Twenty-five thousand. Twenties and fifties."
"All right, bring it up. No—meet me out back. Right now."
Giordano broke the connection and thumbed down another station. "Hey!" he barked. "Wake up out there!"
"Yessir—garage," came a crisp reply.
"You got the cars ready?"
"Yessir. We're ready."
"Awright. I'm coming down. Keep your eyes open, dammit."
"Yessir, we're doing that."
Giordano grunted and strode out of his study and through the back of the house. He could hear the carpenters banging noisily in his bedroom, upstairs, and this renewed his irritation with "the dumbhead." He kicked the rear door as he opened it and pounded on the handrail of the stairway with an open palm as he quickly descended to the yard.
A gleaming black-and-chrome Continental occupied the driveway. Five of his best boys were in it, conversing in low tones. The driver waved with his fingers as Giordano strode past and received a slow wink in return.
Il Fortunato stepped into a sparkling white Rolls-Royce and seated himself beside a younger man on whose lap reposed a square black briefcase. The two men up front, in the chauffeur's compartment, wore uniforms of unrelieved black, but white chauffeur's caps with gold braid across the visors. Giordano depressed an intercom button on the armrest and said, "Danny, go back and make sure Bruno understands two minutes."
The uniformed man who was seated beside the driver jerked his head in understanding, stepped out of the Rolls, carefully closed the door, and walked quickly into the garage. Another Continental waited in there, carrying a rear guard of another five men.
"He wants to be sure you understand the two-minute wait before you take off," Danny reported.
A lean young man in the front seat nodded his head curtly. "Christ, yeah, we understand," he replied in obvious disgust. "And in case he's wondering, we got the route, too. Santa Ana freeway to the Riverside cutoff and then, dammit, there ain't any other way to get there."
Danny smiled and returned to the Rolls. He began his report through the thick glass, then remembered, depressed the intercom button, and said, "They're all set, Mr. Giordano."
"They understand they don't leave here for two minutes?" Giordano snapped.
"Yes sir, two minutes, they understand."
"Dumbheads probably don't even know the route."
"Yes sir, Santa Ana Freeway to the cutoff, then the blacktop to the rear gate. They understand."
"Awright," Giordano growled. "Let's go check on our grapefruit."
The chauffeur tapped his horn lightly. The lead Continental moved smoothly along the drive, and the Rolls eased along after it. Giordano settled back into the protection of armor plating and bulletproof glass. Don't play, eh? By God, 'Milio was going to play. And the dumbhead was going to pay.
Deadeye Washington slid hastily down the grassy slope, heavy binoculars strapped about his neck, and called out, "Okay, they just left. Two cars. Big black one in front, Lincoln or something, and a big white limousine, two chauffeurs, man. Sure making it easy to track."
Bolan smiled tightly and slipped a jaunty plaid beret onto his head. "Maybe two damn easy," he said. He leaned into the Corvette and came out with a compact two-way radio. "Trackers," he announced into the mouthpiece, "Eagle says they're loose." Bolan glanced at Washington.
The Negro mouthed the word, "Bloodbrother."
Bolan nodded and continued the announcement without interruption. "One rich Detroit black, one white millionaire close behind, on Track Two."
Loudelk's soft voice purred back immediately. "Affirm. Passing Track Two . . . right . . . now! Track Two now on quarry. Here's the count. Five in Detroit black. Four in big English white tank, repeat, tank. Track Two on target and going away fast."
Zitka's clipped tones leaped in. "Roj, roj, Track One going 'round for pickup at Point Delta."
"Track on loose," Bolan commanded. "It smells, repeat, smells."
A faint "Wilco" came in from Loudelk, followed by a loud retort from Zitka. "Bluesuits on," he yelped. "Tearing toward Track Two. Beware, beware."
"Affirm, Track Two is being wary," replied the cautious Indian voice.
"Close only on signal!" Bolan commanded. He laid the radio on the seat of the Corvette and slid in behind the wheel, made a sign with his fingers to Washington, and spun the little car about in a jouncing circle, then hit the pavement and sped down the hill.
Washington was sprinting toward an idling Mustang parked in a shelter of trees some yards off the street. He climbed in on the passenger's side, rolled his eyes toward Blancanales, and panted, "Okay. Keep 'im in sight."
The Mustang leaped forward. Washington braced himself with his feet and swung the binoculars into the rear seat, lifted the corner of a blanket, shoved a clip into the long Mauser, and settled back with a sigh.
"Bloodbrother says they got a tank," he reported.
Blancanales was whipping the Mustang along the curving downgrade. He raised an eyebrow and said, "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Must be one o' them tailor-made bulletproof jobs. Just looked like a big white limousine to me, through the glasses."