"The Mafia as such, and organized brigandage, no longer exist on the island."
Bolan had a lunch of cheese and wine. He did not smoke. He waited. At two in the afternoon he drank another slug of the wine. He waited. During the whole day nine cars and eleven trucks passed.
Shortly before sundown he saw a truck coming that bore both the name and the colors of the hauler who was supposed to have The Bohemian Magician's gear aboard.
Bolan crept out of hiding, staying concealed by roadside vegetation, caught the tailgate of the truck as it passed. He climbed inside, knife ready, slashed the ropes and quilted coverings ... and found nothing.
He eased back and dropped off the truck, returned to his hiding place and waited, wondering. Would the cartage company send a night truck?
There was not that much business on Sicily.
Bolan felt a little sick.
He felt as though he'd been had.
He felt his neck hair bristle again. Okay, they had him made. No matter who. The cops, the "members." The next truck would have his gear, and a load of empty boxes. Inside each box, if large enough, would crouch a soldier, armed, ready, eager to collect the bounty on Mack Bolan.
Bolan eased back into concealment and checked his map. The plan sprang instantly to the front of his agile mind, but it depended entirely upon his own physical stamina and capability.
At first he felt completely confident. Hell, he could do anything! A moment later his combat senses took control and he worked it out.
It was just possible.
Just.
As the gloom of night descended, Bolan stripped to his black commando uniform, darkened his face and hands. And just as twilight settled in, the sun lowering behind the ten-thousand-plus feet of Mount Etna, Bolan heard the truck laboring up the hill toward him.
He let the truck go by, watching the cab. A soldier from Naples, an insignificant punk called Rapa, The Turnip, sat behind the wheel. Alone.
Like hell, Bolan thought, watching. Turnip was crammed against the far door, as though he had six guys out of sight in the cab with him.
Bolan let the truck go past, then fell in behind it at a slow jog, all it took to keep up on the steep grade. He flashed his penlight on the freight. One case, his own with the MAGO marking, showed evidence of being solidly nailed down. Five other large wooden boxes....
With a fingernail a man could lift the lids!
Okay, figure a minimum of two hardmen to the box. That made ten. The Beretta held eight 9mm Parabellums in a pistol-grip magazine, and one round chambered, a total of nine shots. Nine deadly crunchers. Phutting death. With the silencer, the Beretta made the sound of a smothered cough.
Still, ten men … nine shots. That was with a full magazine of eight and a round chambered. A man left over. An armed man.
All right. Then four shots each in the first two boxes. Change clips, three each in the remaining three boxes.
Then you are empty, Bolan told himself.
I am empty of silenced pistol shots. I still have a huge, bucking, silvered .44 Automag. I will not be exactly defenseless.
Bolan jogged along behind the truck as it slowed to a crawl near the top of the high ridge, then started down the other side, gaining speed rapidly, bouncing and swaying and when the rear wheels hit an unpaved rough spot, Bolan swung aboard. He kept low on his belly. Rapa, the driver, had either been given instructions or figured for himself he wanted the rearview mirror operable, giving him a view out through the covered back of the truck.
Bolan kept to the left and crawled forward. When he reached the first box, he rapped on it with bis knuckle and muttered.
The box moved squeaking, and Bolan rapped again. The lid suddenly popped open and two men stood up. Bolan shot them both between the eyes, one, one, and let them collapse back into the box. He squirmed around, got his back braced against his own heavy MAGO crate, placed his feet against the other and shoved.
The box containing the two deads went off the tailgate and shattered, dumping the two limp bodies across the road.
Bolan simplified matters for himself and reloaded his Beretta clip. Then he rose to his feet, leaned a hip against the side of the swaying truck, drew the .44 Automag with his right hand after taking the Beretta in his left, and shot all the packing cases besides his own full of holes.
At the first crashing report of the .44 Automag, the truck swayed violently, walked back and forth across the crude highway, nearing the precipice on one side, the high cliff wall on the other.
In swift succession, while the driver still whipped from side to side in panic, Bolan shoved and pushed the other crates and toppled them end over end, and sent them off the tailgate, shattering to kindling, leaving bodies strewn.
Bolan punched the magazine release buttons on both weapons and reloaded.
Sidling up to the back window, Bolan looked into the cab.
Besides Turnip, two other armed men crouched in the floor board. Bolan shot them both in the top of the head, one, two. And through the shattered window shouted, "Pull up!"
Turnip switched off the key and with trembling hands guided the truck to a stop. Turnip proved himself not only a man with a ridiculously descriptive nickname and a fan— truckdriver but also a fool. He went for the gun inside his shirt and Bolan blew the front of Rapa's face off, catapulting him down the steep seaside of the highway.
Bolan climbed into the cab, dragged the other two bodies out and tossed them over the cliffside toward the grumbling surf below. He got in under the wheel, switched on, let the truck roll, slipped into high gear on the downgrade, popped the clutch loose and let the engine catch.
In the light of new day, he filled with gas in Catania and turned west.
Beachhead established and consolidated. Issue no longer in doubt.
14
The second table
None of the dons cared to look directly at one another. They all knew they'd been had, and each of them felt so helplessly frustrated with anger, none wanted the job of speaking first — of bringing the subject out.
Finally, the Roman, Brinato said, "Well, whadda we gonna do, sit here with our thumbs up our butts all night?"
"The first thing we gotta do," said Vandalo, "is get Naples back under control. I sent some of my boys — "
"You sent some of your boys?" demanded Ricercato. "And where you get off with that shit? You sent your boys."
"Somebody had to get in there fast, and the rest of you — " Vandalo gestured obscenely. "Sitting around on your asses while the whole organization falls apart."
"Shut up!" Brinato roared in his gravelly voice. "Knock it to hell off!" He glared around the room. "This is just what Bolan wants, us squabbling, fighting amongst ourselves, going to war over Naples." Brinato shot looks of anger at each don around the table; they looked back at him, and shifted uneasily in their chairs. "I say for right now, Naples is open. We got a lot bigger worry on our backs than Naples ... that goddam Bolan!"
Brinato stared at them again. "Now, anybody argue with that?"
No one answered.
"Okay! Now, you, Ruvido," Brinato demanded of the man from Reggio, "what did you find out from that ragazza, that girl Alma, right?"
"Nothing. A dumbass farmer. She didn't even know who she was helping, his name or nothing. She was so dumb she still carried one of them marksman medals in her blouse, didn't know any better."
"But you took the farm apart, just to make sure Bolan didn't double back."
"What the hell you take me for?" Ruvido said, insulted.