The Chief was fully aware of who and what Don Cafu was and represented. It was, in fact, with the don's blessing, combined with certain arrangements, that the Night Chief got his job, which did not include interfering with happenings of any land whatever upon Don Cafu's estate. If, upon the morrow, Don Cafu emerged victorious, the Chief had less than nothing to worry about. He would, in fact, be rewarded for not intruding himself into Family matters.
On the other hand, if he learned that Don Cafu had gone down in defeat, the Chief still had nothing to lose. Certainly, the new don would see how wise and provident the current Night Chief of Police was, and would therefore have no reason to wish for a replacement. Certain understandings and arrangements would be made, and things would go on as they had always gone on in Agrigento, Mafialand.
Of course, certain base and faithless persons might jeer at the Chief behind his back, and others possibly find a printing press to run off cowardly caricatures; and without doubt some vile creature would shit on his doorstep or call his wife to accuse him of being a secretive homosexual, but a policeman's lot, as the saying goes....
The one thing the Night Chief was totally unprepared for was the arrival of a sleek turbojet helicopter, letting down directly in front of the police station. At the authoritarian command that he unlock the door, the Chief did so at once. Of course he recognized Signor Brinato at once, but not the smiling youngster who followed the most esteemed Signor Brinato into the office, like a shadow.
Brinato spoke with a voice that sounded like his throat was filled with crushed ice. He complimented the Chief on his behavior. He complimented the Chief upon his willingness to let Family matters sort themselves out. He introduced himself as the new, ah, resident — possibly in absentia— of what was formerly known as the Cafu estate. And, of course, all previous, ah, arrangements would continue in effect, until some more convenient time for renegotiation. Did the Chief have any objections?
"Absolutely none and let me be the first to welcome you."
"I thank you. Now, perhaps you could clear this rabble from the streets. The helicopter is extremely expensive, extremely so, and easily damaged."
It was done in minutes, and so was the Chiefs personal Rolls Royce Silver Cloud brought around so Signor Brinato might ride to the Cafu — the new Brinato, formerly Cafu, estate.
Bolan heard the chopper pass overhead, and was plainly startled to see it circle, then hover, and slowly begin descending over the city.
His first thought was: "Cops!"
His second thought came a fraction of an instant later. It's time to strike. I'm not killing any cops.
He checked the positions of the mortar baseplates, adjusted the sights, dropped the parachute flare round down one tube, and the William Peter down the other.
The flare lighted the whole island, it seemed. The stark bare hills lay naked, the outposts' foxholes, the trails, the old mineshafts. Farther down, he saw the buildings of the malacarni camp, and beyond it the big stone house. The WP smoke shell landed sixty yards long. Bolan adjusted the tube, then ignoring his ears, he pulled the safety pins and dropped shells down both mortar tubes one after another as fast as he could. He had twenty rounds in the air before the first hit, landing beside the cookshack door. The explosion tore the whole end off the building. The remainder of the flimsy structure swayed and buckled, swayed, then caved in. Other rounds fell in, crunch! crunch! crunch! and an air-whapping wave of sound came up the mountainside, whipping dust into Bolan's eyes.
Small, antlike men ran in all directions. Bolan saw one mortar shell hit a running man in drawers square in the top of the head, and the man vanished.
19
Take-down
Bolan worked the sighting screws on both mortars, then again pulled pins and fired as fast as he could, once more putting twenty rounds into the air before the first hit. For a moment he thought the big house was beyond maximum range, or maybe the powder in all the increments was old and he was getting short rounds, because the first three hit along the road between the camp and the house.
Then the others rained down like shooting fish in a rain pond, all seven direct hits or such close misses they whapped the stone walls. But the goddam house refused to fall.
The flare died out and Bolan sat back resting. He lit a cigarette and puffed. He wanted them to think that was it. That it was over, all clear, okay to come out of your holes now, boys.
He rolled over and pulled the BAR to his shoulder, slapped the bottom of the magazine to see it seated firmly, cocked the automatic rifle, and ran off the first magazine, five bursts of three rounds each and a final burst of four, all tracers. He adjusted for a slightly higher angle, changed magazines, then poured it on three, three, three, three, three, four. Changed magazines and repeated it again, and again.
In military terminology it was plunging fire. To the men down there, the bullets seemed to be coming from the sky, coming straight down on them.
Bolan fired his last flare shell from the mortar.
Even as it left the muzzle, he began firing the BAR once more, professionally, methodically. The flare burst open in a hellish green light, and he saw men reeling, frantically rushing in every direction, knocking each other down. A few were shooting, in every direction. Two men seemed to hear gunfire at the same time, wheeled around, and shot each other.
Hellground.
Slaughter in Sicily, right in the Mafia's womb. Where the bastard fathered by terror and birthed by a bitch named expediency had grown to monstrous size and strength, so it could wipe out the family of a professional soldier fighting in Vietnam.
Bolan pulled the bagful of remaining BAR magazines to him and looped the strap around his neck. He slung the M79 grenade launcher across his back. He got the bagful of frags and hefted them on his other shoulder. He pulled the pins on two frags but held the spoons tightly, then dropped them down the mortar tubes. When the surviving malacarni came up the mountain and found the mortars, unless they knew their business, there would be more deads. When they tipped the tubes up from the baseplates the grenades would fall free, flip their spoons, and detonate.
But as he dropped the frags down the tubes. Bolan went fast and low down the steepest part of the hill from his fire-base. Those tubes could be hot enough to cook-off the frags and Bolan didn't want his ass full of hot steel.
Bolan skirted the malacarni camp, hardly bothering to conceal himself except to stay in the shadows. The camp lay in ruins. The stunned survivors staggered about in a state of shock. No one had made any effort to mount a counterattack.
Bolan still had three objectives before calling the mission accomplished.
Well, perhaps four ... if he counted on getting away.
But three for sure, first. Then see about getting out.
He found a place offering concealment and good cover behind large boulders, stopped and dropped his heavy load. He unbagged the shotgun-shell propellant charges for the M79 and laid them out in a row on the ground in front of his knees. He loaded the grenade launcher, sighted, and put one into the counterfeit documents shop, then another. The frame building went up in a sheet of flaming kindling.
Calmly, Bolan reloaded, shot down the door of the ammo dump with the first round, laid the second inside, and then he crouched behind the boulders and waited for the secondary.
The ammo dump went like the start of World War Three. When earth, wood, metal, and parts of bodies stopped raining down, Bolan looked over the boulders and saw the armory also flattened and afire. Only a large smoking hole where the ammo had been.
He gathered the remaining gear and slipped on through the shadows. It was beginning to get light. He realized he could see farther, make out distinct shapes rather than darker masses in the dark.