"I'll have to chance it," Bolan insisted.
"Let me fly over once more and-"
"No way. This is a soft mission, Jack. That lady has to simply disappear. I mean like into thin air."
"Well, I can get you closer than those trees."
Bolan had figured that all along. But it had to be the pilot's own choice.
"Without being seen?"
"I think so, yeah."
Bolan had confidence in the guy. With damn good reason. He took a long breath and said, "Okay. Do your stuff, flyman."
"You just watch my stuff," said Grimaldi. Brave words, yeah. But the eyes were scared. Those knowing eyes were scared.
And, Bolan knew, with damn good reason.
CHAPTER 14
"They're going to hear us," Grimaldi warned Bolan. "There's no way to avoid that. So you'd better pray you've got your numbers right."
They were powering along just off the deck on a downwind approach, following the base of the ridge. Stunted trees growing along the 50-foot slope flashed past in dizzying procession just a few breathless centimeters removed from the reach of the wind milling blades.
And, yeah, Bolan knew that they would be heard. But he was counting on a greatly thinned human line in the defenses of that joint and he was especially counting on the fragility of human perceptions. Hearing was one thing; knowing, another.
The stone wall loomed up in the forward vision. The little bubbletop jumped it and powered on, hugging the ground again into the home stretch.
Grimaldi had earned his combat stripes at ' Nam, and Bolan had confidence in the guy. He'd seen many such windmill jockeys perform amazing derring-do stunts in the combat zones. Grimaldi was as good as any in Bolan's experience. But he would never cease to marvel at the fantastic, precision control these guys could coax from the complicated flying machines.
They had scurried on for just a few seconds after hopping the wall when the pilot grunted, "Hang onto your socks!"
With no noticeable slowing of the forward speed, the little chopper suddenly wrenched upward. Bolan felt the G-forces where he sat and where he digested his food; the little craft shot skyward, rising abruptly like an elevator-straight up. Bolan caught a glimpse of the house at the top of the bounce, at about the same moment that he became aware that Grimaldi had killed the power. For a flashing instant it seemed that they were going to topple backwards, but then the little chopper righted itself and settled to the ground with hardly more impact than an ordinary landing. This one had been fast and quick-damned quick!
Grimaldi released his inner tensions with a happy whoop, then told his passenger, "Ground zero, buddy. Hit it."
But Bolan was already hitting it. The numbers were tight and there were none to he squandered on premature congratulations. The target was about 30 seconds away, up a 50-foot timbered slope and in through the aquatic gardens. Thanks to his daring jockey, Bolan figured he had a good chance. Yeah. Call it 50- 50, anyway.
The whole place had been ominously quiet for more than ten minutes. And Molly Franklin knew that something very unusual was going on. Not that the place normally rang with joy, or anything like that. It had been so depressing an atmosphere around there for so long…
But now it was just plain dead. Like a funeral parlor. The place had been buzzing, earlier. Really buzzing. When the big shot from New York came in. All of the housemen were agog over his visit. Even old deadpan Lenny had begun nervously fussing over his "territory," lecturing the housemen in monosyllables about "protocol." That was really funny. Apes like those worrying about protocol. He was different, though. She'd sensed that difference even before he spoke. So maybe they were like that, at the upper level. But Nick would be at that level, some day. Maybe even Gordy. Somehow she could not imagine either of them there. They were nothing like…
She had stood at the window and watched as they strolled across the grounds. Watched and wondered. Was he telling Nick about her dumb plea for help? God, she felt like such a…
But he did seem…
Well maybe he was just being diplomatic. What did protocol mean? Family spat. Ha! Family spat!
The dirty bastard had taken her over. Some spat.
Had he really meant to make her think that he was going to intervene? And, if he had, was it diplomacy-protocol-or was it just…?
Whatever, the place had become a funeral parlor very quickly. First, he left. Then Gordy and his funky legion. Then Nick and practically everybody on the place.
So what was going on?
Did it involve her?
She'd gone to her room and crammed the largest purse she could find with cosmetics and other dire necessities, then straight back to the garden. He was different. He was going to help. All this was some kind of protocol being worked on her behalf.
"You've got to pick your time and place," he'd said. "I always do that."
So do it, beautiful. This is the time and this is the place. Everybody's gone. So where the hell are you?
But she was just being dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb! Nobody was going to help her! What the hell could anyone do, if Nick didn't want it done? Nothing! No, nothing!
She sat down beside the pool and drew her knees up to her chin, feeling desolate and alone.
Lenny came out and looked at her, started to say something but changed his mind, then sat down at a table and started toying with a dirty glass. Watching her. Someone was forever watching her!
She called to him, "What's going on, Lenny?"
"Just taking a breather, ma'am," he replied boredly. "Can I get you something?"
"You can get me the hell out of here!" she yelled.
The house boss just chuckled at that. He'd heard it often enough. She'd even tried seducing him, once. Hell, she'd do anything to get out. Anything. She'd kill. Damn right. She'd kill.
"You need a drink," he said to her.
"Go to hell!" she yelled at him.
He chuckled again.
Then she heard it. Lenny heard it, too. The helicopter was coming back. She lay on her back to get a better angle at the sky. Lenny got to his feet and took a couple of nervous steps to ward the house.
He asked her, "Do you hear a chopper?" She said, "I didn't hear anything."
"You'd better get inside."
"Go to hell, Lenny. I'll go inside when I want to go inside. Who're you expecting? The inspector-general?"
He ignored that and said, "Yeah, it's a chopper, all right."
She yelled, "Cheese it, Lenny, it's the cops! You'd better get your gun and hurry out there! They left you holding the bag, dummy What're you gonna do now?"
He growled, "Please settle down, ma'am. This ain't no joke."
A man with a submachine gun jogged around the corner of the glass-enclosed gardens. Lenny yelled at him. "Cover the pad, Jimmy!"
The man yelled back, "S'where I'm headed." "You stay put!" Lenny snarled at her as he hurried into the house.
"You go straight to hell," she said, under her breath.
She stood up and hung the purse from her shoulder.
She was ready to go. Dumb, maybe, but she was ready for anything. Or so she thought. But she was not quite prepared for that which immediately happened. It startled her-scared hell out of her is what it did. She did not know where he came from or how he got there. But suddenly there he was, at her side, a hand on hers and that soft voice telling her, "Let's go. Quietly."
You bet.
Damn right.
And, scary or not, she just loved his protocol.
CHAPTER 15
As was so often the case, getting out was a bit more difficult than getting in. Time had a way of working for the other side in such situations. You can fool all the people anytime, sure-but not for very long at a time. So Bolan was not all that surprised to find an obstacle in the path of withdrawal.