The little bubble front helicopter lifted off with a rush and began climbing over the city on a southeasterly course. "It's just a few minutes away," Grimaldi warned his passenger.
Bolan nodded his head in silent response and continued his preparations. Already the river was far behind them, the downtown area quickly giving way to the gently rolling suburban terrain. This was bluegrass country, sort of poised between the high mountains to the east and the Mississippi River delta lands to the west. Geographers referred to the middle Tennessee country as the Highland Rim. Residents simply called it God's Country-and Bolan had to agree with them. But a particular patch of it was soon to become hellgrounds, and there was no way to avoid that determination.
He completed the cosmetic job on his hair. It was jet black once again and quite a bit more conservatively styled. The Beretta Belle was in a snap away shoulder rig, nestling inconspicuously beneath expensive threads.
"How does it look?" he asked his friend, the Mafia pilot.
"Looks like you invented them, guy," the pilot muttered.
Grimaldi did not like this operation. He had tried his best to talk Bolan out of it.
"Then I guess I'm ready when you are, Jack."
Grimaldi turned a searching look on his friend as he replied to that. "You'd better be damned ready. Like I said, it wasn't much of a recoil. But trouble screamed up at me from every corner of that joint. I counted six vehicles in the main parking area. There's room for another four in garages. The helicopter pad is about fifty yards from the rear of the main house. From the air it looks like it's had plenty of use. And those damn barns… listen, I didn't see a head of stock anywhere. No horses, no cows, nothing. But things are happening inside those outbuildings. Lots of activity. Guys all over the place, very busy. And I could smell it from a thousand feet up. It's a hotspot, buddy. So you watch your ass in there."
"Thanks, I'll do that," Bolan replied dryly.
Yeah. He would do that. He would have preferred a first hand look before settling into that joint. But time was in the saddle, riding every consideration of the day. So he'd been forced to settle for a quick flyover by Grimaldi while the Juliana Academy thing was going down. And the pilot had liked not a damn thing he'd seen there. How much more dislike would a trained scout have found at Nick Copa's highland hideaway?
Bolan shook the question away and focused his mind on the positive aspects. There were one or two of those, sure.
"There it is, soldier," Grimaldi said suddenly. "Three o'clock horizon."
So there it was. A line of buildings nestled atop a wooded ridge, pastures flowing to lower elevations at either side and serving as buffer zones, lots of fencing to augment the natural barriers.
Hellgrounds, yeah.
The pilot sighed “ Last chance to change your mind."
"Go straight in," Bolan instructed. "Set down on the pad. I go out, you go up. Just like that."
"And I come back in an hour," Grimaldi growled.
"Precisely one hour. But you don't land unless you get a beep."
"Suppose your radio is not working?"
"Then neither am I," Bolan replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "No beep, no landing. You return to Nashville. And call off the play."
"What do I tell them?"
"Tell them the side's retired. One hit, no runs, one man left on."
"That's a hell of a way to put it. So then what do I do?"
"Then you go home, Jack. With my blessings."
"Bullshit, I don't like it."
"Neither do I. What's that have to do with anything?"
"They're liable to hit you even if they buy you. Think of that?"
"Thanks, I've been trying not to."
"We can still scrub."
"It's not a scrub. It's a go. So let's go."
They went. Grimaldi flew a beeline in gradual descent and put her down on the little raised area of rear lawn. Not a head was showing anywhere back there.
"Go get 'em, tiger," the pilot said tautly. Bolan gripped the firm hand as he muttered, "Way to go," and stepped to the ground.
The chopper lifted away as soon as he moved into the clear.
The lawn was thick, luxurious, well tended. Tennis court, left-fancy aquatic gardens, right. The sprawling ranch style house was ultramodern with plenty of glass and stone-huge, elegant.
Hellgrounds for sure, though.
Bolan produced a slim gold case from a breast pocket and extracted a long brown cigarillo as he casually studied the layout. He could feel the invisible force of eyes upon him. But no one was showing himself. He lit the cigarillo and wandered across the lawn toward the house.
And he knew exactly how Daniel had felt, in the den of lions.
The big man who stepped from the helicopter had head shed etched into him. It wasn't just the hand tailored threads and flashy good looks but something more subtle, some quiet essence that whispered power instead of yelling it, an aura of self confidence and absolute control.
"Wonder what he wants," Copa murmured as he handed the glasses to his head cock.
"Recognize him?" Mazzarelli asked as he raised the binoculars to his eyes.
"Only the type. You?"
"Never seen 'im," the head cock decided, after a long scrutiny. "Not with that face, anyway. But you're right. That's what he is. What nerve. I hear it's open season on those guys."
"Not officially," Copa said. "Not yet, anyway." He took back the glasses and again trained them on the visitor. "Like to try him?"
Mazzarelli chuckled coldly. "Not without good reason. I got no beef with those guys. Never hurt me none."
"Then maybe you'd better make him feel welcome." Copa lowered the glasses and sighed, the face settling into lines of displeasure. "Wonder what the hell he wants."
"A free meal, maybe," said Mazzarelli. He took a small radio from a waist clip and passed a guarded all-clear to his troops. "Bring him in, boys. And handle with care."
Copa watched the reception then turned away from the window and pressed a button on the desk intercom. An instant response came from the house cock.
"Yeah, boss?"
"You heard the chopper, Lenny. Looks like we got company from New York. One guy. Set up the garden patio. Let's make it, uh, Tia Maria and something light, just some munchies-you know. Uh, let's put a couple of the hottest pretties in the pool. Tell them to look stunning and keep quiet. And tell Mrs. Copa she'll join us in ten minutes. That is exactly ten minutes from right now. Hop to it."
One of Mazzarelli's boys was at the door of the study a moment later. He wordlessly passed through a small leather ID wallet. Mazzarelli took a quick look and tossed it on to his boss. "You were right," he commented sourly. "You ever see one of those before?"
"What is it?" Copa asked, instead of looking at the ID.
"It's a Black Ace. Funny. All these years and it's the first I seen."
"Don't feel bad about that," Copa muttered. He opened the wallet and peered at the elegantly embossed and plasticized playing card encased there. "Ace of Spades, Gordy. It's a death card."
"Wonder what the hell he wants here."
"So do I."
"Maybe you better call."
"Damn right I'm going to call," Copa replied anxiously. He produced a ring of keys and fitted one into a large drawer of the desk, opened the drawer, and lifted out a "funny phone" which he set delicately down on the desk.
Mazzarelli growled, "You want me to go out and-?"
"No, not yet. Let's confirm this hot ass first."
The Boss of Nashville donned reading glasses and consulted a small notebook which he withdrew from the base of the telephone. Then he lifted the phone and punched up a long combination on the relay diffuser. Thirty 'seconds later he had his roundabout connection into New York -via Atlanta, Dallas, Denver and Boston.