The warriors let him loosen it before they stepped out of concealment. Their silenced weapons scanned the killing ground, the sweeps including the hardman, Roger Smalley, and Jack Fawcett simultaneously.
Four faces turned to gape at the new, unexpected arrivals. The three men registered shock, but Fran Traynor's expression was tempered with heartfelt relief.
The Executioner addressed himself to Vinnie Cella.
"Careful, your pants could fall down."
"Funny man," the punk answered, trying to sneer and missing it by a mile.
Roger Smalley's voice demanded Bolan's attention.
"Ah, Mr. La Mancha, I presume?"
The commissioner held his gun leveled and ready to fire, the muzzle directed at some arbitrary midpoint between Bolan and the Politician.
Fawcett's voice answered for Bolan.
"That's La Mancha," the lieutenant said, pointing. "His partner's the brother."
Smalley wore a little quizzical smile.
"Of course, family loyalty," he said. "How touching. I must say I'm impressed. How did you get past..."
He left it unfinished, his .38 waggling in the general direction of the invisible Lincoln and its cargo of death.
"They're out of it, Smalley," the Executioner told him. "It's down to you."
And the assistant commissioner's face was going through some changes, yeah, screwing itself up all at once into a mask of fury. It pleased Mack Bolan to see the older man lose his self-confident smile.
Across from Smalley, the gunner was holding his loose slacks with one hand, clenching and opening the other convulsively. He was grinding his teeth in anger, his face livid.
"Danny, Lou, Solly..." he began, almost groaning. "You wasted 'em!"
Smalley saw his opening, tensing as he shouted, "Take them, dammit!"
Suddenly the scene erupted into frenzied action. Vince Cella was clawing for his holstered pistol with both hands, taking a backward step and stumbling as his suddenly unfettered slacks dropped down around his ankles. He started to fall, his weapon still hidden, and Bolan helped him get there with a single 9mm mangler through the bridge of his nose.
Roger Smalley was diving toward Toni's prostrate form. Pol saw the move and reacted, but a half-second too slowly. Before he could squeeze off a shot, the commissioner was into a crouch, clutching Toni in front of him in a sitting position, his .38 jammed against her temple.
"Easy, brother," he said, breathing heavily. "It's all over."
"Not yet, Commissioner."
Bolan's voice hit Smalley like a draft from the tomb, blanching the confidence from his face, but he made no move to lower the gun or release his hostage.
"I don't know who the hell you are," Smalley growled, "but you've blown it." He half turned to the detective, keeping his eyes firmly on Bolan and Pol. "Jack! Change of plans. We've got a gangland massacre on our hands. Use your weapon."
Behind Smalley, Jack Fawcett seemed to be moving in slow motion, drawing the .38 special from his belt and moving forward until he stood even with Smalley and the girl, perhaps ten feet to their right.
Mack Bolan read the hesitation on the lieutenant's face.
"Where does it stop, Smalley?" the Executioner called.
"It stops here, mister. Right here! All the loose ends tied up into one tidy knot, right around your neck."
Bolan forced a smile he didn't feel.
"With nine people massacred, one of them a police officer? Make sense, Commissioner."
"Shut up!" Smalley grated, turning again toward Jack Fawcett. "What are you waiting for? Kill them!"
Fawcett glanced from the two armed men to Smalley, and back again. He looked sick, desperate. The weapon in his hand was rising shakily.
"Jesus, Chief," he muttered, almost pleading.
Smalley was livid, his eyes snapping.
"Goddammit, you yellow bastard, I said use your weapon!"
The first shot hit Smalley in the right temple and burst on through the other side in a shower of crimson. For an instant his face wore a frozen, expression of shock, and then the second slug hit him, lifting the top of his skull and punching him over sideways in a lifeless sprawl.
Toni Blancanales, suddenly released from Smalley's death grip, toppled forward on her face.
Jack Fawcett stood over the commissioner's limp form and emptied his .38 into the bloody ruin of that face. Finally, when the hammer fell on empty chambers, he let the pistol tumble from slack fingers onto the bloody grass at his feet.
The detective turned toward Mack Bolan as Pol rushed to his sister's side. The face Bolan saw was that of a man turned suddenly old before his time.
"Your play, La Mancha," he said at last, hands spread in a gesture of surrender.
Bolan returned the Beretta to side leather, already moving to help Fran onto her feet.
"It's endgame, Jack," he said over his shoulder. "All bets are off. Every man for himself."
Jack Fawcett surveyed the scene of carnage around him.
"How the hell do I explain all this?" he wondered aloud. "Jesus, what a mess."
"How about the truth?" Bolan offered. "It's overdue."
The detective held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded wearily.
"Yeah," he sighed, "I guess."
Fran Traynor was dusting herself off and rubbing her bruised arms, watching Jack Fawcett all the while.
"There may be something I can do to help," she said. "I mean... I can explain about Smalley, at least."
"I appreciate that, Fran," Fawcett said, "but it's my mess. Nobody twisted my arm. I'll have to clean it up myself."
Pol Blancanales and his sister were already moving away from the killing ground. Toni was still shaky, and the Politician supported her with a strong arm around her shoulders.
Bolan started to follow them, then paused, turning back toward the two cops as they stood together, side by side.
"I'll drop a few words in the right places, Lieutenant," he said. "I can't gloss it over, but your help won't be forgotten, either."
Fawcett nodded grimly, making no move to stop the three of them as they faded into the trees.
Bolan moved quickly along behind Pol and Toni, watching them closely as they backtracked toward the waiting rental car. There was a sort of emptiness inside him, now that the play had unraveled, but another very important part of him felt full and warm.
It was over, for the moment, in St. Paul. A shadow of fear had been lifted from the Twin Cities. Some lives had been terminated, others changed irrevocably, but in the balance, Bolan felt good about the outcome of his unorthodox campaign.
And yeah, it was over at last. Watching Toni up ahead, the Executioner only hoped that the scars wouldn't linger too long.
Epilogue
Mack Bolan stood with Pol and Toni Blancanales, watching the sleek Lear jet taxi toward them through lowering dusk. He had been in St. Paul for less than twenty-four hours, but it had the feel of a long, grueling lifetime.
"You could use a rest," he said to both of them, including brother and sister in the sweep of his eyes. "Why don't you come back with me to the farm for a few days?"
Toni answered for them both.
"Thanks, maybe later," she said. "Right now, I really need to be alone and put the pieces back together."
Pol looked worried at that, but she laid a soft hand on his shoulder and smiled.
"I'm sorry, Rosario. There are some things a big brother just can't do for a girl."
The Politician lowered hurt eyes, nodding solemnly.