He counted nine vehicles and ran his war party projection from there — sixty to seventy people were arriving. Figure the plane crew at about four, each of them a hardman, from the chief pilot on down. Say then, possibly, seventy-five guns out there, plus the nine wheelmen and maybe a couple of ranking greet-ers — round it off at even figures and call it ninety guns.
Yeah, those were some odds. Impossible? Scary as hell, sure — but no, not impossible. He would not be trying for a wipe-out… a bit of jarring, maybe — spice for the Vegas pot — a pinch of fear and stir well.
And then a new thought occured to him, and a smile played briefly upon the Executioner's face. If the conditions were just right… if he could be assured of a clean target and a well-defined safety zone for non-combatants… if the sun and the airport traffic would play ball… then just maybe he could come up with an alternate target area and an extra pinch for the pot. Yes, and maybe he could show the Talifero brothers just how he felt about their damn warparty.
Part of the Talifero legend was that the brothers had attended law school at one of the big prestige universities of the east. One story said Yale, another Harvard; still another, probably pure fantasy, claimed that both had attended under a single tuition and alternated at classes.
It was true that the brothers were practically identical in appearance, that they sounded alike, walked alike, and seemed to think alike.
It was also true that they ran a bodyshop to put Murder, Incorporated to shame. They enjoyed equal rank with other members of La Commissione and their cadre was an elite corps said to be as secretive and effective as the Gestapo of the early Nazis. The Talifero cadre was, in every respect, the invisible secret police force of the organized underworld.
A Taliferi, it was rumored, could hit a Capo — without a contract and without fear of reprisal from other bosses. This story could be an exaggeration, but in several instances the brothers had done so, of their own initiative and without prior consultation with the council of bosses. The Taliferi were the most feared and respected force within the Mafia.
One would not receive such an impression, upon a casual encounter with the brothers. They dressed conservatively and impeccably, their speech could be flawless and impressively articulated, their manner urbane, and they smiled a lot — particularly at each other, as though forever sharing some secret joke.
Neither of the brothers was smiling, however, as the big jet began the descent to McCarran Field, just outside Las Vegas. They sat in the forward cabin, the "business suite," staring stonily out the windows at the gray-dawn landscapes below. Perhaps they were thinking of Miami, and of the terrible time they'd had there with Bolan.
Maybe Pat was thinking of the near-fatal wounds he'd acquired in that meeting. Mike, perhaps, was still smarting over the indignities of being arrested, fingerprinted and booked on a dozen charges by the Dade County police, and of the continuing fight for freedom in a court the clouters just couldn't seem to get a handle on.
Each of the brothers had a lot to be thoughtful about and their thoughts, at such times, inevitably traveled back to the source of all their troubles, that Bolan bastard.
They had sworn the oath of vendetta. They must wash their hands in the bastard's blood — and then perhaps they could look at each other without smiling at their secret "joke" which the bastard had left them with.
The warning lights came on and the pilot's voice came through the PA to announce, "We're cleared for straight-in. Land in a few minutes."
The brothers exchanged glances. One of them got to his feet and walked toward the rear to give last minute instructions to "the boys." The other stepped into the cockpit and touched the pilot on the shoulder.
"Are they waiting?" he asked.
"Yes sir. No traffic. We're going straight in, runway two-five. I'll just bounce over to the cut-off and wheel right up to the cars."
"That's fine, Johnny."
The co-pilot looked up with a grin and asked, "We going to be here long enough for a little table action, Mr. Talifero?"
"You won't even have time to get laid, Ed," the boss replied.
Both crewmen chuckled. The pilot asked, "Figure he'll be that easy?"
"I believe so." Talifero eased into the jump seat and strapped himself in. "Unless Joe Stanno ran wild and screwed up everything."
The pilot grimaced and declared, "That guy Stanno gives me the shivers. He's a psychopath, you know."
"A very, very valuable one," Talifero said quietly.
The pilots became very busy then, lining the big craft into the approach lane, adjusting air speed, trim and attitude; threading a precise needle in the air to bring the metal bird to earth. The flaps rumbled into position, the landing gear extended and locked, and the terrain began whizzing past the windows at incredible speed.
Mike Talifero always rode the cockpit during takeoff and landing. It was his way of fighting an unreasonable fear of flying. These were the most dangerous times, or so the experts said, and it was a hell of a lot more frightening up here where the action was. Mike liked to meet fear where it was at — not on any psychiatrist's couch, not praying in a corner somewhere, but right up… it was like that with this Bolan deal, he supposed. A man — especially a man like Mike Talifero — had to stand up and meet the action right where it was at.
He was gripping his knees in clenched fists when the wheels touched, squealed, then got in step with the plane's momentum and finally began rolling smoothly along the cement strip. On they rolled, with no noticeable decrease in speed — things flashing by out there in that weird kaleidoscope of objects briefly seen and immediately gone forever.
Then the pilot moved a control and the tons of plunging metal shivered momentarily as the reverse-thrust took hold and the forward momentum began dropping away. Talifero sighed with relief and gripped his safety belt.
"Beautiful, Johnny," he complimented the pilot, in an entirely composed voice.
And then something went terribly wrong. With the ground speed still holding at above sixty, the plane seemed to wobble and keel toward one side. The copilot yelled, "Starboard blowout!"
The pilot, his face suddenly ashen, was fighting the controls and trying to stabilize the track as the big bird crabbed inexorably into a sideways skid.
The cockpit went into a crazy tilt, a chilling popping and buckling sound groaned up from somewhere below, and the aircraft shuddered and collapsed onto the runway.
And then there was nothing to be heard but the thudding of Mike Talifero's heart and that screeching doomsday sound of the fuselage grinding along on concrete, the kaleidoscope at the windows replaced by a dizzying merry-go-round running out of control.
This was where it was at, man. And out of the peaking chaos of the moment, another certain knowledge shrieked into Talifero's head.
This was also where Bolan was at!
The Executioner had set up his fire base on a small mound of desert earth at the western end of the main runway, positioning himself slightly to one side of the blast fence. He had greeted the arrival of daylight with pleasure, even realizing that in another few minutes the sun would be looming over those distant mountains and that he would be looking directly into it.
In a few minutes, though, the position of the sun in the sky would have no relevance to this mission. He had located his target, verified the identification, and calculated the precise moment of touchdown. The airport was quiet and absolutely devoid of any traffic which might place innocent civilians in jeopardy.