He was, but slowly and with difficulty. Bolan scowled and tossed one of the cases down the mountain, then he swung back to wrap an arm about the man's chest.
"Arm over the neck," he instructed him. "Come on, dammit, let's shake it."
The injured man showed his liberator a twisted smile. "For once we're walking away together," he panted, letting Bolan take most of his weight. "You haven't recognized me, huh?" he mumbled a moment later as they lurched and slid along the steep incline.
"Mud," Bolan growled.
"What?"
"Your name is mud, soldier, and so is mine if we haven't cleared this area in another few seconds. So save your breath for what's important."
"Not mud," the guy croaked. "Lyons. I'm Carl Lyons, Bolan." And with that he passed out and became deadweight in Bolan's arms.
The tall man in combat black emitted a startled grunt, and let the money case slide away as he hoisted the unconscious figure onto his shoulder.
Someone up there was rolling loaded dice into an executioner's destiny.
He'd come to this mountainside seeking a contribution to his deflated war-chest. It had been a perfect ttrike, right on the numbers. Then all of a sudden he had lost interest in war-chests and all the sk in the mob could throw at him.
So he was walking away with nothing but a half-dead cop on his hands.
The Executioner had no regrets. Loaded dice or no, it had been an entirely worthwhile fifty seconds.
Chapter Two
Directions to the front
Joe "the Monster" Stanno had spent twenty years cultivating an image of ferocity. Naturally endowed for the role, Stanno's stubby legs and oversized trunk gave him the appearance of a gorilla — and the perpetually scowling face did nothing to soften the threatening strength of massive chest and shoulders. His reputation for savagery and his almost maniacal homicidal tendencies had assured Joe the Monster a respected position in an organization which was built upon mtimidation and violence.
In his early years, Stanno had been a blackjack and brass-knuckles man, a muscle-man for shylockers and protection racketeers in Brooklyn and later in Cleveland, "progressing" to roles as hit man, bodyguard, and mob enforcer. An Ohio grand jury of the early 60's heard evidence connecting Stanno to sixteen specific acts of murder, twenty-three instances of conspiracy to commit murder and an almost infinite list of assaults and extortion. The jury failed to act on these charges and Stanno abruptly dropped from view. Some time later Joe the Monster turned up in Las Vegas as "security chief" at the Gold Duster, one of the strip's newest luxury hotels.
Intelligence gleaned by interested federal officials indicated that Stanno's major role at Vegas was that of an inter-family "enforcer" — and that his line of authority descended directly from La Commissionc, or the national ruling council of syndicate bosses. It was known that the mob xgarded Las Vegas as an open city, meaning only that no one family exercised territorial jurisdiction over the underworld action there — the field was open to any and all. Joe the Monster's position was therefore a highly important one; it was his task to see that inter-family rivalries and competitive pursuits were maintained at a peaceful and mutually productive pace. He was, in short, the ruling council's "man on the scene" and responsible for «yndicate discipline throughout the state of Nevada.
None would argue that Joe the Monster Stanno was not the perfect man for the job. His mere presence in any family gathering was enough to calm belligerent moods and soothe aggressive instincts. It had become such a standing joke, in fact, that when disputes arose within the cadre, a peacemaker would warn the belligerents: "You guys knock it off or I'll call Joe the Monster in here to stare at you." The jest was not without factual foundation. A mere scowl from Stanno was usually enough to calm the ruffled sensitivities of even high rankholders in the various families.
And now Joe the Monster was standing woodenly in the midst of a disaster area and scowling at the incredible carnage visited upon that mountainside. In the illumination provided by several pairs of vehicle headlamps, a small collection of hardmen from the hilltop retreat prowled the scene with shotguns and Thompson automatics, making a body count, identifying the dead and trying to pull together some understanding of what had transpired there.
A gun-crew chief spun away from the blackened and smoking hulk of a skimwagon and called over, "It was a heist all right, Joe. There ain't no sign of money. Them boxes was fireproof. And they ain't here."
Stanno rumbled, "So where'd it get off to so fast?"
"Jeez I dunno, Joe," the man called back. "All I know is they sure made a hard hit. I never saw such a mess."
"Well I want a headcount!" Stunno yelled. "I want every goddam man accounted for, and they better damn sure come up with some straight stories!"
"You don't think some of our own boys..."
"Shut up what I think! Don't tell me what I think! Where the hell is Georgie Palazzo and his boys, huh? I don't like the way they just up and disappear, right when all hell is breakings I wanta know..."
"Down here!" came a cry from the darkness behind Stanno. "It's Georgie's jeep, tore to hell!"
The enforcer jerked a thumb toward the distant voice and commanded the crewchief, "Go check it out!"
The head gunner selected two men to accompany him and the three of them disappeared down the mountainside. Another man hurried over to Stanno and announced, "Sorry, Joe — Tickets just died."
"You got nothing out of him?" the enforcer rumbled.
The man shook his head. "Not from his mouth.— But he had this in his fist." He handed over a metallic object and stepped back to a respectful distance.
Stanno hefted the object in an open palm and squintingly inspected it in the harsh light. "What the hell is that?" he growled.
"That's what you call a marksman's medal," the hardman replied. 'This was a Bolan hit, Joe."
"Bolan? Stunno exploded.
The soldier swallowed nervously and took another retreating step. "It sure looks like it, Joe. Those things are his business cards, those medals. He always leaves one. I was down in Miami when..."
"Awright iwright!" Stanno roared. He exploded into forward motion and wept the gun soldier out of his way as he descended wrathfully upon the wreckage for a personal inspection.
The other soldiers maintained a discreet distance as Joe the Monster plowed through the remains of his skim convoy. Someone muttered, "Watch it, Joe is pissed."
The crewchief and his small party reappeared on the roadway and crossed grimly to the other side to make their unhappy report to the boss. Stanno's huge shoulders flexed restlessly as he listened, then he tossed his head back like a jungle ape and bawled, "Awright, back to th' joint!" He flung himself away from the wreckage and moved quickly up the road toward his vehicle.
"Don't fuck around with this junk! Shove that stuff off the road and get these dead boys up to the house!" He spun about in mid-stride to jab a quiver-ng finger toward the crewchief. "Get on the radio and tell that chopper to come on back. That guy is either long gone or he's just hanging around waiting to throw us another punch. But get everybody back to the joint. We're going hard."
"Going hard!" simply meant a withdrawal into heavy defenses. Joe the Monster had not survived twenty years violence on ferocity alone. He had learned, also, when to pull in his horns and retrench.
And for one split-second there, on that macabre mountain road, he had shown a face to his boys which they had never before seen atop Joe Stanno's beefy shoulders — a face filled with fear and anxiety. Perhaps the old adage is true, the one which suggests that at the heart of every thug lurks an inherent weakness and fear… and perhaps even cowardice. Or maybe Joe the Monster was simply a realist with an instinctive respect for the imcomprehensible.