Bolan was once again beginning to respect the Sicilian. At least he was out there, in the open, taking the battle to the enemy, not in there hiding with the women and children. He moved into the open then and said, "Bolan?" in a soft voice. Bolan shook his head and silently clucked his tongue. Turrin was walking toward the garage, very slowly, stopping every couple of steps and pausing momentarily, apparently to listen. There was a gun in his hand, Bolan could see it plainly now. A flashlight was in the other. Bolan considered that for a moment, and watched Turrin pass by the garage and move on to the other side of the yard. Silently Bolan slithered down the sloping roof, dropped lightly to the ground, and boldly stepped off toward the shadows of the house. He heard Turrin's soft "Bolan?" once again, coming from the far back corner of the property, then he moved quietly around the side of the house and up the steps to the front door. Just as he suspected, the door was standing slightly ajar. He grinned. There were obviously no pockets in Turrin's pajamas-and if he was carrying a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, it had been a lead-pipe cinch he wasn't carrying a house-key between his toes-he wouldn't have locked himself out. Bolan slipped inside the house and stood in the darkened entrance foyer, wondering how much longer Turrin would wander around out there in the yard. He really had not desired to kill Leo from a distance, with a sniper's bullet There had been a certain friendship between them-the least Bolan could do was to look him in the eye as he killed him. Irrational, perhaps, he realized that, but then war itself was irrational. The wait was not a long one. Turrin came in only a minute or so behind Bolan, breathing softly. He closed the door and locked it and stood there for a moment, his back to the unsuspected visitor. Bolan wondered about the thoughts occupying the mind of the prey as he stood there silently in the dark at that locked door-what was he thinking?- what were the last thoughts of a doomed man?
Bolan reached forward and placed the muzzle of the.45 at the base of Turrin's head. "I knew it," Turrin sighed, exhaling quickly. "I knew you were there the moment I turned that lock." There was a brief silence, then: "You don't want to shoot me, Bolan-not until we've talked it over."
It will be a lousy mess for your wife to clean up," Bolan said quietly. The darkness was stygian, but Bolan could feel the mask of death twisting the other man's face. Bolan had seen it before, other places; he had worn it himself, many times, and knew how it felt, the grotesque twisting of all the little muscles awaiting the final clap of doom, the paralyzed diaphragm, the aching rib-cage. He did not want to prolong that misery. His free hand reached forward.
"Let go the gun, Leo," he commanded. The long-barreled pistol reluctantly changed hands. Bolan tossed it behind him and it clattered to the floor.
"I can't blame you for the way you feel," Turrin said, his voice tight with emotion.
"You can't?"
"No. Your sister was a sweet kid, Bolan."
"You just said the wrong thing, mister," Bolan said savagely, jabbing the automatic harshly into the unyielding skull. "Now unlock that door and open it, slowly- slowly!"
"Where we going?" Turrin asked, half-choking on the words.
"A tender mercy for the wife and kids," Bolan said harshly.
At that instant an overhead light flashed into brilliance. Bolan reacted automatically, flinging himself sideways against the wall, the.45 swinging up and around, seeking a new threat. Turrin's wife stood several feet inside the living room, her face a terrified mask, one hand raised and stretched toward Bolan. He checked the heavy swing of the.45 just in tune, his shot gouging into a chair and sending it skittering across the room. Bolan's eyes were smarting under the sudden candlepower and his ears rang from the boom of the heavy-calibre gun, magnified by the closeness of the foyer; perhaps this is why he did not see the tiny pistol in Angelina Turrin's outstretched hand. The little popping sounds it was making seemed to bear no relevance to the sudden stinging sensations at his shoulder and temple, but he knew instinctively that he had been shot. Turrin had flung himself away and down and was rolling madly across the floor. Bolan squeezed off two shots at the retreating figure as he lurched out the door, routed by a petite woman with a dainty weapon-not only routed but wounded in the process. He could feel the blood running down the side of his neck as he pounded around the corner of the house, and wondered vaguely how seriously he was hit. He got the.45 holstered on the run and cleared the fence without effort, and decided that he could not be hurt too badly although the shoulder was beginning to burn fiercely. He dashed across the other yard and was nearly into the street when he heard the sounds of converging sirens. He hesitated only for a moment, electing to leave his car sit where it was rather than to try outwitting the cops in an automobile at such an hour of the morning. Any car in motion would be a certain target for the cops. He ran on across the street and through another yard, then diagonally across an open field. Distance was what he needed right now-as much distance as he could get on foot and bleeding from two gunshot wounds. Well, he thought, you deserve it, you dumb bastard. He'd tried to fraternize with the enemy. It wouldn't work. Damnit, there was no such thing as morality in warfare. You drop them when you can and where you can. It is kill or be killed. He'd learned the lesson well in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Why had he chosen to forget it here, in the jungles of the Mafia? He cursed himself for an idiot and hurried on to a distant hulk of buildings, pressing his beret against the head wound to stanch the flow of blood. The entire world seemed alive with screaming sirens. The cops had been waiting for him, of course. They'd staked out his known targets and just sat back and waited for him to strike. Another mistake for The Executioner. He would have to reassess his battle plan. He wasn't going against the wily Cong now. He was going against the wily Americans, and he wasn't going to be allowed many mistakes like this one. And, judging from the roaring in his ears, perhaps he would not be allowed even this one. He was shot, and he was bleeding to death, and he knew it. He needed more than distance now. It was a mistake that he got shot, it shouldn't have turned out that way, but it did, and wars are lost on mistakes. He needed more than distance. He knew that. He needed a place to lay his head, a place to rest his wounds, a place to stuff back in the precious lifeblood. The Executioner needed a sanctuary. Or else the wrong person was going to end up being executed. It was as certain as death. The Executioner had goofed.