"Hank?" he called softly.
Then Bolan was upon him, one arm curled tightly into the throat, the knife moving in a swift arc toward the rib cage. The body went limp, a rifle toppled and slid slowly down into the brush, and Bolan lowered the suddenly still form gently to the ground. He absently crushed out the lighted cigarette which had fallen to the ground, then stepped quietly down the hill, continuing the seek-and-destroy mission.
Mounted police, crashing about on horseback down below, did not particularly trouble his mind, but he could allow no enemy patrols on Execution Hill. His plan for the assault on the stronghold, once the major thrust was underway, would definitely limit his mobility; therefore the area would have to be positively secured before the attack was launched. His finely tuned ears detected another sound off to the right, and he moved toward it through the darkness, himself an item of darkness and silent, sudden death.
The following is an excerpt from The Executioner's diary, headed "Thoughts at Execution Hill."
I suppose that the chief difference between me and ordinary people is that I recognize the challenges of life and find it impossible to turn my back on them. I can't let somebody else do my killing, or bear my blood-smears, or stand in judgment in my behalf. If there is a battle to be fought, I must fight it. If there is blood to be spilled, I must spill it. If somebody is to be judged, I must stand at the bar. I suppose that I am not truly civilized. Maybe I'm a throwback, to another time, to another kind, to another ideal. But this much I know: I am alive tonight because of violence loose upon the earth.
Each breath I take is paid for by crushed and digested once-living things. Violence is the way of the world because competition is the way of life-perpetuation. Without violence there can be no competition, and without competition there can be no life. Something dies for every instant that something else lives.
I just had the thought that I am being morbid- and why not? Life itself is a morbid business. Each life lived is built upon a hill of death; each body is a living monument to death and a moving graveyard. It is the way of life, and even-no, especially -in a civilization. But in a civilization there are appointed executioners, some appointed to serve the greater good, some the greater evil. I am self-appointed, but this fact in no way alters the responsibilities of office.
Valentina, God love her, would die herself before she would crush the skull of a baby steer-but this tender child thoroughly loves her veal steaks. An executioner of baby steers has been appointed in Valentina's behalf, an executioner to crush the skulls of baby steers and thus provide the juicy steaks for tender Val's table.
Valentina, God protect her, is thoroughly repulsed and disgusted by the evil brought to this earth by men like the Mafiosi, yet she would allow every indignity upon herself, even to the final indignity of death, before she would pick up a gun and exterminate the vermin. An executioner of vermin has been appointed in Valentina's behalf-for all the Valentinas everywhere. It is a self-appointment, a necessary one in this civilization of ours, and I cannot stand away from the responsibility of this office.
Life is a competition, and I am a competitor. I have the tools and the skills, and I must accept the responsibilities. I will fight the battle, spill the blood, smear myself with it, and stand at the bar of judgment to be crushed and chewed and ingested by those I serve. It is the way of the world. It is the ultimate disposition. Stand ready, Mafiosi, The Executioner is here.
7-Battle Order
Sergio Frenchi was a man who loved a good scrap; this much was obvious. The old eyes were sparkling with the excitement of anticipation, and he seemed to infect the others with his enthusiasm. The entire area Family was present, and a roll call would have sounded like a polling of the Greater Chamber of Commerce. Practically every strata of the business and professional communities was represented in the assemblage. There were bankers, lawyers, a medical doctor, accountants, insurance executives, two prominent educators; these rubbing elbows with gambling czars, small-time politicos, and racketeers of every stripe.
It was the first full-council, area-wide, which Leo Turrin had been privileged to attend. He was both amazed and impressed by the number and stature of those present. He moved alongside Nat Plasky and said, "I don't get it. Why bring everybody out at a time like this?"
Sergio himself answered the question, as if on cue, raising his arms to quiet the hubbub. "When The Family is in trouble, The Family belongs together," he intoned. He smiled and let his eyes dance around the large room. "Besides-a lot of you have never had to face up to a real threat before. You're soft- look at you, your manicured fingers and your two-dollar cigars-how do you think you got all this security, eh? You got it because men like me, men who never could relax enough to try those manicures and expensive cigars, were out there fighting and grabbing while you were in your mama's bellies, that's how you got it."
"We're getting an object-lesson," Seymour said, sotto voce.
Again right on cue, Sergio continued: "You boys don't know what it feels like to be shot at and-"
"The hell I don't," Plasky growled.
"- maybe it's true what they're saying about the organization, eh? Maybe we get too soft with all this legit business we got going. Don't forget where it all came from! Don't forget those dirty dollars keeping us up there at the front of the line! Listen!" He spread one arm in a dramatic sweep towards a group seated at his right. "I even hear some of The Family is beginning to sneer at boys like these. Leopold, here, and his girl operation. Any of you gentlemen got any idea how many millions Leo's operation grossed so far this year? Eh? Well it makes any one of the rest of you look like peanuts! You hear? Peanuts!" He stabbed a shaking finger at a well-dressed man down the table to the left. "You, Scali, where do you think the five million came from to back up your insurance reserves, eh? From heaven?" He waggled the finger and fixed the executive with a stern gaze. It came from whorehouses, yeah, yeah! How do you good gentlemen think we manage to keep our girls operating, eh? Through our contacts with the Chamber of Commerce? Eh? Lemme tell you all something- you are soft! And I-"
"I haven't heard him wind up like this in fifteen years," Seymour whispered.
"I just wish he'd wind down," Turrin said uncomfortably, but his eyes were all attention on the powerful and compelling old warrior at the head of the table. "I'll bet he was a hell of a man in his day," he added softly.
"He survived the wars," Seymour grunted. "He'll survive this one, too. Anybody making book on the outcome?"
"Not a chance," Plasky chimed in softly.
"Now there's guns on the wall down here by the door," Sergio was saying. "Most of you may not get a chance to shoot one off, but you better damn sure have one in your hand when you walk out the door. Don't move around any out in the open, keep yourselves down and don't do anything stupid. We got the regular council room rigged so it looks like we're having a meeting up there. Don't nobody show themselves until he starts banging away, and even then don't do any shooting unless you can see something to shoot at. For God's sake, don't shoot each other. Something else, now, when..."