He lectured them for another five minutes, then released them. They straggled out in groups of three and four, a few wise-cracking about the pistols coming down off the wall. Turrin hung back, hoping to get in a few private words with Father Sergio. Plasky and Seymour joined the exiting crowd, Seymour glancing back impatiently at Turrin then going on without him.
Sergio took Turrin by the arm and said, "It's like old times, Leopold. I wish your Uncle Agosto was with us, eh?"
"That'd be great," Turrin agreed, smiling. "I, uh, I been thinking-about that hill across the canyon. We have any men over there?"
The old man was smiling craftily. "No, not on the hill, Leopold. Don't you worry about it. Sergio is ready for the war."
"Well, I was just thinking," Turrin persisted, "-this guy's a soldier, you know. He thinks like a soldier, and I've been thinking..."
Sergio patted his arm affectionately. "Don't worry about the soldier," he said grandly. "Sergio has fought a couple of wars himself."
"I'd like to go over there and scout around," Turrin blurted.
"Oh?" The old eyebrows raised in high peaks. "You'd go out there, alone, to meet this in the dark? Eh?"
"Yeah." Turrin shifted uncomfortably under the strong stare. "Regardless of the firepower we have massed over here, he could still slip away from it. I'd like to go over there and plug his escape route."
"What makes you so certain his attack will come from over there?" The tone of voice was plainly teasing.
"I said, he thinks like a soldier. So do I."
The old man laughed, and said, "You're a good soldier, Leopold, and a good Mafiosi. Sure, sure, you go over there and take this Bolan single-handed. I believe you can."
Turrin was still not certain if the old man was taunting him or not, but he took the words as official sanction. He left him standing there and raced up the stairs to the main level and ran to the parking lot, extricated his car from the jam, and tore out the drive in full acceleration.
"Where's Leo going?" someone asked, staring after the careening auto.
Sergio stood at the wall, arms crossed over his chest, smiling. "He has gone to beard the lion in his den," he said proudly, then added, under his breath, "I hope."
The speaker crackled and a terse voice announced: "A car is speeding out of the Frenchi estate."
Weatherbee snatched up the mike and said, "Let 'im pass, don't one unit move off station until I give the word!"
"What do you think is going on out there?" Pappas asked.
"Plenty, I'd say," Weatherbee grunted. I'd give a nickel to get in there and have a look at some of those faces. I bet there'd be some interesting ones."
"Where do you think Bolan will strike from?"
"That's a good question. It's like trying to outguess the quarterback on a third-down play. Tell the truth, I don't envy this Mafia bunch. They have to sit and wait for him to make his hit before they will know how to react and where. It's like waiting for the beginning of an atomic attack, with this Bolan, anyway."
Pappas was grinning. "Well, it's a new role for the Mafia, isn't it. The tables are turned, so to speak."
"Yeah. What time is it?"
"Three- forty."
"See, I told you it would be a damn long night. You want a sandwich?"
Pappas shook his head emphatically. "I couldn't eat a belly dancer's navel right now."
"Nervous?"
"You could say that, yeah. I've been on plenty of stake-outs before, but this one..."
"But this one, you're rooting for the other side, is that it?"
Pappas shifted about uncomfortably and lit a cigarette.
"Isn't that it?"
"Well, shit, so what? I kind of admire the guy."
"Don't be embarrassed, Johnny-so do I. I'm just hoping he won't try to shoot his way through a police line, that's all."
"So why do you think I'm butterflies?" Pappas announced, laughing.
"We can't afford to let sentiment ride the trigger finger, Johnny."
"Hell, I know that."
"A sentimental cop is a dead cop."
"Hell, I know that."
"The order is shoot to kill."
"Well, goddamn it, I know that!"
Weatherbee smiled grimly. "Just don't forget it," he said quietly.
8-The Big Kill
The Executioner made a final check of the weaponry and did a mental rehearsal of the sequence of events, then returned to the range finder to study once again the layout on the opposite hillside. For thirty minutes, now, that bunch had been going through the exact same motions, as evidenced by the shadows on the large window. Either they were having a prayer service, or some sort of elaborate rite, or else...
He kept his eye to the range finder and moved his watch close alongside and began a timing. Mark- the guy at the head of the table lifts an arm at the exact instant the third guy from the end leans over... mark-three seconds, and somebody walks past in the background... mark- five seconds, and the arm comes down, the other guy straightens... mark- three seconds, and a guy walks past in the opposite direction... mark- five seconds, and...
Bolan studied the shadow-movements for a full five minutes, then grinned and moved on to other things. Pretty cute, he had to admit, pretty damn cute-but now, where really was the pack congregating? There were very few lights showing. Of this few, all were at the lower levels, with the sole exception of the dim rectangle of light at the large window on level two.
He could make out one corner of the parking lot, and as he watched, a car moved rapidly through the narrow vision-field allowed by the telescopic lens; he followed it, saw the headlamps flare into brilliance, and the car careening along the drive. He wondered about it, but only briefly, returning to the inspection of the house itself. He could see nothing whatever of the roof, no more than a faint outline against the black. He swung back to the ground level, and picked up the figure of a man standing on the patio, near a waist-level wall, partly concealed in shadows. The man moved then, and rubbed something against one shoulder. A pistol-he was scratching his shoulder with the barrel of a pistol. Some idiot. What did they have down there-idiots? The range finder tracked along the wall, seeking other evidence of human habitation. A door flashed open, bright light spilling onto the flagstones for a split second, then was hastily closed. He held the spot and saw the door open again, this time without accompanying light-spillage, and two men scurried out the door and ran up some steps at the corner of the building. Bolan grinned. They were learning-but too slowly. He lost the men in the upper darkness, his wonderment growing with respect to the darkened roof area.
Bolan glanced at his watch, and waited. He had a timed sequence planned, and he preferred a firm jump-off time. Just a few minutes more. He allowed his thoughts to wander to Valentina, to Mom and Pop, to Johnny, the kid he'd barely known and now probably would never know, to Cindy whom he had known better than any living soul and yet had not known at all.
One minute to jump-off. He'd promised Val that he'd be back. An empty promise, one that he'd never expected to keep. Bolan was a soldier-he knew a soldier's odds, he knew the chances of walking off this hillside alive. Cops were all over the place; maybe they'd even bring in dogs. If the Mafia didn't get him, the cops would. Sweet Val. Tender little, passionate little, sweet little Val-a girl who had saved her love only to hand it over to a doomed man. There was a sadness; yes, there was a sadness.