In the name of what golden graven god did a guy like this put down every human trust and confidence and turn upon his society to cannibalize, loot, rape, and ruin the upward movements of his fellow man?
Yes, this was a big one. This guy didn't steal nickels and dimes. He built and perpetuated ghettoes, created junkies and filled the jails with habitual criminals, destroyed lives and disrupted families by the wholesale… and all for the love of the lousy buck.
Yeah, and Bolan knew now why the fates had directed the Executioner into the sunny Caribbean… he knew that he had come for just this man, this man alone, the biggee.
He choked back his anger as he said, "Sir Edward, a guy is dying to see you."
"Yes, so I'm told," the guy replied smoothly, and the voice fit the rest of him. "Lead the way, please."
"You'd better go first, sir," Bolan suggested. "Ill keep the light ahead of you."
"Very well."
The guy moved on along the hall, following the spot, and walked past the door to the "tank."
Bolan fell in at his side and the Beretta found soft flesh just below the ribs and the icy voice of the Executioner recommended total silence and faultless behavior.
Sir Edward stiffened slightly but moved on without a falter to the end of the hall, across the reception room, and out through the French doors to the courtyard.
They headed across the grounds toward the north wall, and the eastern horizon was glowing reddishly when Mr. Clean decided to risk a confrontation with his captor.
He came to a halt and turned a haughty gaze upon the man behind him.
And then the eyes wobbled, and that board-chairman jaw dropped, and Sir Edward gasped, "My God! It's Mack Bolan!"
"That's who," Bolan replied coldly. "The bells toll for you, Edward."
"Now just one moment! You have allowed yourself a hasty and dangerous conclusion!"
The guy was trying to dazzle him with his good-liness.
Bolan said, "And what's that?"
"I am not associated with the Mafia!"
The graveyard voice told him, "Of course not The Mafia is a legend, it doesn't exist."
"Oh it exists, Mr. Bolan. Believe me it exists. But my God, man, surely you can't believe I could be mixed up in anything like that!"
Bolan's stomach rolled. He shoved the guy toward the wall. "Move," he commanded.
The image was falling apart before Bolan's eyes.
The face went mean, the gaze crafty, and the voice turned to pure oil. "All right, then, let's be realistic. You're a grown man, Bolan. What do you want? From life, what do you want? I'll get it for you. Your heart's desires, riches beyond imagination, power beyond measure. Women! The most beautiful and desirable women in the world, Bolan — a sultan's harem! Think of that! Think of..."
"Shut up," the voice of death commanded. "I've got what I want."
"My God, man, be reasonable!"
"I didn't come here to judge you, Edward. I came to execute you."
The dissolved image was pleading, "I can give you..." when the Parabellum punched through the bridge of the nose and expanded into the brain, and another evolutionary backslider seceded from the three-dimensional world.
The Executioner stood over the sorry remains, and he dropped a marksman's medal onto the still chest, and he said, "You can't give me a damn thing, Edward."
As he scaled the wall, Bolan could hear the sentry dog whining somewhere off to the front, and he could hear the comforting sound of a rotary wing churning up the atmosphere in the very near distance.
He threw a final look at "the mansion in the rocks" — and it looked much more impressive in the dark.
He grunted, "Hell, it was easy," dropped to the rocks outside, and hurried off for a meeting with a good honest wop.
Epilogue
"We're clear," Grimaldi announced as the forbidding mountains receded to their rear and the little chopper sped on into the rising sun.
They were the first words to be spoken since lift-off.
"You're worth your price, Jack. Don't sell yourself so cheap from now on."
The pilot chuckled and said, "I guess you're not going to tell me how it went, eh."
It went," Bolan replied. "The big one is gone."
Grimaldi sighed and turned his attention to his instruments. A moment later he said, "There'll be another one before they can get him planted."
Bolan sighed also. "Well, I'm still around," he said.
Grimaldi laughed nervously. "Don't pay me any mind, Bolan. You're doing a hell of a job on the mob. You'd never know how good unless you were on the inside looking out."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
There seemed to be little more to be said.
Presently Bolan shifted about in his seat and requested, "Keep your eyes open for a Chris Craft deep sea cruiser, eh."
"You expecting one?" Grimaldi asked, sliding a sidewise gaze toward his passenger.
"I don't know. Just keep your eyes open."
"I can drop lower."
"No, this is okay."
"I, uh, I sort of had the idea that those numbers you sent down from Glass Bay were coordinates. Is it still a secret?"
Bolan smiled and told him, "A lady was worried. I had to promise her a final report."
Grimaldi rolled his eyes as he replied, 'If it's the lady I'm thinking of, I'd promise her anything."
Bolan chuckled and said, "Especially with a gun in your throat, eh?"
Grimaldi laughed, "Yell. You're really expecting a rendezvous, eh?"
"Just by radio. And… she may have decided to hell with it."
"Maybe not. Look away at ten o'clock — about, uh, ten degrees from horizon."
Bolan lifted the binoculars and scanned the area suggested.
A grin creased his face and he said, "Put me on international distress."
"You're on."
Bolan pressed his throat-mike and said, "Hello Eve, this is Adam."
"Thank God," came the instant reply. "Are you well?"
"Perfectly. Uh, the kill is over."
"Not quite," she said. "You left a lingering casualty."
"Where?"
"Right here."
Grimaldi chuckled and Bolan sent him a stern look. He told Evita, "Parallel paths have a way of crossing from time to time."
"Let's try," she suggested.
"Bet on it," he said. "Goodbye, Big Eve."
"Adios, Tall Adam."
Grimaldi made a pass directly over the boat, and it looked like a kid's toy on a placid pond. Bolan watched it out of sight, and then his eyes clashed with Grimaldi's.
The pilot winked understandingly and asked, "She come all the way up here just for that?"
Bolan sighed. "Some corners of hell you just can't hang onto, Jack, without a bit of reassurance here and there."
"Whatever that means," the pilot said soberly.
Bolan turned his gaze to the horizon.
How many men had he killed this week?
Enough.
Hell yes, enough for this week's work.
The ones he hadn't killed would be waiting for him somewhere, some time, maybe around the next comer of the map, maybe tomorrow, maybe even tonight.
He thought of Riappi, and the awful embarrassment the big guy would have to face. How would he explain it to his bosses?
There was more than one way to kill a man, Bolan realized.
But, yeah, for this week of work, it was enough.
Next week, now… well, next week would be a whole new story.
The world died 'twixt every heartbeat, and was born again with each new perception of the mind… and death itself was no more than an unusual perception.
Sure. Next week would accommodate a large number of unusual perceptions.
Bolan settled back into his own little corner of hell, and went to sleep, and dreamed of paradise. For this time, the kill was over.