A guy took what he could get, yeah.
Bolan took the tiny radio and returned, to the hellgrounds. He quietly worked his way to within ten paces of the corner man at the left flank. The guy was wedged between the forks of a tree, about three feet off the ground, all but invisible. Bolan's thumb found the call button on the PocketCom. A rewarding beep responded from the tree-but the sentry did not stir. So Bolan did it again. This time he caught motion over there, followed by a hushed voice. "Who'd you want?"
The beep sounds for thee, guy.
Bolan had already started his move, taking quick advantage of the distraction.
And the left corner man never got his call.
Bolan left him where he died and went swiftly on. The radio was a godsend. All these guys were wearing them. The whole damn outfit was wired for sound, and Bolan held the sounder. Every guy in that yard beeped when Bolan pushed the button. And he had the entire left flank cleared out before the survivors began complaining.
"Who's playing with the damn radios?" "Henny! Has anybody seen Henny?"
"He passed here a couple minutes ago."
"Get off the damn radios! Quiet it!" Bolan recognized that harsh voice.
"Someone's playing with the damn pager, Gordy. Or else somebody's in trouble."
"Check it out, Henny. Give me a roger on that."
Bolan took the rear man with a singing garrote.
"Henny! lf you hear me, fire a shot!"
The big silver AutoMag roared into the night and a flanker on the right forty yards uprange spun to eternity.
Another guy up there stepped from a shadow with a chopper poised, craning his neck for a better see. Big thunder erupted again, sending another 240 grains sizzling uprange to splatter that craning neck.
"That's not Henny! Alla you boys-"
The lights in the cabin went out.
People were in motion in the darkness.
Bolan was one of them, with them. He made the front porch and vaulted the railing, coming down softly on creaking boards. The body count had gone to seven. And he knew that the remaining three outside men had to be between the cabin and the access road.
And he had them coming in.
They were pulling back, cautious and trying to keep their dignity, moving slowly and passing quick signals back and forth in the interest of friendly identification.
All was entirely quiet inside the cabin. No voices, no movements. Which led Bolan to believe that not many were inside. Perhaps only two-one tied to a bed and the other…
He waited for the outsiders to enter the cleared area at the front of the cabin. Three, yeah. One with a chopper. He took that one first, with a bone-shattering headshot that sent juices spraying into the moonbeams, then tracked immediately onto the other targets. Both shotguns boomed, almost precisely together, the loads traveling God knew where-certainly not toward the cabin-and not even the senders knew to where.
Ten up and ten down.
So how now, bad Gordy?
He fed a fresh clip into the AutoMag and kicked the door open. A revolver flashed at him from the dark interior and a heavy bullet whizzed past as he ducked back to cover.
He called in, "Come on out, Gordy."
"Who's there?"
"You haven't figured it out?"
A moment of silence, then, "I still hate your fucking town."
Bolan chuckled without humor. "Me too yours."
He flipped the spent clip from the AutoMag at the window. A shotgun boomed in there and the whole window dissolved.
A moment later: "You still there, Omega?" "Oh sure."
"Why're you doing this?"
"You called me, guy."
"The hell I did. I'm just trying to make a living."
"You try too hard, Gordy. You should have known."
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right?" "Maybe so. You feel up to one more venture?" The guy even sounded like Lou Costello as he asked, "Do I got a choice?"
"Guess not. I came for your head, Gordy."
"Hell you think I didn't know that right from the start? Well okay. You'll have to come and get it, hot ass."
"Is that your final word?"
"It sure is."
The guy had not changed position during that conversation. Bolan had a pretty decent fix on the location of his voice. He just hoped to God there was only one.
He tried for a final fix. "Nick said I should kiss you first. I told him you're too damned ugly."
"Nick is a-"
Bolan would never know Crazy Gordy's final thoughts on Nick Copa. He'd launched himself with the first syllable of the reply, diving in through the shattered window with a twisting plunge to land belly up.
The shotgun baloomed almost in the muzzle of the thundering.44, the flash lighting that interior like the single pulse of a strobe, Gordy's contorted face frozen there in a mask of death as a heavy bullet blasted through clenched teeth and exploding flesh.
Bolan lay panting, knowing that he also had taken some heat, loathe to explore the extent of the damage.
But then a weak voice from the rear came like a candle in the gloom. "That you, Sarge?" "Yeah."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Oh they've been treating me pretty well here. Exercises in the yard twice a day and-where's Smiley?"
"She's okay, Carl."
"Thank God. Well are you going to lay there and breathe or are you going to get me out of this mess?"
"I'm going to lay here and breathe. How about you?"
"I got no choice."
"Uh huh."
"I'm tied up, dammit."
"Do tell." Yeah, he'd taken some heat. The blacksuit was shredded at the left thigh. And there was some raw meat down there. Nothing big. But another silly millimeter to center and..
He got to his feet and tried it.
"Sure you're okay?" Lyons asked in that enfeebled voice.
"Guess I'm as good as you," Bolan replied, sighing. "You ready to go?"
"Hell yes I'm ready to go. But I'm not walking so well, Sarge."
"Think you've earned a ride?"
"For what? Rest camp? It's been a breeze."
Bolan doubted that. Gordy's plans were too ambitious to risk killing his golden goose before he got what he wanted from him. But there were lots of ways to hurt a man without killing him.
He snapped on the penlight. Mazzarelli was a mess. So was the cabin. A one-room affair-kitchen, bedroom, all in one.
Lyons was lashed to an old iron bedstead, hand and foot.
Bolan found the light switch and turned it on.
The poor guy was black and blue all over. And there were fresh hurts over old agonies. But he was all there. Thank God, all of him was there.
CHAPTER 18
Grimaldi elevated a thumb and said, "This is getting like an unhealthy habit. Watch yourself."
Bolan released the seat belt as he told his pilot, "You can relax this time, Jack. It's all our way, now."
"I'll believe that," Grimaldi growled, "when I'm seeing this joint for the last time."
"Soon," Bolan promised, smiling grimly.
He stepped onto the pad at Franklin Place, paused halfway to the house to put down his package and light a cigarillo, and waited for the reception committee.
He sensed people all around him though he could see none. All the lights were on, inside and out. The grounds were lit up like a shopping center parking lot.
But apparently there was to be no formal reception.
He picked up his parcel and went on. The house boss met him just outside the door. Bolan said, "How's it swinging, Lenny?"
The guy was in a pout. He replied, "Just barely, sir. Mr. Copa ain't feeling so well, either. He wants you should get comfortable in the garden. He'll be with you in just a second. Uh, pardon me, sir. What's in the sack?"
"It's for your boss, Lenny."
"Oh, right-right, sir. Uh, can you find your own way? I'm a little short-handed."
Like hell he was.
But Bolan found his own way to paradise. And this time there were no prop cuties in the pool. No white-jacketed housemen were on hand to fuss over his comfort, either. The whole place was ominously quiet.