'You did the right thing, Joe. I wanna thank you.'
'Hey, we're all arnici, right? I could stop by... I mean, I've got a piece if you could use an extra hand.'
'I think we've got it covered here, but thanks again. I'll thank your capo personally when I get the chance.'
'Hell, that ain't necessary, sir.
'I think it is.'
'Well... thank you.'
'If you ever feel the urge to relocate out east — you know, to get some sun...'
'I might at that.'
'Okay, Joe. Have a safe trip home.'
'And you, sir. Don't take any shit offa those Nips.'
'Good night, Joe.' Frank Spinoza put the phone down gently.
His mind was racing in confrontation with the danger that awaited him outside in the darkness of the desert night.
Somehow Kuwahara had found out about his buildup at the Gold Rush, and he had been working on a countermove — his own preemptive strike. Well, two could play that little game. Spinoza had the troops on hand to end this thing in one decisive move.
It was time for Jake Pinelli and his guns to earn their money. He would send Paulie with them, just to be sure they did it right the first time and to see that all his interests were protected. When they finished mopping up the streets with Kuwahara's chopsticks... well, Spinoza meant to have a little send-off waiting for them at the Gold Rush. A going away that none of them would soon forget. For the survivors. As for the rest... there was a great big desert out there waiting to be filled with little graves, and Frank Spinoza had a corner on the shovel market. He was going to get a lot of digging done before the bloody sunrise came up over Vegas one more time.
And it would not be Kuwahara's rising run. No way. His sun was going down in flames, except the Jap was too damned dumb to know it yet. The sun was rising for Spinoza and his family. The Nevada family. And they were going to flourish in the light.
Mack Bolan — lately known as Joe from Jersey eased the telephone receiver down and lit himself a cigarette. He was anticipating the results of his brief conversation with Spinoza, what the aftershock would mean for Seiji Kuwahara, for the Mafia and for the city of Las Vegas. He had cruised by the Gold Rush earlier, observed the hard-eyed types unloading from their chauffeured limos, mobbing up at the hotel-casino. They were going hard down there, about to put an army on the streets, and from his knowledge of the Mafia mind, Bolan knew that when the killing started they would not be taking time to sift out innocent civilians from the line of fire.
West was ready to collide with East and countless lives were hanging in the balance. All of Vegas could become a battleground — unless the Executioner's device turned out to be successful.
He had called Spinoza in the hope of giving him a target, drawing off the savages from roving street patrol and pitting them against the common enemy where they would do least damage to the innocents around them. Kuwahara's hardsite seemed the perfect place to bring them all together. Any troops who hung back at the Gold Rush, left on garrison duty with Spinoza, would be waiting for him when he finished with the spearhead.
He dropped another dime and dialed the number of a giant Strip hotel, his eyes upon the traffic sliding past his phone booth while the operator put him through to Tommy Anders's room. The comic's voice was cautious as he answered, 'Yes.'
'How is she?'
Hesitation on the other end.
'Well... ah, dammit, man, she split.'
And something cold turned over in the soldier's stomach.
'What happened, Joker?'
'I was only in the next room for a minute, maybe two, just touching base with Wonderland. When I came back there was no sign of her.'
'How long?'
'I'd say an hour, maybe less.'
The warrior's mind ran through some alternate scenarios, but none of them provided him the slightest reassurance. Finally, reluctantly, he put the woman out of mind and went ahead with business.
'Let me have another hour, Joker, then put through a call to Metro Homicide. The man you want is Captain Reese.'
'Okay. I've got it.'
'Tell him that Spinoza has a crew at Seiji Kuwahara's, and they're bringing down the house. He'll know the address.'
'Kuwahara's, right. Hey, Sarge...'
'Forget it.'
'Can't. I'm sorry that I let her get away.'
'She wasn't ours to hold,' the warrior told him. And again, 'Forget about it.'
But the soldier would have trouble following his own advice that night. Lucy Bernstein was in danger, right, and there was nothing either he or Tommy Anders could have done to keep her safe and sound. The choice was hers, and she had made it freely. And he understood why. She had a job to do and she had gone about it on her own. She was a big girl. He only hoped she had the sense to find herself a shelter from the rising storm that was about to sweep the city. There was no way he could stop the wheels that had been set in motion here tonight.
The Universe was in the driver's seat and all of them were booked through to the end of the line, wherever, whatever that end turned out to be. For some, perhaps for all of them, the vehicle would prove to be a hearse-but none of them could disembark before they reached the final destination preordained by fate.
The Executioner stubbed out his smoke and left the phone booth, moving through the darkness toward his waiting rental car. He had no wish to put off the inevitable; on the contrary, he welcomed the future whatever it might bring.
For he had done his duty, and he would continue doing it while life and strength remained. Tonight, tomorrow — for as long as he was given, he would fight the good fight, carry on and spread his cleansing fire among the dark encampments of the universal enemy.
The Executioner was moving toward a rendezvous with destiny in the desert, with a stopover in hell along the way.
15
Paradise Valley lies south of Las Vegas and cast of the Strip. It has been colonized by well-to-do casino personnel and such show-business stars as chose to live in Vegas through the off months, when they are not on the road. A spacious area with mammoth homes and ready access to four separate country clubs, the neighborhood enjoys a reputation for conspicuous consumption, and the residents take pride in their affluence. In the fifties they elected old Gus Greenbaum mayor of Paradise, deciding that his quasi-ownership of the flamboyant Riviera Hotel and Casino necessarily outfitted him for public office. Everyone professed surprise when Gus, a one-time murderer and closet junkie, ran afoul of mafiosi who were really putting strings down at the Riviera. He was on vacation at the family home in Arizona when somebody hacked his head off with a butcher knife and then went on to practice further surgical techniques upon Mrs. Greenbaum in the next room, taking time to spread out plastic tarps beneath each body prior to cutting. And the folks back home in Paradise could well appreciate the hit team's grim fastidiousness. No maid could ever clean those twenty pints of blood out of a Persian carpet.
And Paradise had made almost a cult of looking clean, of putting up appearances and hiding in the shadows. Driving down the tree-lined streets and looking at palatial homes in back of finely manicured lawns, no casual tourist would suspect which houses had been built with skimmed casino money, cash from tax frauds and insurance swindles.
If your next-door neighbor was in league with mobsters, if he was a practicing arsonist who torched his
