Paulie and Hinshaw had suggested that Kaufman might better serve the cause alive than dead. Bonelli had resisted the idea as anathema to his inbred sense of revenge, the vendetta. But at length he came to realize the wisdom of their words, for Moe Kaufman alive could serve well as a puppet on Nick Bonelli's strings. Kaufman had the connections already, let him continue to retain the appearance of power, as long as he knew in his heart where the real power lay. It could all be so satisfying, rubbing Kaufman's nose in the muck and stripping him of his empire, leaving him alive to grieve over the loss of that which he could never regain.
Satisfying, yeah. And rewarding. La Commisstone could hardly fail to recognize the power and tactical brilliance of the man who could execute such a master-stroke. At last Nick Bonelli would be assured the respect of those old fools who had snubbed him while courting the favor of Kaufman and his connections. And the plan had shown every sign of working out smoothly. Hinshaw's men were primed and ready, poised to strike at Kaufman's jugular and apply the pressure that would bring him to his knees. Everything should have gone like clockwork.
Mack Bolan changed all that.
Bonelli had secretly expected a visit from Mack the Bastard for a long time. He thought that time had come when the guy stopped off in Arizona long enough to kick some ass with Ciro Lavangetta and Johnny the Musician, but it turned out he was only passing through on his way to Miami. Bolan had done Nick a favor there, for Ciro had died in Miami, severing the encroaching tentacles of the old Digeorge family onto Bonelli territory. But Nick had always known that Bolan would — indeed, had to — come back.
In spite of that mental preparedness, that back-of-the-mind alert, Bolan's appearance now had caught Nick completely by surprise, threatening to louse up everything that Bonelli and Hinshaw had been working toward for months. Bolan anywhere in Arizona was bad news, but Bolan in Phoenix could be unmitigated disaster, the absolute worst. Or maybe not.
After the first panic reaction had faded, Bonelli took stock of the full potentials of the present situation. Hinshaw assured him that Bolan and Kaufman would be at each other's throats before nightfall, and the soldier seemed confident that given a few hardy reinforcements, he could play both ends against the middle. Bonelli had sent the reinforcements, almost gleefully, despite the half-hearted tongue lashing he had given Hinshaw on the phone. Maybe — just maybe — Bolan's arrival could be good news for the Tucson capo. There was that cool million still riding on the guy's head, and Bonelli could always use that kind of money. But more enticing was the mammoth prestige that would automatically fall upon any man who could bag the Executioner's head. And if Nick could bag Bolan and Kaufman at the same time, with a made U.S. Senator as the kicker — well, Bonelli just had to smile at the prospect, his mind conjuring images of himself as the new man of the hour. Boss of Bosses? Capo di tutti capi? Why not?
He fired a two dollar cigar and reached for the desk intercom. His house boss, Jake Lucania, appeared in answer to the bleeping summons.
'Get Phoenix on the phone, Jake. I need another parley with Hinshaw.'
Lucania answered, 'Sure, boss,' and went to place the call. It had been over two hours since Bonelli's last contact with Hinshaw, and more than an hour and a half since Paulie had pulled out with a war party. Bonelli was sending reinforcements all right, and he was sending his son and strong right arm as well, just to insure that there was no more dicking around.
Minutes passed, and then Lucania reappeared to announce: 'He's on line two, sir.'
Bonelli nodded a silent thanks and scooped up the receiver, greeting Hinshaw with a curt, 'What's happening up there?'
The younger man's voice sounded defensive, on edge, and maybe just a bit nervous as he answered. 'No change, Mr. Bonelli. My-we're sitting tight like you suggested.'
'Okay. Paul is on the way, with some help, Look for him any time now.'
There was a long pause, and when Hinshaw spoke again, the note of tension and suppressed resentment in his voice made Bonelli smile. 'I understand, sir. As you wish. But I honestly feel that I-'
'It's no disgrace to need help, kid. You been hurt bad. Paul can give you a lot of comfort. How many boys You got left there?'
'Roughly a dozen, sir. They're all in top form, and I'm confident that with the replacements you've sent we can save the play without further difficulty.'
'Yeah, great,' Bonelli answered, though certain in his own mind that there would be a great deal more difficulty before the final curtain came down in Phoenix.
Hinshaw was muttering more assurances when Bonelli broke in again. 'Listen, about this Bolan thing-'
Bonelli's words were cut off by a curious hollow booming sound at the other end of the line. It filled his ear, stabbing Painfully into his brain, and the line was suddenly buzzing, with Hinshaw in the background loudly demanding to know what the hell that was. The sounds from the Phoenix end became jumbled then, with a second explosion and a third coming almost together, and the loud thunking sounds which Nick Bonelli, the old street warrior, identified at once as heavy-caliber bullets ripping through walls and furniture. Hinshaw and company were catching hell in Phoenix, and Bonelli could do nothing but sit there and listen to it happen. And then, suddenly, he could not even do that. The line went dead.
But no, it couldn't be dead. He could still hear the sounds of battle, the staccato gunfire and booming explosions. They sounded the same, and yet different at the same time. Sharper somehow, and clearer. Closer.
Nick Bonelli rose from his chair and bolted for the study door as the floor beneath him lurched in another blast. The rattle of gunfire was loud in his ears now, and there could be no possible doubt as to its meaning. Lucania burst through the door at that precise instant, a thin trickle of dark blood bisecting his ashen face.
'It's a hit,' he shouted at the would-be Boss Of Bosses. 'We're being hit!'
Bolan had pushed the warwagon hard, urging unaccustomed speed from the Toronado engine and reaching his target in western Tucson with minutes to spare. Nick Bonelli's fortress home lay there, almost on the fringe of Rolling Hills golf course and backed against a river bed called Pantano Wash. Bolan made a quick drive-by, pressing the appropriate button on his command console to trigger the 'collection' of data from miniature recorder- transceivers previously installed on the Bonelli Phone terminals. The taped data was pre-edited and time-phased, Omitting wasteful periods of silence to present an uninterrupted flow of intelligence. The playback was running as Bolan prepped for combat, enlightening him as to the latest troop movements and reassuring him that the capo was at home within those walls.
He stowed the warwagon In a screen of willows along Pantano Wash, on the northwest flank of Bonelli's hardsite, and immediately enabled the rocketry, aligning selected points of the manor house and fortifications in the range finder of the firing grid and registering the coordinates in the memory bank. His touch upon a special set of controls meshed the computer and firing mechanism, setting the rocketry on 'automatic.' He set the console timer two minutes ahead and quit that vehicle, the sounding of the lethal metronome loud in his ears.
The Executioner moved swiftly over the arid ground, despite the tremendous load he carried.
Along with the Automag and Beretta, extra clips and grenades girding his waist, he carried his big double- punch weapon, the M-16/M-79 combo. The autoloading assault rifle could spew 5.56mm tumblers at a rate of 900 rounds per minute, while the 40mm hand cannon slung underneath was a single-shot breech-loader, handling tear gas, buckshot or HE rounds at the discretion of the gunner.
Satchels filled with Clips for the M-16 and mixed rounds for the grenade launcher completed the Bolan combat rig, upping his normal weight by some seventy-five Pounds.
He did not seem to feel that weight or be affected by it as he scaled the stony wall and put himself inside Bonelli's estate. He moved swiftly across the rolling expanse of finely manicured lawn, making no effort at concealment while his mental alarm clock ticked off the numbers until doomsday.
The first hardman saw him at fifty yards out. Obviously unable to believe his eyes, the guy just stood there and gaped for about a half-second too long. When he made his move, simultaneously squawking a warning and reaching for his sidearm, the effort was too little and too late. Bolan's finger stroked the trigger of the M-16 and the guy went into a jerky little dance of death. The gunfire alone would have alerted the whole compound, but it was instantly eclipsed by the sound of hell arriving to visit the ungodly.
Bolan had glanced at his watch and saw the sweep second hand signal doomsday. Over his left shoulder, then, came a faint whoosh from the warwagon's rocket pods as the thunderbolts came in directly on time and on target, rattling over the low defensive wall at three-second intervals. Number one erupted at the front gates,
