shattering those portals and flinging the debris of stone and humanity about like so much flotsam on a raging sea. Number two impacted between two limousines parked in the curving drive, lending shreds of blackened steel and streamers of flaming gasoline to that lethal atmosphere. Numbers three and four had been reserved for the manor house itself, and they plowed in as ordered by the warwagon's electronic brain, unleashing a volcano of flame and oily smoke within that palace of corruption.
Men were milling around that funeral pyre like ants In a bonfire. They were shouting and brandishing weapons, but confusion reigned supreme and no man seemed certain where to go or what to do. The Executioner helped to resolve that fatal uncertainty, sweeping the ranks with a prolonged burst from his automatic rifle. Guys were flopping around down there, wallowing in their own Juices and shrieking as the spray of steel-jackets ripped through them. Those still standing spun toward Bolan and flung Ineffectual pistol fire in his general direction.
He emptied the clip of the M-16 into those stumbling, staggering straw men, then slammed a fresh clip home and emptied that one as well. Unsatisfied, he gave the M-79 Its roaring head, alternating rounds of buckshot and high explosives as he marched a parade of death across those hellgrounds.
A handful of walking wounded were frantically dragging themselves toward hopeful cover.
Bolan let those survivors go, turning his attention to the house itself. It was burning now in spots, sagging badly in others where the deadly firebirds had impacted in their flight, but the overall structure stood defiantly, a symbol of all that Bolan had sought to eradicate in Arizona. He turned the grenade launcher on that castle of gloom, spewing round after round of explosives and gas into the smoking shell. Masonry flew. Bricks showered the grounds, punching holes through the pall of smoke in their passage. Secondary explosions sounded within the bowels of that structure as a plume of inky smoke rose straight into the cloudless Arizona sky.
It was enough. The message was loud and clear.
Bolan poised there for a long moment surveying that scorched landscape, the stench of gunpowder and blasted flesh irritating his nostrils, then he spun about and went out the way he'd come.
The old man may or may not have survived that holocaust. Either way, the message was sent and received. There would be no easy take-over in Arizona ... not this time.
But the real battle still lay to the north. Bolan was strongly aware of that fact. He'd monitored the telephone conversations, knew that fresh troops were being rushed to the combat zone, knew that plenty of hellfire and thunder lay in his future.
The presence of people such as Hinshaw and Morales in this environment of corruption constituted a clear and present danger unimaginable to the average citizen. A natural rapacity combined with military expertise and further combined with the greed and power lust rampant in the area could spell nothing but death and dishonor to the people of Arizona.
So no one had appointed Mack Bolan their lord protector. So what?
So the common man In the street looked on underworld hoods as some sort of glamorous, charismatic defiers of the system. So what?
Bolan was not there for applause, nor was he there to save Arizona from itself. He was there because his destiny was there, because he could not turn away from his fate. He was an instrument of an evolving universe.
He was Judgment. Not the judge, not the jury, not the sentence itself.
Mack Bolan was the Mafia's Judgment and he knew it and accepted it.
Let the people of Arizona accept what they would.
Chapter 13
Face
'It's hard to believe one man could do all this.' Paul Bonelli was fit to be tied. His narrowed eyes scanned the compound, lingering over various points of particular carnage.
'Well, one did,' Hinshaw replied, a defensive tone edging his weary voice.
The two men stood on the porch of Hinshaw's field headquarters. A handful of Hinshaw's men flanked their leader, remaining aloof from the forty or so Tucson hardmen milling around their crew wagons in the yard. Bonelli's gunmen were taking in the incredible scene as well, commenting on the site's condition In hushed tones.
There was much for comment. The walls of the main building were riddled with symmetrical holes, the window frames splintered and empty except for jagged shards of glass. The ruined hulk of a limousine slouched beside the house, its pock-marked body sagging to starboard on two shredded tires. Behind the ventilated structure, two mounds of blackened lumber memorialized the former existence of other buildings.
The younger Bonelli shook his head in bewilderment and turned toward the door. Hinshaw got there first, holding it wide for the Tucson underboss. Bonelli accepted the courtesy as his due and stepped inside, pausing briefly in the doorway to finger the jagged splinters left by heavy-caliber slugs which had punched through the panel. He took in the interior damage at a glance — bullet gouges, furniture overturned and shattered.
'How many did you lose this time?' he asked Hinshaw.
'Four dead, two wounded. It's a wonder we didn't lose more.'
'Any rumbles from the cops?'
'None. Neighbors are scarce around here. And they mind their own business.'
Bonelli nodded his satisfaction with the answer, allowing his eyes to sweep the room again. His gaze settled on a large weapon which sat atop a dusty tripod In one corner of the room. Two short tubes made of plastic or cardboard or something were propped against the big gun, completing the sinister little tableau. The mafioso gestured toward the pile of weaponry with one hand as he turned toward Hinshaw.
'That's it?'
'That's it. A .50-caliber machine gun and a couple of LAW rocket tubes.'
Hinshaw's tone was brisk, matter-of-fact.
'What's that LAW?'
'Light anti-tank weapon,' Hinshaw explained to the 'civilian.'
'Think of it as a throw-away bazooka. We found them on a rise overlooking the compound, about a hundred yards out. He did this with the .50.' Hinshaw's hand swept the room, indicating the hundreds of bullet holes. 'It has an automatic trigger lock, set for continuous fire. That left his hands free to handle the LAWS.'
'The chopper shoots by itself?' Paul Bonelli was skeptical.
Hinshaw nodded. 'It's a relatively simple mechanism. He probably-'
'Simple?' Bonelli interrupted, scarcely able to believe his ears. 'It was simple for one man to kick hell out of your entire force? What were your boys doing, Jimmy?'
'Dying,' Hinshaw answered flatly. 'Or trying like hell not to.'
Bonelli was boiling. 'It looks bad, Jimmy. One guy dumping all over — how many men is it now?' The Tucson sub-capo knew very well how many men had been lost before Hinshaw answered 'twenty-three' in a tired voice. Bonelli nodded solemnly as he repeated the number aloud. Then his tone softened and he took a different tack with the beleaguered field commander. 'Okay, I can see what you've been up against here. I understand. But my papa, now ...' Paul left the sentence hanging, letting Hinshaw know that Don Niccolo Bonelli was not apt to share his son's understanding of the situation. He let Hinshaw think about that for a moment then added, 'I hate to bring home news like this so soon after your other troubles.' Another pause, then, 'Maybe I don't have to tell him right now. I guess we can wait until after we have this thing in the bag.' Bonelli smiled at the scowling soldier. 'We are going to bag it, aren't we?'
The telephone rang, breaking the tension building there. Hinshaw seemed frozen for a long moment, then reluctantly scooped up the receiver.
'Hello? Yes, hang on.' He held out the instrument to Bonelli. 'For you.'
Paul accepted the receiver and growled into the mouthpiece. 'Yeah?'
The voice at the other end of that connection was taut, breathless. 'Paul? Jake Lucania here.'
'Yeah, Jake.'
Lucania's words came In a breathless rush. 'We been hit! You never saw such-it's-I-I mean-'
Bonelli shushed the excited flow. 'Jake! Relax now and take it from the top one time.'
