Assault on Soho

huh.'

'You can die with that oath then, Stevie, if that's the way you want it.'

'You know I want to livewith it, Bolan. You know that.'

They walked on in silence, Bolan two paces behind his prisoner. Police sounds rose up in the distance, and Bolan felt like this was where he'd come in. They reached the Lincoln. Tiredly, Bolan commanded 'You drive.'

'Where to?'

'Like I said, Stevie, maybe clear to hell.'

They got into the car and the man said, 'I'll talk to you, Bolan.'

'Start the car, then you can start your mouth,' Bolan told him.

Though he was cold as ice on the outside, Bolan was experiencing an inner glow which meant that things were definitely beginning to look up. He had himself a prisoner of war, and not just an ordinary POW, either.

Bolan had no idea who Stevie Carbon was, or had been… but he knew who he was not. He was not the man seated next to him.

The Executioner had grabbed off a caporegime.

His POW was none other than Danno Giliamo.

Chapter Twelve The interrogation

Nick Trigger, in all his years of gunbearing for the brotherhood, had never suffered such personal humiliation. He felt defeated, disgraced, and deeply dismayed at his own cowardly reaction to imminent death. He was alive, though. He kept telling himself that he was still alive, and that surely this counted for something. There was no profit for the family in a dead hero. When a guy saw how things were going, when he saw that nothing he could possibly do would change anything—then surely staying alive was more important than dying. Death was such a final damn thing—it never really seemed possible that a guy could actually cease to exist, not until he came face to face with death. Then he knew, yeah shit, boy, he really knew.

And what could he have done against that Bolan at a time like that? An act of God, that's what, had spared him from cremation in that damn car. He shivered violently in the mere remembrance of it. Another second, just one more second if he'd stayed with that car, and there'd be nothing left of Nick Trigger right now but a little pile of ashes. If he hadn't had sense enough to get the hell out of there when he did…

Nick was rationalizing his actions, and he was conveniently forgetting the fact that sheer revulsion, not combat sense, had driven him out of that car. Gio Scaldicci's blood and brains were all over the back seat and floor, and Nick had found himself lying face down in the mess. He had flung himself on through and out, and he'd been no more than ten feet away when the explosion came. Then he lay there stunned and half unconscious while Bolan chopped up Danno's hunting party. He had lain there also and watched the bastard in black walking quietly among the dead. He had heard him try to question Sal Massed, and still Nick had lain there, his gun no more than a couple of feet away from his outstretched hand, and he'd played dead, and he had even said a couple of prayers.

He hadn't moved a muscle until after Bolan had struck down Stevie Carbon and the two boys he'd taken through the tunnel with him. Then, as Bolan walked back across the square, Nick slithered away in the other direction. He hadn't gotten to his feet until he was completely clear of the square, and then he'd jumped up and started running… running!

He was appalled at himself, despite the rationalizations. Nick was beginning to understand, though, why Mack Bolan had remained so long alive against everything the brotherhood had thrown at him. He understood why Danno had seemed so awed of the guy, so willing to humble himself and ask for help from someone outside his own family. When that Bolan bastard made a hit, he didn't fool around with no light feints. He didn't just hit, he broke hell all around a guy. For Christ's sake, who wouldn't lose his head at a time like that?

Well, something had to be done about him. Some thing that hadn't been tried before maybe, some new wrinkle. They couldn't let that guy get away with that kind of shit. Until a few minutes ago, Bolan had been just a name to Nick, something to hit, just another name on a contract and another job and maybe another rung up the ladder of rank. That was all changed now. He had seen at first hand what Bolan could do.

Nick himself had brought death to more than a a hundred men, yet it had remained for a guy like Mack Bolan to introduce Death to Nick Trigger, to make it a personal experience that Nick Trigger could understand. He understood it now, all right, and he wanted more than anything else to share that understanding with Mack the Bastard Bolan. He would, too, he decided.

The luckiest part of the whole fiasco, for Nick, was that nobody else knew. Apparently only Nick had survived. Nobody would ever have to know that Nick Trigger had played dead and watched the bastard turn his back and walk away, nobody would have to know that Nick had even been there when it happened.

Yeah, that was the luckiest part of all. Or so Nick Trigger thought.

They were rolling slowly up Tottenham toward Regents Park, and the conversation was accomplishing very little in the way of intelligence. Giliamo was glibly avoiding direct answers to sensitive questions, playing his role of dumb street soldier to the very hilt. Bolan had decided to let him play… for awhile. They swung onto Marylebone and up to Park Road.

'Go in the park,' Bolan directed.

'Into the park, Bolan?'

'That's what I said, Stevie.'

They crossed over the tip of a lake moments later and Giliamo nervously asked, 'What're we doing here?'

'That depends,' Bolan told him. 'There's an open air theatre straight ahead. I want you to stop there, Stevie.'

The blood at Bolan's ribs had congealed, the wounds minimal, the pellets from the shotgun blast obviously having grazed the ribs and gone on. Still, there was some discomfort there and Bolan was finding his patience beginning to fray.

They pulled to a halt in the theatre circle. Bolan said, 'Give me the keys and get out.'

Giliamo did so, watching his captor narrowly as Bolan slid out from the other side.

'Over there,' Bolan said, waggling the Uzi.

'Over where?'

'Up on the stage.'

Giliamo stared at Bolan for a silent moment, then whirled about and trudged away with Bolan close behind. They climbed the steps to the stage, then Giliamo blurted, 'Hey look, what the hell are we doing up here?'

'You like to act, Danno,' Bolan quietly replied. 'I thought I'd give you a stage.'

The big man stiffened, then sagged noticeably. His voice was muffled with anger as he said, 'If you knew who I was, why'd you let me keep it up?'

'Get out there at the center of the stage,' Bolan commanded.

'You go to hell,' Giliamo snarled. 'If you're gonna kill me, do it right here.'

Bolan rapped him across the face with the butt of the Vzi, not lightly. Giliamo staggered back, holding one hand to the injured jaw, and went where Bolan directed.

'Down on your knees,' Bolan said.

The caporegimeglared at him, but did as he was told.

'Where do you want it?' Bolan asked, thrusting the Vziforward.

Giliamo choked on the words. 'You know I don't want it anywheres, Bolan.'

'You've been bullshitting me for ten full minutes, Danno. You can stop it now anytime you want. You can stop something else too, Danno.'

'You know I can't. If I talk, and you don't kill me, then they'll just do it later on anyway. I'd rather just get it over with right here.'

'Who's going to know you talked, Danno? Who's going to tell them?'

The Jerseyite was thinking about it. Presently, in an almost inaudible voice, he asked, 'Just what is it you want to know?'