War Against the Mafia

An unexpected caller presented himself at the door of Mack Bolan's Liberty District apartment in the early morning hours of August 31st. Bolan grunted with surprise, swung the door open, and admitted Detective- Lieutenant Al Weatherbee. The see-all cop's eyes made a fast appraisal of the expensive lodging, then settled onto the slightly exasperated tenant

'Consider this a friendship call,' the policeman said, smiling tightly. 'I want-'

'Five in the morning is a bit too early for friendship,' Bolan observed.

'A friend in need doesn't know the time of day,' Weatherbee advised him. 'I just dropped by to pass along an interesting piece of information.'

Bolan was not being a gracious host. He left the lieutenant standing in the center of the living room and went back to the small kitchen. He put a pot of water on the stove, pulled two cups and a jar of instant coffee from a shelf, then turned sleepy eyes toward the front of the apartment. 'Come on back here,' he called.

The huge bulk of the detective moved into the narrow dining compartment. Bolan was perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar. 'Coffee be ready in a minute,' he announced in a thick voice. 'What'd you say about some information?'

Weatherbee nodded. 'Came by way of an informant.' He settled tenuously onto a stool, sitting sideways and studying Bolan's face in the dim light. 'A contract has been let on you, Bolan.'

Bolan thought about it for a moment, then said, 'I don't understand you.'

'A kill contract,' the policeman explained. 'Somebody has set you up for an execution. Understand now?'

Bolan stared at him briefly, lit a cigarette, and glanced toward the pot of water. 'Why does it take water so much longer to boil in the morning?' he asked soberly.

'You do know what I'm saying?'

'Yeah, I know.' Bolan slid off the stool and stepped to the stove, touched the pot experimentally with fingertips, then angled a penetrating gaze toward his companion of the early morning. 'You trying to shake me up, or something?' he asked softly.

Weatherbee sighed and shook his head negative. 'No, this is on the level, Bolan. Look, I've had you under observation. I've known that you've been playing some sort of game with these people. Well-now they know it. You didn't really expect to insult their intelligence forever, did you?'

Bolan dug a spoon into the coffee jar, extracted a heaping spoonful, and slid the jar toward Weatherbee. 'You're speaking of the Matthews,' he declared. The water pot was just beginning to sizzle. Bolan glared at it, then lifted it off the stove and poured hot water into his cup, swizzling the coffee crystals mechanically with one hand while pouring water into his visitor's cup with the other. 'They haven't seemed so intelligent,' he murmured.

'Many, many dead men have had that same first impression,' Weatherbee said. He stirred his coffee and took an experimental sip, 'They've pegged you, Bolan,' he declared, exhaling noisily. 'They know who you are -and obviously they know why you are interested in them. And there's a contract out, with your name on it.'

'What can I do about it?' Bolan wondered aloud.

Their eyes met. Weatherbee smiled grimly and said:

'Run. As fast and as far as you can. Southeast Asia, if you can get there.'

Bolan shook his head. 'I'm not running anywhere. How long has this, uh, contract been in effect?'

Weatherbee glanced at his watch. 'About four hours, if my informant's information is accurate.'

'And how long does it take them to get something going?'

Weatherbee shrugged the massive shoulders. 'Not long. They must figure it as a fairly easy hit. The price on the contract, I'm told, is only five thousand.' He sighed. 'To tell the truth, Bolan, I rather half expected to find you already dead when I came up here.'

'Why all the intrigue?' Bolan wanted to know. 'I've been under their noses for days. Why the cat and mouse routine? They could have taken me any time.'

'Why yours?'

'Huh?'

The big cop smiled. 'Why have you been holding off? Your object is to kill them-and don't bother denying or confirming that, I don't expect you to. It's a matter of modus operandi, isn't it. The same is true of the Mafia. Contract killings are their way.' He pushed the coffee away from him with a grunt. 'The coffee is lousy. You didn't let the water boil. Well...' He got down off the stool, placed his hands on his hips and rocked back, stretching himself. '...I've told you. That's my duty, as I see it. It's all I can do, unless you want to request protective custody.'

Bolan's reaction to the suggestion was a disparaging grunt. 'Where do I stand legally? If I kill them first?' he asked.

'You'd be arrested and charged with first degree murder,' Weatherbee replied calmly. He was walking toward the front door.

Bolan stalked him through the apartment. 'It would be self-defense,' he pointed out.

'You'd have to prove that in court,' the policeman informed him. He paused at the door and turned back with a taut smile. 'Look, if it means anything-you have my sympathy. But that's entirely unofficial. If you exercise that trigger finger once more in this town I'll be right on top of you, and that's the way it has to be. Now I'd say that you're between the devil and the deep deep blue. I advise, first of all, that you admit to the killings of August twenty-second and surrender yourself. A good lawyer just might be able to build a good case on temporary insanity. If you don't like that advice, then I can only say run. Run like hell. You can't fight these people, Bolan. You just can't fight them.' He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. 'Well-you want to get dressed and go with me?'

Bolan shook his head, said, 'Thanks, Lieutenant,' and closed the door. He went immediately to the bathroom, calmly brushed his teeth, then shaved, showered, and dressed. He examined the flip-out shoulder holster which had been provided by Turrin, inspected the snub-nosed pistol for the dozenth time, then slipped into the harness and secured it. Next he went to the kitchen and took four boxes of ammunition from a drawer, emptied the boxes, and redistributed the ammo for the.32 loosely into his pockets. Then he returned to the bedroom and rearranged the furniture, sliding the head of the bed against the east window, opened the blinds at that window to admit the strong rays of the rising sun, loosely rolled the blankets into soft lumps and pulled a sheet over them. He went through the apartment, then, carefully closing all blinds and extinguishing lamps, returning finally to the bedroom.

He positioned a chair inside the walk-in closet, went over and closed the bedroom door firmly, then returned to the closet and sat down, rolling the sliding doors to a faintly cracked closure directly in front of the chair, checked the.32 one last time, then waited with a calm and patience he had learned in another part of the world.

The second visitation to the Bolan apartment on the morning of August 31st occurred at just a few minutes before seven o'clock. This time the visitors were two in number, and they did not ring the bell. They stood in the hallway for a moment, ears pressed to the door of the Bolan apartment, while one of them fussed with a mechanical gadget of sliding blades and protruding prongs. He tried several combinations on the door, moving with quiet care, then whispered, 'Think I got it.' The door swung softly open. The two men paused momentarily, then stepped quietly into the apartment, closing the door carefully behind them. The interior was not entirely darkened but they stood quietly by the door for a moment allowing their eyes to adjust to the gray gloom.

'Still in bed,' one hissed.

The other nodded silently and they moved slowly toward the rear of the apartment. The larger man paused near the bedroom door, squinting in the near dark to inspect a long-barrel pistol he held in his hand, A silencing device was attached to the barrel of the pistol. The other man touched the pistol, his teeth revealing themselves in a smile. 'No pissin' around,' he whispered. This guy's good with a gun, they say.'

The man with the pistol nodded and slowly turned the knob of the bedroom door, pushed the door wide, and stepped inside, the second man right behind. They were momentarily blinded, squinting into the bright rectangle of sunlight beyond the bed, but the gunman raised his arm and squeezed off three quick shots into the huddled lump on the bed, the big pistol 'phutting' dully under the muzzle silencer. Then there was a sliding sound in the corner to their right and a voice announced, 'Over here, Charlie.'