War Against the Mafia

'See what is a-building here, bambini? An image. An image of an invincible ghost who walks among us unseen and untouched, killing and destroying at will-an image of fear, eh?'

The men around the table, exactly twelve in number, were beginning to get excited. There were murmurings and creakings of chairs. Several cigars and a half-dozen cigarettes were lighted.

Sergio seemed to be enjoying his role immensely. He was smiling now, expansively so. 'You begin to see, eh? Our intelligence is not so hot, eh? The Mafia is getting soft, they say. Too much easy living, they say. The new generation of the family are mush-heads, they say. Let us shake their brains, they say. Let us push them as far as they will push, and see what mistakes they will make, eh? Let us play games with the Mafia, and maybe their panic will bring their house down. Eh?'

'I don't like this situation as much as the other one,' Seymour commented sourly. 'One lone guy, even a ghost, gives me a lot more comfort than a concentrated assault by the federal government, and with no regard for the rules of play.'

'Comfort?' Sergio thundered. 'You want comfort? Take your comfort, college man, and sleep with it! Sergio Frenchi wants a dead Bolan! Not a ghost, not an invincible destroyer, but a dead body'

'But you just said...' Seymour began weakly, then lost steam altogether.

'I said you should get some bone in your back,' the old man said sternly, 'Forget all this whimpering and weeping about the Bolan ghost. Make him a ghost, a real one, and tell the feds to send us another. And we will make him a ghost, and tell them to send us another. Eh? Who is the bold and the brave, eh? Eh, Leopold? Is it our women?'

'We'll get the bastard,' Turrin declared grimly, his eyes falling away from the old man's.

'Yes, yes we will. And this is how we will. Now, Nathan, first of all you will...'

And so began the council of September First. Angelina Turrin's foreboding of evil could well have been shared by Executioner Mack Bolan. And she had provided the lull that made it all possible. The Mafia had found a second wind, and it was to be an ill one for The Executioner.

BOOK THREE:

1 - In With the New

Mack Bolan had, for more than 48 hours, been a guest in the apartment of Valentina Querente. He had learned that she was a teacher of history at the local high school, coincidentally the same school to which Bolan had been assigned as ROTC instructor-an assignment he would never fill. He had learned also that she was 26 years of age, single, given to swift changes of mood from the deeply sober to the richly humorous, that she appeared to be both virginal and worldly-wise, easily embarrassed by the most innocent of things while entirely at ease with some of the most sexually suggestive. They shared the same bed, with a rolled blanket separating them, Bolan practically naked in nothing but jockey shorts, Valentina well-bundled in a bulky gown. Her hands moved freely upon him in an assistance to his awkward attempts at dressing and undressing and he had observed her on several occasions in nothing more than panties and bra, yet their bodies had never touched, nor had their lips-not even their hands.

Bolan awoke to his third morning in the Querente bed with the lovely young woman seated beside him and peering into his face. 'Hi,' he said. Her eyes shifted away from his in obvious embarrassment.

'You always wake up and catch me staring at you,' she complained.

'I really can't think of a nicer way to wake up,' he told her. His hand found hers and enfolded it, for the first time.

'Don't, uh-you'd better not,' she said breathlessly, feebly attempting a withdrawal from his grasp.

'Why not? It's a nice, soft little hand, entirely comforting to hold.'

'It, uh, that's your sore arm.'

'It isn't all that sore now. I could probably even hug you with it.'

'Get serious, Mack,' she said soberly. 'Really-the reason I was sitting here like this-I mean-well, it's about time you left the nest, isn't it?'

'You kicking me out?' he asked.

She nodded her head. 'Especially if you're feeling all that strong.'

'All what strong?' he asked whimsically.

'All that strong to hug me with your sore arm.'

'Lie down here and let's give it a test run,' he suggested.

'I want to,' she replied, her eyes unwavering. 'That's why I think...'

'That I'd better be leaving?' he said.

'Uh- huh.' She withdrew the hand from Bolan's and clasped both her hands nervously in her lap.

'Have you ever been in love, Valentina?' Bolan asked softly.

'Oh gosh, please don't start-'

'No fooling,' he said, 'and no line. Have you ever been in love?'

'Of course,' she replied. 'Two or three times.'

'What does it feel like?'

There was a brief silence, then: 'You are serious, aren't you?'

'I said I was.'

'Well I just said that. I don't know how it feels to be in love. I mean, really in love. I've had crushes. I think I have one on you, now. I think.'

He chose to ignore the not-so-surprising declaration. 'I'm thirty years old,' he said musingly.

'I know that.'

'Years ago, a lot of years ago, I used to think that someday I'd fall in love with some girl.'

'How many years ago?'

'I don't remember thinking much about it for a long time now. Long time. All of a sudden I'm thinking about it again. How come?' He was staring at her intently, as though perhaps expecting to find the answer to his question in that stare.

'Oh, Mack-please-don't...'

His arms went about her and he pulled her onto him; her face was suspended directly above his, eyes large and frightened. 'Mack, please don't let's be in love,' she whispered. 'I don't want to be in love with a murderer.'

His eyes froze and she saw the veils sliding across them. He released her and she flung herself away from the bed and lurched through the door. Bolan was muttering beneath his breath. He swung his feet to the floor and looked about for his clothing. He could hear Valentina sobbing, in another room. 'Thanks,' he muttered. 'Thanks for reminding me.' He went into the bathroom, found his clothes hanging just where they'd been that first morning, relocated them atop the vanity, turned on the water, and stepped into the shower. He removed the bandage from his shoulder, slid back the shower curtain, and inspected the wound in the mirror. He decided that soap and water would not hurt it any, closed the curtain, and took a leisurely bath. Then he dressed and went into the kitchen. Valentina had his breakfast waiting for him, but she was nowhere in evidence.

He ate mechanically, in sober contemplation, and he had finished a cigarette and was working on his third cup of coffee when he heard the front door open. Valentina appeared a moment later, slightly breathless, very lovely in shorts and bare-midriff blouse.

'I moved your car again,' she told him, sinking into a chair opposite his and regarding him with misty eyes.