War Against the Mafia

Weatherbee glared at him through a long silence. Then he crushed out his cigarette, lit another, sighed, and said softly, 'I care, Bolan. Justice isn't perfect in this country, but by God it's the best justice under the law that can be found anywhere. We can't have self-appointed judges and juries walking the streets with guns in their hands. Hell, man, this isn't Vietnam!'

'If I am being accused of a crime, isn't there a formality to be observed?' Bolan said, his features rigid in a set smile.

'You aren't being charged,' the lieutenant replied. 'Not yet. But I know exactly what happened, Bolan. You understand that. I know. I know that some one broke into The Hunt Shop on August 18th, took a shiny new.444 calibre Marlin lever-action rifle and a powerful scope. I know that he took the rifle out to the old quarry to sight it in. We know that somebody was out there for two hours on the morning of August 19th, firing methodically in bursts of five along three precise ranges-one of a hundred yards, another a hundred and ten, and one a hundred and twenty yards. The caretaker didn't think much about it until he saw the papers yesterday morning, and I won't insult your intelligence by trying to make you think he got close enough to identify anybody. Just so you'll know I'm not playing games with you, Sarge.

'Then two days ago our marksman went up to the fourth floor of the Delsey Building. He sat in an open window of an empty office. He smoked four Pall Malls- your brand, I see-and he used a Coke bottle for an ash tray. At almost exactly six o'clock he levered five soft-nosed slugs into the street below, with the punch of a bear-gun, and the Triangle Industrial Finance Company suddenly went temporarily out of business... And vengeance is mine, saith The Executioner.'

The lanky sergeant shifted his weight, causing the chair to creak beneath him. If you know so much,' he said softly, 'why aren't you charging me?'

'Would you like to make a statement?'

'Not unless I'm under arrest.'

'You know you're not under arrest.'

'Then I have no statement,' Bolan said, smiling tightly.

'What sort of screwy ideas you got in that noodle of yours, Sarge?'

Bolan held his hands up, palms out 'No screws whatsoever,' he replied.

'When are you due back in Vietnam?'

'I'm not due back.' Bolan grinned engagingly. 'New orders came yesterday. Humanitarian reassignment.'

'Reassignment where?' Weatherbee asked quickly.

'To the ROTC Unit at Franklin High, right here in Pittsfield.'

'Aw shit! the policeman exploded.

'Because of the kid brother,' Bolan added meekly. 'I'm his only kin.'

Weatherbee charged to his feet and paced the floor between the desk and the door, working furiously at a sudden charge of static energy. 'Well, this just complicates the hell out of things,' he said presently. I thought you'd be tucked securely away in those jungles and out of my hair.' He stabbed a finger to punctuate each word as he added, The front lines of Vietnam would be the most humanitarian assignment you could get!'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Bolan said uneasily.

'Sure you do, you know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the Mafia, an organization that can't afford to forgive and forget. I'm talking about a guy known as 'The Executioner,' who may or may not have executed five of their number-and those guys don't give anybody the benefit of any doubts the way the law does. I'm talking about the streets of my city becoming a shooting gallery, and of my inability to do anything but sit on the sidelines and watch like a spectator because I don't have any physical evidence to take into a court of law.

'I'm levelling with you, Sarge. Understand this! You're up the creek whether you're guilty or not! You look guilty as sin-maybe not guilty enough for a court of law, but guilty sure as hell enough for the law of the Mafia! They may not get to you today, or even tomorrow, but believe me they will get to you. And I'm sidelined. Understand? I can't do a thing to help you- even saying I wanted to. So what becomes of the kid brother now, eh? What becomes of the kid brother with your blood filling my gutters, Bolan?'

'What would be your suggestion?' Bolan asked, eyeing the other sharply.

'Give me a statement. A confession. It's the only way you can get the protection of the law.'

Bolan laughed tartly. 'Some protection. All the way to the electric chair, eh? And then what becomes of the lad brother, eh, Weatherbee?'

'I don't think it'd be that rough. There are circumstances.'

'Sure. Sure, there are.' Bolan got to his feet. 'You're playing games with me, Lieutenant. If I'm free to go...'

'Look, soldier, I don't have a case on you,' the policeman fumed. 'Am I being honest? How much more honest can a cop get? I can't take a war hero into court on nothing more than a hunch and a couple of suspicions. I don't have enough evidence to get an indictment. But I can't forget that a guy like you is prowling my streets, 'The Executioner' for Christ's sake, with a hard-on for the mob. And don't think for one small second that they can forget it, either.'

'Well- thanks for the honesty,' Bolan said. He smiled. 'See you around.' He opened the door and walked out, nodded his head at the uniformed officer, and made for the open doorway at the other end of the large room. Pausing as he rounded the corner, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. The big plainclothesman was leaning against his doorjamb, hands thrust deeply into pockets, gazing disconsolately after him. A sudden chill shot down Bolan's spine, and he knew a moment of self-doubt.

Was he overestimating his own capabilities? Could he really expect to wage any sort of an effective one-man war on an organization that even the collective talents and technologies of the world's police were helpless against? Bolan shrugged and went on down the stairs. There was no turning back. The war was already on. And The Executioner had an afternoon appointment with some of the inner circle. The law had made its point. But The Executioner wasn't buying it.

4 - An Equal Opportunity

It could have been any gathering of successful businessmen, relaxing in a country club atmosphere. The florid face of Nat Plasky was just a shade lighter than the crimson slash of swim trunks that separated his hairy mass into seemingly equal parts. He leaned against a poolside cabana, a sweating glass of iced liquid held carelessly and seemingly forgotten in a massive paw, engaged in quiet conversation with an eye-jerking blonde young woman in an almost nonexistent bikini. Several other dazzling Miss Universe types, displaying various ideas of the nude swimwear look behind fishnet, nudie panels, and enchantingly strategic placements of mini-materials, sprawled here and there beside the pool. Nobody appeared to be wet, nor inclined to get that way.

A suave man of about fifty, carefully attired in white duck trousers, canvas sneakers, and a polo shirt sat at an umbrella table with a younger man who wore slacks, a turtle-neck shirt, and a light sports jacket. Several other men wandered about aimlessly, almost blending into the background of sunning platforms, plastic flotation devices, and colorful cabanas-bodyguards, was Bolan's quick impression. And they were watching him. Some unspoken signal or herd instinct prompted all eyes present to swing toward Bolan as he approached the pool. Plasky waved his glass in Bolan's direction, said something to the blonde, and hurried forward to greet the new arrival.

'We been invaded by the U.S. Army,' one girl murmured lazily, eyeing the tall soldier with interest.

'Shut up, stupid,' Plasky grunted as he brushed past her. He went to Bolan with hand outstretched, then led the soldier like a long-lost friend to the table where the two other men sat. 'Walt Seymour, this is Sergeant Mack Bolan,' he intoned formally, presenting Bolan to the older man first. The obvious protocol was not lost on Bolan. He smiled and extended his hand, aware that he had progressed at least one step above Plasky, and also aware that he was receiving a firm but uninvolved grip of social courtesy only. The younger man seized Bolan's hand as soon as it was free and wrung it enthusiastically. It was the sort of handshake Bolan could understand, and he swept the man with a warm gaze.

'I'm Leo Turrin,' the warm one said, smiling. 'Hear you're just back from 'Nam. Welcome home. What outfit