War Against The Mafia Part 3

He had never known that women such as this one were to be found in the oldest profession.

"You'll have to," Turrin said, still chuckling. "Remember what I told you. All eyes, no hands." He moved his head closer.

"Look, Sarge, Rheeda and I have business together.

You're on station right here. Understand?

Right here." Bolan nodded soberly. "I'm on station, Captain." Turrin winked and clapped Bolan on the shoulder. "G.o.d dam I'm glad we found you, Sarge," he said warmly. Then he turned back to his redhead and together they left, going out the back archway and up padded stairs, the woman clinging in lock-step and giggling delightedly over something Turrin was saying to her.

Bolan shrugged his shoulders and paced about the big room, gazing at the paintings adorning the walls and wondering idly who had posed for the nude studies hanging everywhere. He decided that if the models were also residents of Pinechester then there was quite a world of prost.i.tution he had never been exposed to. The clubroom itself was sumptuous. He wondered if the bedrooms were equally lavish in devotion to the details of animal comforts--and decided that they probably were.

The place reeked of luxurious flesh --pampering, which meant money with a capital "M," and Bolan wondered how much it did cost the monied American aristocracy for a night's indulgence in the pleasure palace. He could almost appreciate the grim satisfaction of a Sicilian "Matthew" peasant who had risen to the proprietorship of such a magnificent "c.u.n.t castle," as Turrin had referred to it, and who could so gladsomely relieve the rich of some of their riches and pa.s.s them on to some of the nouveau riche now luxuriating in the twenty-karat comfort of the suburban estate. Bolan pulled himself out of the thoughts, shaking them off, telling himself that Turrin was a hood, purely and simply a hood, a conscienceless goon who seduced little girls into prost.i.tution and squeezed hard-working family men into desperate acts of violence.

Such were his thoughts when the blonde appeared, and she jarred every trickle of sanity from his suddenly shrieking synapses. She was fully as tall as Rheeda and made up in vibrant youth and oozing s.e.x what Rheeda took from her in poise and beauty. The golden hair fell in a torrential sheen to below the creamy shoulders, reappearing in a loosely braided effect with the tail draped casually across the back of the neck and down onto the throat in a light curl. The eyes were widely s.p.a.ced and sparkling blue, the nose and chin delicately chiseled, the jawline soft and barely defined. The richly sensuous mouth was provocatively ajar, the pink top of a tongue thoughtfully extended onto the upper lip.

"Who the heck are you?" she inquired in a soft voice.

"I'm waiting for Mr. Turrin," Mack told her. It seemed an idiot thing to say but, under the circ.u.mstances, it seemed also quite apropos. The golden G.o.ddess was, for all practical effects, unclothed. A transparent gauze-like stole was draped across her shoulders and in a free fall down the front of her, crossing at the arch of her thighs and drawn under, back, and around and tied loosely at the hips. The effect was altogether casual and altogether revealing and, in the altogether, stunning to male awareness. Huge globular b.r.e.a.s.t.s with strongly defined areolae surged restlessly beneath the gauzy film, scarlet tips only emphasized by the luminously white material. The soft midsection and soaring hips dramatically back-dropped the obviously darker shading of the swollen Mount of Venus, hardly more than accented by the transparent bow overlacing. The legs and thighs seemed to explode upwards with no loss of continuity between that below and that above, and Bolan found himself nervously wetting his lips like a schoolboy at his first strip show.

The blonde was regarding him studiously, getting his measure, and obviously approving of what she saw. She hooked curled fingers of both hands into the vee formed by the crisscross of material and slowly tracked the upward route, enlarging the open area of fleshy display. Bolan the unshakeable lost command of his eyes as the rubied tips jerked free and bounded toward him.

"You may as well wait upstairs with me," the blonde said, obviously sure of her effect on the straining male consciousness. "You may as well," she repeated coaxingly, in a husky voice. "Leo always takes about an hour. C'mon. We'll get a drink and take it upstairs." "I'm sorry," Bolan said, already wondering about the genuineness of the encounter. "He told me to wait right here." She moved against him then, and the delicate scents of her edged stronger into the male of him. His hands automatically moved onto the soft roundness behind her, then twitched away as the magic of chemistry had its way. She tossed her hips in a recognition signal, her lips nuzzling toward his ear, and whispered, "He always takes at least an hour. I'll bet it wouldn't take us five minutes." Bolan politely but firmly pushed her away.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She gazed at him for a moment, reading the message of his eyes. Her own eyes flashed, then, and she asked, "Who do you think you're kidding?" Her nostrils were flaring angrily. "That's a roaring monster you've got there and you're just dying to bury it in me!" "You are absolutely right," he replied agreeably.

The girl gave a short, nervous laugh, wriggled her hips, and threw a vicious b.u.mp in his direction. "Picture it buried in that!" she cried.

"I got the picture," Bolan said. He grinned feebly. "Take it easy, blondie. This may be the place, but it just isn't the time. Now you haul that hot a.s.s away from here and leave a working man alone." Her eyes softened and she gazed at him with new respect. She said, "Well--I-I..." in a voice tinged with indecision, then simply smiled at him.

An electronic squeal and then a hum broke the silence, followed swiftly by the voice of Leo Turrin, obviously issuing from a concealed speaker somewhere in the clubroom. "Okay, Sarge," it said.

"Another point for you. Hey, what are you? A G.o.dd.a.m.n iron man? Huh? I wonder if I could pa.s.s that test!" Turrin was enjoying himself and the moment hugely. "Hey-hey-grab that hot blonde and drag her delectable a.s.s up the stairs. You hear me? Go on and enjoy yourself!" "I hear you, Leo," Bolan said softly. He was looking for the speaker.

"Hey, it's closed-circuit TV. I'll show it to you later. Mitzi--you take good care of my friend--you hear me?" The girl was smiling good-humoredly. "Sure, I hear you, Leo," she replied.

"And that makes another piece you owe me on the house!" He laughed uproariously. The speaker squealed, then was silent.

"See what your devotion to duty cost me?" the blonde said, now smiling ruefully at Bolan.

She snared one of his hands and tugged at him. "Yes, c'mon, lees go find some place to bury that bone.

Or are you still saying its not the time?" "It's the time," Bolan agreed, moving in-tow toward the carpeted stairway. Bolan the G.o.dd.a.m.n iron man knew very well he could pa.s.s the next test--over, and over, and over again. He followed the blonde seductress up the curving sweep of stairs, along a wide, beautifully decorated hall, and into a large bedroom. It was a sumptuous affair, complete with canopied bed, deep carpeting, and lavish furnishings. Bolan emitted a soft whistle.

"Nice, eh," the blonde said, turning to him with a warm smile. Her gaze angled down to his loins, one hand moving spontaneously with the eyes. "What's your druthers?" she asked, lashes lowering demurely.

"What?" Bolan said, one hand toying with a soft shoulder.

"Do you prefer it sitting, standing, laying down, all-fours, belly-to-belly, or oral-genital?" Bolan merely grinned, pushed her an arm's length away, and carefully untied the bow at her hips, thoughtfully disentangled the stole from the warm flesh of the thighs, drew it over her head, and dropped it to the floor, then stood gazing at her, one hand raised contemplatively to his chin. She smiled and did a slow pirouette, arms raised gracefully, concluding with a repet.i.tion of the b.u.mp-and-grind she had shown him downstairs.

"Don't tell me," he said, grinning, "I'll bet you were on the stage." She gave a short laugh, lowering her arms and standing somewhat awkwardly, perhaps even self-consciously. Bolan had taken command; this was obvious. She laughed again, a bit nervously, turned and strolled toward the bed, hesitating momentarily to gaze at him over her shoulder, then studiously folded back the bedcovers and crawled onto the luxury of silken sheets, plumping a pillow beneath her head and rolling languidly onto one side and staring at her companion of the boudoir.

Bolan was undressing. She watched him as he stripped, her eyes following each flexure of the manly frame. He carefully draped his clothing over the back of a chair, stalked over to the bed, and stared down at her with a penetrating gaze, his lips set in a half-smile.

She smiled back at him and patted the bed beside her.

Bolan grabbed the patting hand and dragged her off the bed. She stumbled to her feet, spluttering. "You like to throw it," he said. "So throw it." "Aw look, I was just..." "Throw it!" She threw it, repeatedly, grinding and tossing her hips in a pretty fair facsimile of a burlesque queen, and obviously tiring fast.

Bolan was standing back, hands on hips, watching her labors. Presently she said, "Is this how you get your kicks or is this a grudge fight?" She had come to a panting halt, glaring at Bolan with a despairing light in her eyes. He laughed and folded her into a tight embrace, his flesh all but shrieking under the duress of the delightful head-to-toe contact.

"Let's just say that you pa.s.sed your test," he told her, grinning down at her. "Now--how do you want it?" She giggled and relaxed against him. "If I have a choice, I'll take it flat on my back and breathing slow." "Okay," he said agreeably, at least we've got the display-window starch out of you." "What?" She had fallen back onto the bed, tiredly drawing her legs onto the edge.

"All that posturing and posing," Bolan explained. "You put that on for all your callers?" "I never get any complaints," she a.s.sured him.

He dropped his knees to the floor and encircled the lush female body with an arm, raking his lips across the torso, pausing momentarily at the b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then onto the throat and lingering on the pouting lips.

"This is more like it," she said a moment later, sighing and running hands along his back. He doubled one of her legs and drew it forward, kissed the knee, kneading the leg and thigh with both hands.

"You, uh, like legs?" she asked, a new light beginning in the depths of her eyes.

"I like yours," he told her. "But probably not in the way you're wondering. I'm just trying to discover where you tick." "h.e.l.l, I tick all over," she said quickly.

His hands had moved onto her hips, fanning along the heavy cones of firm flesh, and up into the juncture of legs and body. The raised leg jerked involuntarily and she inhaled sharply. He was grinning at her. "Well okay, so I tick some places better than others," she admitted. "Are you going to, uh, get up here on the bed with me?" For reply he pushed, pulled, and rolled her over and ran his hands along the back of her, hesitating here and there to probe sensitive spots.

The blonde was beginning to puff again. "Say," she said, "say..." "Yeah?" She lunged about and flung her arms about his neck, mouth eagerly seeking his. He went onto the bed then and they lay in tight embrace, limbs intertwined, mouths joined, her hips moving rhythmically against him.

He withdrew from the urgency of her mouth and said, "Now, that's the proper movement for the bed set." "Okay, Professor," she puffed, "on with the lecture." Her mouth again grafted onto his, the heavy globes of b.r.e.a.s.t.s working frantically against his chest. Both hands came down off his neck and moved between them, searching, grasping.

He evaded her, saying, "I haven't seen your steam yet." "G.o.d, G.o.d--how much steam you want a girl to have? I'm going nuts all over." He rolled to the other side of her, carrying her over atop him, lifting her high, head beneath her chin, and buried his mouth in the luxurious flesh. She gasped and flopped, hammering at him with her hips, whining, entreating. Some moments later he pushed her onto her back and rolled off the bed to stand beside it and gaze down at her. Her knees and arms lifted together and her eyes were pleading. "Please," she moaned, "please ?" Bolan smiled approvingly, murmured, "Now yore a woman," and fell onto her.

She arched up to meet him, capturing him in a death grip with all four limbs. "Yes, yes, yes," she panted, then her midsection exploded in a convulsive grasping, and it was not until some moments later that she was able to complete the statement.

"I am a woman," she declared languidly.

"h.e.l.l, don't I know it," Bolan said tiredly. All tests were A-OK.

BOOK TWO.

The Cause An unexpected caller presented himself at the door of Mack Bolan's Liberty District apartment in the early morning hours of August 31/. Bolan grunted with surprise, swung the door open, and admitted Detective-lieutenant Also 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-was "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 pa.s.s 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, swirling 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 ma.s.sive 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." "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 tight 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 h.e.l.l. 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 31/ 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 p.r.o.ngs. 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 p.i.s.sin" around," he whispered. "This guy's good with a gun, they say." The man with the pistol nodded and slowly turned the k.n.o.b 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." The two men spun as one, arms almost interlocking.

Orange flame was spitting toward them and the room was vibrating with the testimony of a fast-talking pistol.

A scarlet geyser erupted from the throat of the man with the gun. The other crumpled to his knees, one hand inside his jacket and frozen in a Napoleonic imitation, the jacket itself quickly turning crimson directly over the heart. Another projectile punched into the first man's face, just beneath one eye, the impact snapping his head back grotesquely. He went down atop his companion, the thoroughly silenced pistol clutched spasmodically in an uncontrollably jerking hand.

The Executioner stepped out of the closet and stood over them momentarily to confirm the results with a professional eye, then holstered his gun and quickly left the apartment. He took the elevator to the bas.e.m.e.nt, then hurried up the stairway of the rear service entrance to the building, crossed the alleyway, fitted a key into the service door to the opposite building, and went in. A minute or so later he entered a small apartment of that building and went to a hot-plate and started some water for coffee.

Then he removed the cushions from a couch and produced a high-powered rifle. The.444 Marlin sported a very businesslike telescope sight; the metal parts of the rifle were wrapped in a protective gauze. A metal ammunition box and a cleaning kit appeared from beneath the couch, and the Executioner began methodically preparing his tools for service.

"Who is getting whose intelligence?" he muttered. To anyone who might have been interested, sniper-expert Bolan could have explained that every planned offensive also contained an avenue of retreat. "It's no retreat, though," he told the Marlin, unfolding it affectionately from its gauze covering. "It's just a tactical withdrawal to a holding position." He walked to the window and gazed onto the street below. A siren was sounding from not far away. He wondered how The Matthews would feel when they learned that the contract was still wide open. He wondered, also, how lieutenant Weatherbee would greet the news. The Executioner, he realized, would have to step with exceeding caution from this point onward. Everybody would be after him now--the cops, the Mafia, the contract killers, probably the whole d.a.m.n world. Bolan shivered slightly.

Fear is a natural emotion, he told himself.

Use it! Make it work for you! it was a pep talk he had used many times before. But then, he had never been completely alone before. Make it work for you! Of course!

Scare the s.h.i.t out of The Matthews. Get them running Scared, keep them more scared than you are, and hope that they come unglued. But how do you handle cops? The Mafia wide open, get them running scared, evade them. How long could he evade them?

Not long, he was realist enough to understand that fact. He had, probably, a few days at the most. A few days. Well--he'd have to do what he had to do in a few days. He had to crack the Mafia wide open, get them running scared, evade their killers, evade the cops, and keep himself from coming unglued in the process--all in a matter of two or three days. Could he do it? He patted the big Marlin. Well--he'd do it or die. It was that simple. A chill chased down his spine. It was as simple as that.

Bolan discovered a truth in that stark moment of confrontation. He had started this thing as an act of simple vengeance. He could face that truth now. A strong sense of justice, a galvanic feeling of frustration, and a willingness to undertake independent action--these three had conspired to spell vengeance for Mack Bolan. But vengeance was no longer the issue, nor was self-defense, and this was another realization of Bolan's new truth. He no longer hated these people, these Matthews, as exemplified by Turrin, Plasky, and Seymour. He had almost learned to understand them and, in so doing, had found his hatred melting. He had come to regard them now in almost the same way he had learned to of the enemy in Vietnam.

There was nothing personal between Bolan and the enemy, no hatred, no score to settle. This was just an overgrown game of cowboys and Indians. There were good guys, and there were bad guys. The bad guys had to lose. It was as simple as that. The Executioner had come to realize that he was fighting a holy war, corny as it sounded. Good over evil, this was the issue. This was the cause, and Executioner Bolan knew that he would never find a better one to live for.

To live for--not to die for. There was no victory in dying, this was so clear to him; the victory lay only in the death of evil, and Mack Bolan found himself irreversibly committed to that undertaking. The Mafia was evil. The Mafia must die. This was the cause.

The Rattler It was just a little past noon when the familiar black sedan pulled slowly through the iron gateway to the suburban estate, the front wheels pausing briefly on a raised lump in the driveway. The driver of the sedan nodded to the young man in the caretakers overalls and moved the car smoothly along the curving drive of Pinechester. He wheeled on around to the garage area, left the vehicle, and entered the large house through the side door, going directly to the pull-cord in the clubroom, announcing his presence. After a small wait, the tall redhead appeared, again sporting silken hip-huggers, these of a flaming green and slitted strategically for ultimate effect. The tailored smile faded from the pretty face. "S-sarge," she stuttered, eyes quickly flicking beyond him in search of another presence. "Which-what..." "What am I doing here?" he asked the question for her, smiling. "Can't you guess?" The professional smile immediately rea.s.serted itself.

She laughed nervously and took a hesitant step toward him. "Mitzi told me you're a devil," she said, her voice rising in obvious discomfort.

"I suppose you-you've come to tame me this time, eh?

Okay." She swayed forward, hands moving toward his neck.

He stepped back and batted her hands down. "You know better than that," he told her.

"What do you want?" she asked, now obviously frightened.

"I want you to get your girls out of here," he told her, "unless you want them toasted like marshmallows." She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a brief moment. "Is the house on fire?" she mumbled.

"It's going to be," he a.s.sured her. "Start getting them out. Now!" Her eyes flared angrily, then wavered under the unrelenting impact of the Bolan gaze, and she spun about uncertainly, then went quickly to a small desk near the doorway, opened a drawer, and fumbled inside. Bolan the cat had moved silently behind her; he shoved her roughly and she fell into a nearby chair with a startled cry. She got hesitantly to her feet, rubbing a sc.r.a.ped wrist against the silken pants, glowering darkly at Bolan as he removed the clip from a tiny automatic pistol he had taken from the desk drawer.

"You better hurry," he told her mildly.

"I'm putting the torch to this place in about thirty seconds. Take "em down the fire escape in the back." He slung the automatic across the room, picked up a newspaper, and held it over the flame of his cigarette lighter. Rheeda gasped and bolted up the stairway.

Bolan tossed the flaming newspaper to the floor, beneath the window draperies, then quickly lit another. Moments later the clubroom was a blazing inferno. Bolan exited the same way he'd arrived, climbed into the car, and drove back to the gate. "The joint's on fire," he called to the "gardener." The man threw him a surprised look, then turned his gaze toward the house, reacted visibly, and immediately took off on a hard run for the flaming structure.

"These old places do go UP fast," Bolan muttered to himself, then he grinned and pulled on through the gateway and drove up the road, paralleling the fence, for a distance of about a hundred yards. He pulled onto the shoulder, stopped the car, then carefully eased it alongside the fence and killed the motor. He reached into the back seat and produced the big Marlin, then left the car and scaled the fence, dropping lightly inside with the rifle slung over his shoulder. Smiling grimly, he crossed the grounds to a small knoll overlooking the house and drive, lay down, and again took up a patient watch.

Women were shrieking and running about, most of them in various stages of undress. Bolan could easily spot the flaming green of Rheeda's outfit. He sighted her in with the scope and her angry face leaped into the field of vision. Bolan grinned.

Rheeda was fit to be tied. The old structure was consumed in flames already. The "gardener" was moving slowly among the women, talking animatedly, a large revolver inanely clasped in one hand. The distant scream of fire trucks edged into Bolan's consciousness and a Chief's car flashed into the driveway moments later, executed a quick circle on the lawn, and bounced to a halt just inside the gate. A uniformed man jumped from the car and waved down the hook and ladder truck entering just behind him, pa.s.sed some brief instructions, then stepped back and allowed the truck to proceed on toward the house.

Bolan grinned again. Telling them to never-mind the hoses, he guessed. The place would be gutted before they could even get the hoses laid out. Rheeda and the women were now cl.u.s.tered about the truck. The firemen seemed to be showing more attention to the girls than to the blaze. Another truck was turned back at the gate by the Chief, who then returned to his car and drove on to the house.

Bolan grinned and waited. There was an explosion down in the fire, followed closely by another.

Bolan supposed that n.o.body had thought to move the cars from the garage. The generally unclad women were beginning to move about restlessly, and one barefoot young lady in a nightgown was trudging along the driveway toward the road. Getting worried, Bolan decided. He could understand why.

Some embarra.s.sing questions would likely be raised concerning the presence of so many underdressed young women on the premises.

A police car turned into the drive, stopped and picked up the deserter, then proceeded to the group on the lawn. Bolan could see Rheeda talking to the cop. He sighted them in, studying the faces.

Old friends, obviously. The cop was grinning and nodding his head in response to something Rheeda was telling him.