Assault on Soho (9 page)

Bolan had already dodged back to the corner of the building for cover. He growled, "Send the gun out first, then yourself, hands on head."

A pistol hit the cobblestones and slid into view, then a thickset man moved hesitantly out of the shadows and into the flickering light of the square.

Bolan jabbed the muzzle of the
TJzi
into the man's belly. The guy sucked in his breath and said, "Hey shit, it's hot. The barrel's hot, huh?"

Bolan withdrew the little chattergun and spun the man around, shook him down for weapons, then pushed him forward. "Start walking," he commanded. "Straight ahead."

"Where we going?"

"Depends," Bolan said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Stevie Carbon. I'm in Danno's crew, under Sal Masseri. Or I
was
."

"Are you all done living, Stevie?" Bolan asked in a conversational tone.

"No sir, I sure hope not," came the strained reply.

They moved swiftly to the corner. Bolan shoved the man down the street toward the Lincoln. "Okay, Stevie, just keep on walking. Nice and quick and don't look back."

"Where we going?" the man wanted to know.

"Maybe to hell." Bolan allowed the neckstrap to support the
Uzi
while he probed his ribs with careful fingertips.

"Christ, can you tear things up in a hurry," the man declared, striving for a buddy-buddy tone. "I figure I got no arguments with a guy like you. I mean, nothing personal you know."

Bolan knew a surge of weariness—not of the flesh but of the soul. "That's the screwy part of this whole thing, Stevie," he said coldly. "There's nothing personal in any of it, is there? And then we run into an old man who's been tortured clear out of his body. And suddenly it gets very, very, personal."

The man stumbled, caught himself, and quickly raised his hands again to clutch the back of his head. "Uh, tell me straight out, Bolan. Are you gonna kill me or not?"

"That depends, Stevie."

"On what?"

"On what you can tell me."

"Look I don't know nothing, Bolan. Besides that, uh, I've taken the oath of silence. You know about that, huh."

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

"You know I want to
live
with 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.

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
caporegime
glared at him, but did as he was told.

"Where do you want it?" Bolan asked, thrusting the
Vzi
forward.

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?"

"Who did it to the old man?"

"You ast me that a dozen times already! And I still don't know what you're talkin' about!"

"The old man in the museum, Danno. Who tied him up like a turkey and shoved a hot iron under his back?"

"Shit, I don't know what you're talking about, Bolan, that's God's truth."

"Are you saying that you or none of your boys did it?"

"That's what I'm saying, whatever it is."

"You were in that museum, Danno."

"Sure. I was in there for about a minute. Me'n Nick, and Sal, and one other boy I can't think of his name right now. But we didn't do nothing to no old man."

"Who is Nick?"

"Nick Trigger, also known as Nick Endante. Maybe you heard of him. He used to work for
Don
Manzacatti, way back when."

Bolan was becoming more and more satisfied with the tone of the interrogation. Giliamo was loosening up nicely. He said, "Yeah. So what is Nick Trigger doing in England?"

"He's enforcing."

"So what was he enforcing at that museum tonight?"

"Nick was my contact here, see. I come over about a week ago, while you was in France. Look, I didn't ask for the lousy job, Bolan. I never wanted it. I got nothing personal against you. But when the bosses say go, the Danno Giliamo goes. You gotta understand that."

"Yeah, I understand that, Danno. But about this Nick Trigger. How'd he get onto that thing at the museum?"

The prisoner was obviously working towards a decision, a very important one to him. Life and death hung in the balance, and his soul was sweating. He grimaced and said, "You're putting me on one hell of a spot, you know that."

Bolan shrugged his shoulders. "It's just between you and me, Danno. But you better make up your mind. I'm not standing out here all night."

"How do I know you're not going to execute me anyway?"

Bolan shrugged again. "I guess that's just the chance you have to take, Danno. But for what it's worth, I don't kill my friends. Not even temporary ones."

Giliamo took a deep breath and said, "Okay. What was it you ast me?"

"I want to know the connection between Nick Trigger and that museum back there."

"Well, like I said, he's enforcing. He's got some hooks into the guys that run that place. I don't know what exactly. They're a bunch of queers or something I think, and Nick's got it into them over that I guess."

"Okay, so how did he know to look for me there?"

"Honest to God, Bolan, I don't know. Nick isn't—
wasn't
, I guess he's a toasted weenie right now—he wasn't the most talkative boy around. He called me up the other night and told me to look for you at Dover.

He even gave me the name of the boat and the time and everything. Then after we lost you down there, he told me to look for you at that joint, that museum up there. That's all I know about it."

"But you guess he had a pipeline, eh?"

"Yeah, it sure looks like it."

"Okay, now about tonight. You said you were inside the museum. When was that?"

"That was about ten thirty, maybe a quarter 'til eleven. But we didn't see no old man. There was just this uppity little prick, talked with a fancy English accent. We spent most of our time just getting up there where he was at, hadda tramp through all those queer rooms. They got some sick stuff in that joint, Bolan. Or I guess you know about that."

Bolan said, "Yeah." His jaw had stiffened and his mouth was suddenly quite dry. "What about those little rooms on the second floor? What was in them?"

"Buncha fuckin' torture stuff, you know what."

"No people?"

"No people 'cept us. What're you getting at?"

"This little guy," Bolan said. "About five-six or seven? Stiff as a ramrod?"

"Yeah, that's the guy. Talked to us like we were dirt, and him queer as a three dollar bill I guess. I felt like sluggin 'im."

"What'd you talk to him about?"

"Not me, it was Nick. They went off to themselves and parleyed about something. Just took a minute, then we left. Nick—"

"Who else did you see in there, besides this little guy?"

"There was a lotta people down in that cunt room, you know, kids. Getting ready for a party or something, I guess."

"Okay, go on with what you were saying about Nick."

"What was that?"

"You left. Then Nick did something."

"Oh. Well, Nick sat out in the car with us 'til this guy came out, about ten minutes later. Then they took off together."

"
Who
took off together?"

"Nick and this queer little prick. They took off together. Few minutes later the other queers started draggin' in. In fancy limousines, some of 'em. Cars dropped 'em off and went on. I never went back inside after that."

Thoughtfully, Bolan said, "But there were three boys inside during the firefight. They came out and threw down on me."

"Well, that was something else all over again. Those boys found a tunnel or something, just before the fight started. We figured that was your way in and out, and we found your callin' cards—the three boys with the broken necks or whatever. Those boys went in under the ground to smoke you out, Bolan. That's all I know about that."

"I think you're giving it to me straight, Danno," Bolan said quietly.

"I am."

"Okay, just one more thing. Where's the family headquarters in this town?"

"Aw shit, I just can't give you that, Bolan. That's too much, I could never live with myself."

Bolan watched him for a moment, then said, "Okay, I guess you're right. Get going, Danno."

"You're letting me go?"

"A deal's a deal. Goodbye, Danno."

"You're not, uh, going to shoot me in the back, Bolan."

"You know better." Bolan removed the clip from the
Uzi
and jammed it into his pouch. "Just go on."

The
caporegime
could hardly believe his good luck. He struggled to his feet and said, "I ain't really told you anything to be ashamed of."

"You bet you haven't," Bolan assured him.

"Uh, look Bolan. You're not all that rotten. I mean, no offense, I didn't mean it that way. I just mean I wish you'd been with us all along, instead of against us."

"War is like that, Danno," Bolan said tiredly. "Now go on. Next time we meet, one of us will probably come out of it dead."

"Just the same, I'm not forgetting how straight you are," Giliamo told him. He stepped to the edge of the stage and leapt off, turned to stare back at Bolan briefly, then hurried off into the night.

Bolan murmured to himself, "I'm not all that straight, Danno." He put the clip back in the
Uzi
, went down the steps and returned to the car. His outer garments were lying across the back seat. Affectionately he patted the little submachine gun, knowing that he would not be using it again, and lay it on the rear floor, then he quietly began getting into his clothing.

It was shaping into a hell of a war, he was thinking. How was a guy supposed to separate the good guys from the bad. If the
Mafiosi
were not responsible for the torture death of old Edwin Charles, then who the hell was? And for what possible motive?

He was wishing that he had never become involved with the Sades. But he had. And things were getting pretty badly entangled. Instinctively he knew that Danno had finally levelled with him. Bolan had taken all of the ham out of him as Stevie Carbon—Danno Giliamo had been talking straight. He was sure of that. So what did it all mean? That Ann Franklin's foster father was a rat? And if it should turn out that way, what would this mean to the girl? And what would it all mean to Bolan and to his ability to get the hell out of the country?