"Well, now wait. I respect your . . . I wouldn't, want to press a friendship, Johnny. But if there's something I ought to know, then I ought to know it. You can't do this, Johnny. You can't come in here and drop something like that, then just clam up. I mean, I pledge to you, on my solemn word and sacred blood, I'm telling you that I would never-no, never would I rat on a confidence from a friend."

Bolan stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes, stretched his neck and said, "I'm not telling you this, Steven. I wouldn't ever tell a man I respect as much as I respect you that his heir problems are over."

"What?"

"I just couldn't say something like that to a man who has done so much in this outfit. For so many years. I mean . . I couldn't. Not even if I'd been sitting right there at the table when the problem got resolved, I still couldn't say a word."

Don Stefano re-lit his cigar. The hands trembled. He sipped his wine and the hands trembled worse.

"When were you sitting at that table, Johnny?" he asked, the voice hardly more than a sigh.

"I shouldn't say, Steven. Please."

"Today? Was it today?"

Bolan fingered the tape at his jaw. "I only got to New York today. I been up in the country for nearly a month, ever since that Jersey job."

"I see." The old man was obviously seeing quite a bit. He said, "Thank you, Johnny. One more thing. In strictest confidence. Look, I'm an old man. What could I do? What would I do? After all these years of loyalty, would I buck the outfit? What they want is what I want. But I got a right to know. After all these years. I got a right. What are they talking about doing to me, Johnny?"

Bolan hesitated, giving the moment its most dramatic play, then he sighed and told the old man, "Not just talking, Steven."

"So . . . what? Huh? Dammit, what?

"Why did they tell you I was coming here, Steven?"

"Well I-well, they-we couldn't talk right out. He just said he was sending me some help."

"Some help to do what?"

"Well, this d.a.m.ned Bolan s.h.i.t, what d'you think? Isn't that what they meant?"

"Did he say anything about some delegations coming down? Some boys from upstate? Some boys from New York downtown?"

"What are you saying? Why did you come, Johnny?" half off his stool. He said, "G.o.d, I hate to be the" Bolan's glance slid to Frank the Kid, wobbling "one to tell you this, Steven."

"Let's be men, Johnny!"

"Okay." Bolan's chin came up. He fixed the old man with a cold, hard stare and told him, "Things just can't get to that, Steven." The gaze flicked to Frank the Kid and back to Papa. "Do you understand me? You wouldn't firm it up for yourself, so they firmed it up for you. They're not waiting, Steven. They're not waiting for you to die. Not with Frank the f.u.c.k-up and a hundred greasers backing him up. They say there will be blood in the streets, money down the sewer and h.e.l.l to pay all over this land, Steven. It's the sort of thing that keeps people like me so busy all the time. And they just can't have it. They will not have it, Steven."

A long silence ensued.

Angeletti played with his cigar, toyed with his wine, smacked his lips, looked at Frank, looked at the Wild Card from New York who'd brought him such distressing news, smacked his lips some more then sighed, "Well, I'm d.a.m.ned if they will."

"You promised me, Steven."

"I'd promise you h.e.l.l, Johnny. But I won't give you my only kid."

"There's always Philippa."

"That s.l.u.t?"

"Now, now."

"You can't have him, Johnny."

"I didn't come for him, Steven."

"Then, what did you come for?"

"If you'd like to take a little walk, I'll show you."

That old chin dropped and both hands crawled along the desk. Aghast, he asked, "Me, Johnny?"

'Oh, G.o.d, no, don't even think that. What I came for, I already have. It's in the car. If you want to go see, okay. If not, forget it. Makes no difference. But don't think . . . aw, h.e.l.l, Steven, don't think. . .'

"I don't think I want to go out there in the dark with you, Johnny."

"All your boys are out there. Your boys, not mine." Bolan reached for the wallet and the old man jumped a foot. "Hey, easy, I told you, don't even think . . here."

He tossed the letter of credit from Cavaretta's wallet across the desk.

"Note the date on there. It's today. Look where it came from. Atlanta, Georgia-right? How did it get clear up here, so fast? It flew, by special courier. It flew to me, Steven. Look at the amount. Fifty gee, right? I picked it up right down here at NorthPhillyAirport at two o'clock today. Two o'clock, Steven. Now. If you'll just walk out to the car with me, dammit, I'll show you how I earned that."

The old man's curiosity was definitely aroused. He sniffed and pushed the letter back across the desk, then slowly got to his feet.

"Show me," he commanded.

A minute and a half later, Bolan showed him. Angeletti had to feel the face, manipulate the stiffening arms and legs, examine the weapons. He said, "So that's the guy."

"That was him," Bolan said.

Stefano spun about suddenly and went back into the house. Bolan closed the exhibit for the second time and followed the Don inside.

At the library door, Angeletti asked him, "What does it all mean? You say you got paid at two o'clock. I say I got hit by the guy at about six. What does it mean?"

"It means somebody's playing games with you, Steven."

"Who?"

"Who did they say was coming down?"

Marble lips replied, "Delegation from Buffalo, two from the city."

"There you go. Maybe they got here early."

"Maybe they did." All of the old man's starch had deserted him. "I'm going to bed. I don't feel so hot. I thought that was too much for one lousy guy, I knew it was too much. I'm old. I'm tired. I'm going to bed. I respect you, Johnny. For this, I mean. Thanks."

"Let me tell you this, Steven. It will make you sleep better. There was a split decision. Understand? A split decision. Some said yes, some said no. Until that's finally talked out, Mike says we step in. Right? Understand me? We step in, Steven."

"I'm glad to hear that. Just tell me this. Was Augie saying yes or saying no."

"Augie was saying no."

"G.o.d, I'm glad to hear that. You're here to, uh, see that the yeses pull back their horns. Is that it?"

"That's about it, Steven. Go on to bed. Don't worry. Let me handle it."

"Put the kid to bed, will you?"

"You know I will. Now, you put yourself there." "I wish to G.o.d I'd had a kid like you, Johnny." Bolan had to turn away from that and clear his mind of that pathetic sick old face.

He had to remind himself that the melody played by ear was not always the one a guy would choose for himself if there had been a choice.

For a moment-for one tumbling instant-he debated going out there and climbing in that forty thousand-dollar shark and simply driving the h.e.l.l away from that place.

But . . . if he did that . . . what would have been accomplished in Philadelphia? What good all the dead, what good all the extra pressure and expense on a city already overburdened with her share of problems . . . what good any of it?

The Executioner had not come to Philadelphia for a split decision.

He had come for a knockout.

So, at the end of that tumbling moment of hesitation, Bolan reminded himself that there was no morality in warfare, no right and no wrong to any of it.

You had to hit them where you could, and drop them where they stood.

Even soul-sick, dying old men.

Chapter 16/ The Mark.

Bolan had never regarded himself as a superior strategist nor as a genius at anything. He simply made use of what he had, and kept trying.

He knew that he could not have set up the Angeletti family for this sort of an inside knock over with any amount of genius or planning. It was daring, sure, and fraught with mortal consequences with every move, every word, every action. But that was what life had been for Mack Bolan ever: since the beginning of his home-front war. And he could not have set the family up that way had the stage itself not already been well prepared by circ.u.mstances far beyond any one man's control or manipulation.

He had simply barged in and played his game upon their stage.

It was as simple as that.

And it was quite a stage the mob had built for themselves. Constructed of rotting timbers upon unreliable foundations, erected with l.u.s.t and malice, well-garnished with deceit, dishonesty, and a callous disregard for the essential n.o.bility of mankind-it was a veritable hall of horrors, even for those who misspent their lifetimes strutting before its footlights.

Yes, it was quite a setting for any maestro who had the nerve to leap into the orchestra pit and strike up a funeral dirge.

Nerve, probably-in the final a.n.a.lysis-was Mack Bolan's chief stock in trade. And the market, in Philadelphia, was definitely bullish.

This was Bolan's own understanding of himself and of his task. Perhaps, however, he was too modest in his evaluations of self.

Perhaps there was a spark of greatness to the man, an effervescent something at the base of his being that just instinctively turned him into the right word at the crucial time, the proper deed at the intersection with its need.

None would deny that Mack Bolan had been "as good as dead" at that very moment when a police spotlight pinned him to an overhead perch, defenseless, within shouting distance of his enemy's stronghold.

Few would have given him any edge for survival, afoot and surrounded by hostile forces of over whelming superiority, even after his miraculous escape from that stunning confrontation with the law.

One or two, perhaps, would have guessed that he might seek refuge in the most unlikely spot-the enemy's camp.

But none in G.o.d's green world would have dared to predict that this desperate fugitive, within minutes after penetrating that enemy stronghold, would have seized upon his own stark misfortune and jeopardy to mold of it the grand-slam knockout punch that would rattle not only Philadelphia, but be experienced around the Mafia world.

It was precisely what he was attempting.

And perhaps Mack Bolan was not exactly a new idea in that cosmic experiment called mankind. From an ancient Chinese military manual (c.500 B.C.) The mark of greatness is upon that general who, through daring and resourcefulness, rescues resounding victory from certain disaster.

And, yes-who knows? Maybe "the universe" does reserve a special place here and there for men such as these.

Had Mack Bolan asked the question, he would have his answer within a short few hours.

But he hadn't asked. He was simply trying. It was the mark of Bolan.

Chapter 17/ Intimations of Mortality.

Bolan sent the house captain upstairs to keep vigil outside Don Stefano's bedroom door and he gave the other two inside boys to Sammy, the yard boss.

This left Bolan alone, downstairs, with Frank the Kid, who was pa.s.sed out on the bar.

He went exploring, and found a music room or something adjoining the library at the bar end. There was a concert grand piano in there, a harp- a real, honest-to-G.o.d harp-that stood taller than Bolan, shelves piled with well-indexed sheet music and, in the back corner, a twentieth-century marvel which was a stereo theatre built into a cast-form plastic chair, made like a big bubble and looking a bit like a small helicopter's cabin, comfortable- looking padded seat, console, the whole bit. A neat stack of cla.s.sical LP alb.u.ms completed the picture -and somehow none of it fit the image of anyone whom Bolan had seen in the joint so far.

A record on the turntable attracted his attention -the label, mainly. It was pale lavender and had no distributor's tag on it. Printed on that label, though, was the answer to the entire room. The record, obviously privately cut, was tagged simply: Phil Angeletti, Private Moods for Concert Piano.

The find was quite a revelation. Bolan idly started it going, listened to the first minute or so, then stopped it. He was no impresario, but it sounded d.a.m.n good to him. Who would have thought it of Philippa the b.i.t.c.h?

He went out of there, then, and continued the exploration, finding that which he sought a couple of minutes later; a doorway off the kitchen led to a darkened stairway and a bas.e.m.e.nt room-a crew room with six bunks in it, small refrigerator and hotplate, table and four chairs.

Beyond that and past a door about a foot thick was a pistol range, well lighted, probably acoustically engineered and soundproofed. At the far end were regular target pits and four steel targets in human form. One of these targets was wearing a black suit similar to Bolan's. It was bullet-riddled and torn half off the target.

Bolan bit his teeth and went out of there.

It was a little before eight o'clock when Bolan helped Frank the Kid upstairs and to his bedroom. He steered him on to the bath, bent him over the toilet, stuck a finger down his throat and urged up everything in the guy's stomach.

Then he washed his face with cold water and put him to bed fully clothed.