Chapter Thirteen

Monstrosities

Bolan eased the VW along the avenue in a slow recon of the big place on the corner. It was one of those turn of the century monstrosities where the architect had obviously been unable to decide if he felt Victorian, or Gothic, or just frivolous. The result was a three-story jumble of bay windows and cathedral-stained glass, square columns and turreted corners, wood and stone, and a roofline featuring everything from gables to minarets, with an occasional gargoyle thrown in just to make sure there was something for everyone. It was an anachronism from a flamboyant age, and Bolan could understand how a guy who had muscled his way up from a two-room coldwater flat in East Harlem would be impressed with such a joint. Even in old age it reeked of wasteful opulence and flagrant power — yeah, that joint was Freddie Gambella from the stained-glass cathedral windows to the gargoyles leering down from the gabled eaves. The whole production was set off from the street by a rock wall with ancient iron spikes. The pedestrian gate alone had more steel in it than his VW.

Bolan passed on around the corner onto 155th and went through the routine suggested by Sam the Bomber. Sure as hell the massive gates swung open and Mack Bolan swung in with his daisied micro-bus. He'd seen two guys walking the snowdrifts of the yard in bulky overcoats, and he rolled down his window to wave at the nearest one as he tooled along the drive. Another guy ran up as he pulled into the carport, gave Bolan a hard look, and said, "What the hell're you do — "

He'd had time by then to get a good look at that cold face and had decided to stop talking and start slapping leather, but Bolan's hardware was already nosing up over the door panel. The Beretta spat out a sizzler that splatted in directly between the eyebrows and the guy went down like he'd been poleaxed.

Bolan had the door open and was swinging down to the ground when the yardman came slugging up through the snow. He was looking at the fallen man, not at Bolan, and he cried, "What'd you do, idiot, run him down?"

The Executioner replied, "Yeah," and ran another one down with a bullet behind the ear, and the guy fell over atop the first one.

The second yardman was coming around the corner of the house, and his first view of Bolan was looking up along the fully-extended black blaster. He recoiled from the unsettling view, but not fast enough, then a pair of Parabellums found their mark and punched the guy over into drifted white snow that quickly turned red.

Five seconds later, Fury was standing at the door to a little concrete-block house which was joined to the main house by the carport. Bolan kicked the door open and stepped in with the chattergun at full throttle. Two very surprised diners seated at a table in their underwear were the first in the receiving line so they received a .25 calibre explosive wreath about their throats and chests.

Another reared up off a cot and was immediately laid back down with a mouthful of metallic pacifiers.

A large fat one with a protruding belly stumbled to an open bathroom door, stark naked and gawking at Death through puffs of shaving lather. The burst split him from groin to throat, the protruding belly opened and seemed to deflate, the fat one fell back into the toilet bowl and wedged there.

Agony stepped out and glided to the rear door of the mansion. A big man in full dress wearing an apron had moved to the door in curiosity over the rattling sounds from the blockhouse. He fell away in a swift back-pedal as Bolan came through, the guy threw two slices of toast at Doom and pivoted about to make a run for the other door. The Beretta coughed twice and the big man missed the turn into the doorway and crashed over a table, sliding to the tiled floor in a mess of orange juice and scrambled eggs from a breakfast tray.

Remorse went on, through the pantry and the deserted dining room into a darkened hallway. An inside man who had obviously been seated near the door at the far end had abandoned his station to investigate the noise from the kitchen. He approached to within ten feet of Disaster before he recognized the tall figure with the taut face and gleaming teeth, then he just froze and stared, perched across his stride like one of those stop-action shots on NFL Today.

"Bolan?" he asked unbelievingly.

Belief went up to him, pressed the heated silencer of the Beretta against his throat, pulled a snubbed .32 out of a shoulder holster, dropped it to the floor, and an icy voice told the guy, "You guessed it. Now let's play twenty questions. How many hardmen in the house?"

"F-four," the guy wheezed.

"Let's just play onequestion," Bolan suggested in that graveyard voice, the Beretta sinking deeper into the shrinking throat.

The hardman expelled whistling air through the constricted larynx and whispered, "Andy — Andy in th' kitchen. Fixin' breakfast for Mrs. Gambella. Me. Two upstairs. Hall, each end."

"Nobody on the third floor?"

"No. Not used. Nobody on third floor."

Reluctant Mercy growled, "Thanks," and jerked a knee into the quaking man's gut, then slammed the butt of the Beretta against the back of his head as he sank toward the floor. Bolan stepped around the unconscious form and proceeded on through into a huge reception hall at the front. Folding doors of heavy paneling were at each side, easily twenty feet tall. A mahogany staircase curved up around the rear and broadened to a landing about forty feet above.

Grim Determination went up, the Beretta holstered and a fresh clip clicking into the chattergun. This would not be so simple if the upstairs men were alert. One to each side could be bad news.

He ascended swiftly, moving on light feet with the burper at half mast, and he hit the second-floor hall at full gallop. A dim figure coming to stiff attention in the distance to his left drew first fire as Bolan crouched and swung into the attack. He laced that end of the hallway with a spiral burst right on target — and kept on going around, twisting to the floor in a corkscrew then laying into the other flank from semi-prone.

A heavy man was dancing around down there, trying to become disengaged from an easy chair that was splintering into pieces around him and with him. A revolver roared through the lighter chatter of Bolan's weapon and a slug thwacked into a post beside his head, but it was the one and only response to his blitz.

The guy was coming apart — spouting blood in streams and still trying to get off another shot. Bolan massaged his trigger lightly once again, the guy fell over backwards, crashed through the chair, and the battle was over.

A shrill female voice was yelling something from behind a door just opposite Bolan's position. He turned the knob, kicked the door open and advanced into an elegant room with Persian carpeting and swank furnishings. It was part of a bedroom suite — a sitting room, Bolan supposed they'd call it. Off to one side was a dressing room and beyond that a gleaming bath. Dead ahead through a fancily carved doorway lay the master's chamber, and this was where Vengeance had been headed all the while.

The woman yelled something else in an hysterical falsetto as Bolan entered, then she clamped it off in mid-squawk to stare at the intruder with a terror that seemed to keep growing. She was sitting up in the bed with a newspaper — a cup and a silver coffeepot on a tray in front of her. The other bed was rumpled and tossed but empty.

Seething Hatred peered under both beds, into the closets and even out the windows and onto the eaves outside, while the woman was sitting there in a frozen curl and staring at him with open mouth.

He turned to her with a deep growl and asked, "Where's Freddie?"