Part of being a superior combat tactician meant Bolan was an opportunist. He drew the Beretta, screwed the silencer down lightly, left his hiding post and walked down the trail. He ambled along humming aloud, and as he neared the big man with the clipboard, Bolan heard him say, "Oh, for Christ's sake! Another lousy drunk."

Bolan watched the man draw the knucks-equipped trenchknife. Then Bolan stopped and gestured out sideways with his left hand. The man automatically turned his head to look and Bolan shot him, sending a 9mm Parabellum slug straight into Eddie The Champ's heart.

Bolan collected the brass hull from his shot and ran to the body of the beaten soldier, jerked the man's Beretta from its holster, removed the clip, thumbed out the top round, checked to see if the chamber was empty, replaced the clip and jacked a round into the chamber. Then he put the gleaming empty brass in the center of the path so it would show and be found easily.

Fast, Bolan went past the dispersal point and down the main trail toward the training camp. He went less than a mile and found the whole setup inside a grove of trees, well camouflaged, even from the air with netting. They had the whole works: firing ranges, obstacle course, barracks, a chow hall, even a small outdoor PX where the soldiers could buy beer, sit at picnic tables, and drink.

Bolan went back up the trail, removed the silencer from the Beretta, fired a single shot into the air, stomped his brass out of sight under a bush, then pulled off to wait. In a few minutes a "patrol" came up the hill. He supposed that was what they would call it, pretend it was, a patrol. It was really five guys crowded together, half-jogging, talking, making noise enough for a full company of raw recruits.

He stayed out to the side, slipping through the bush while the patrol went up the trail. Then they found the two bodies, and the chattering became a loud shouting match. From what Bolan understood, there was no one man clearly in command and the "soldiers" were arguing about what should be done. Mack could not help but think of them in quotes, with contempt, as "soldiers." And had he been careless enough to leave any sign, any evidence of his own presence there, the dumb bastards wiped it out by walking all over it. One of them only found the empty shell casing after he stepped on it, then bent down and picked it up, destroying any fingerprints that might have been on it.

Bolan circled higher, up around to the trail he should come down from the outpost where he left the dead man, and in the almost full darkness he eased in among the men unnoticed. No one seemed to know for sure what to do, so Bolan took command, growling with heavy accent, "How many times you gotta be told, hah? Speak English, speak American!"

"Hah, Gino, thatsa you, eh?"

"What's going on here?"

"We trying to figure."

"Who got'm a light?"

"You know the rules," Bolan growled.

He knelt, and then said, "Hell, they fight, look. Smell."

Two of the men dropped to their knees beside Bolan. "Shhh. Get that! Drunk again," said one man. The other said, "Eddie beat him up bad, looka his face, Francesco got no face left."

"But he hadda gun. No more Eddie The Champ. Phutt!"

"Okay," Bolan said with authority, getting to his feet, "we better take'm in."

Without comment, two men got hold of Francesco's feet and started dragging him on his back down the trail. Two others following, dragging Eddie The Champ. Bolan fell in behind them.

Once back to the training compound, Bolan peeled off and while the barracks emptied and lights came on and men with lanterns and flashlights came running to see the sights, Bolan completed his recon of the site.

He located the armory, the food staples storehouse, the supply house with clothing, socks, shoes, other personal gear; then he found one of the two main objectives, the identity manufacturing shop.

There was no guard at the door. Bolan slipped silently inside. An old man wearing thick glasses sat humped over a drawing board, a dazzling light shining on the work in his hands. Bolan watched him for a moment; the man was an artist. Bolan slipped back out, resumed his search, and at last found the ammo dump, his other main objective.

All during his recon, Bolan had kept mental notes, drawing a mental map, counting his steps between each building and establishment. Once he had it down, he widened his search, looking for Don Cafu's headquarters.

He found another trail leading on down toward Agrigento. An on-shore breeze occasionally carried the odor of the sea to Bolan's nostrils. The trail led to a dirt road and Bolan went on. The road made a turn, and ahead, Bolan saw the huge house, well-lighted. He stopped for a check. At least five men roved the grounds, carrying submachine guns.

Now, what the hell! thought Bolan, having no way of knowing Don Cafu had rebelled against his fellow bosses and the hardmen were not prowling to stop Bolan, but possible assassins sent by the other dons.

As he watched, Bolan saw a flaw in the way the guards patrolled the grounds. Bolan stripped off his gradigghia uniform, slipped the Beretta rig back on, fitted a full clip into the butt, then moved like a shadow in his black combat garb.

Bolan moved to within a dozen yards of the place he'd chosen to penetrate Don Cafu's home grounds when someone shot him in the back.

16

Pprey

At the sound of gunfire just outside his home, Don Cafu felt his heart leap into his throat. He ran toward the door leading down into the fortresslike cellar, yelling at his inside hardmen, "What was it, what was it?"

"I'll check," said Tony Guida, finding himself swallowing heavily.

"Where's Eddie?" Cafu demanded. "I want Eddie!"

"He's up the hill, boss; you know that. With the troops."

"Get him down here. Right away. You call up there and get him down here right away."

"Sure, boss, if you say so," said Tony, not moving toward the intercom box hooked to a battery-powered line connecting the house with the malacarni camp. Tony had long since intended himself as Eddie The Champ's replacement. Champ. Of what? The slob worked his ass off with those greaseballs trying to make soldiers of them and he still looked like a blivit, two pounds of shit in a one pound bag.

"It sounds okay out there now, boss," Tony said. "Why don't I have a look-see, huh?"

An idea sprang full-blown into Tony's head. One of the outside men was a hype, a creep Tony called Riarso because the creep was always licking his lips like he was thirsty, dry-mouthed. Riarso would do anything Tony Guida told him; he would squat and crap on his own heels if Tony Guida ordered him, then lick his heels clean; because no one else in the crew besides Tony Guida knew the creep was a hype and Tony his connection. Tony decided that tonight Eddie The Champ was going to get his ass blown off — accidentally. Riarso was going to make a mistake in the dark, and with his chopper cut Eddie The Champ in half. Accidentally.

Tony consoled his boss again. "Easy, boss, huh? Just keep it cool'and let me check around." Tony turned toward the front door, taking up his own Walther P38 machine-pistol. At that moment, the intercom speaker squawked to life. "Boss! Hey, boss! Anybody there, hey, you! Tony!"

"Quit yelling, you dumb bastard," Tony said, striding to the intercom and pressing the lever.

"Okay, look, we got trouble up here, bad, Tony. Real bad."

"So what's the trouble."

"Is the don there?"

"Yeah, he's here. Quit farting around," Tony commanded, watching Don Cafu come slowly back into the room.

"Jeez, Tony. Tony, Eddie's dead, he's shot, he's dead as heU, Tony."

"I heard you the first time, dumbutt. Dead how? What the hell happened?"