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."He might come in, and he might not.Like Mr.Giovanni said, he's lost his marbles.I don't know what he's going to do.But if he tries busting in here with a hundred boys behind him—well, we just can't allow that.There's no telling what he might take it in mind to do.""No, we couldn't allow that," Lavallo murmured.He got to his feet and told Larry Turk, "I guess I lost my gun back there at that motel.I wonder where I could get one."Turk produced a small revolver from his pocket and handed it over."I b'lieve this is yours, Mr.Lavallo," he said.It was not, but Pete the Hauler replied, "You're right, it is.Thanks.I guess I better go out and look around.I might bump into Jake and maybe talk some sense into him."Turk moved to the door with the dazed underboss.He called back, "Sorry to bother you, Don Gio, gentlemen.You won't be disturbed again tonight, I promise you that.""You see that we're not," Giovanni replied."We've got important business to go over.What, uh, do you hear on this boy Bolan?""Not a thing, sir.He's been quiet as a mouse.I wouldn't be surprised if he's halfway out of the country by now.""Well I guess we'll see, won't we," the Capo replied.Lavallo and Turk went out, and the door had hardly closed behind them when Lavallo snarled, "Thanks, Turk.Thanks for nothing!"The lord high enforcer was grinning delightedly.He said, "Hell, all's well that ends well, right?""Who says it's ended well?" Lavallo complained."I ain't done no contract work in fifteen years or more.And I've known Jake Vecci for one hell of a long time.I don't call it ending well.It never had to start."Turk's grin faded.He growled, "I'm sorry you feel that way, 'specially since Jake is out to get your boss."Turk had spun away, and Lavallo was replying, "Well now wait a—" When the lights went out.Turk froze in his tracks, and grunted, "What th' hell?""Lights went out," Lavallo informed him."Shit, I know that, but I—"At that instant the peace of the night was broken by the loud rattling of a submachine gun, and this immediately punctuated by the explosive booms of other weapons.Turk instinctively whirled back to the door to Giovanni's sanctum, then realized that the electric lock and intercom would also be inoperative.He yelled through the door, "Sit tight, Gio, I'll check it out!"Pete the Hauler was crashing about in the darkness and swearing and vainly clicking a cigarette lighter which was apparently in need of a refueling."It's that Bolan!" he was yelling."I knew it, I knew the bastard would show up here! Half out of the country—bull shit!"But Larry Turk thought he knew better.It wasn't Bolan.It was Joliet Jake the Madman and his hundred boys.Somehow they'd cut the power lines and Turk guessed that the war was really on now.And it was just as well.Things had been getting unbearably stagnant in this family.It was time for some new blood at—or near—the top.And Turk had plenty of blood.As Lavallo threshed about in the darkness, trying to find his way outside, Larry Turk quietly felt his way along the wall and toward the rear.He knew, if he was bent on killing himself a Capo, just where he'd be getting set to make his play.And Turk was bent on just the opposite chore.He was going to save a Capo and thereby assure himself a place in the royal court.Yes, Turk thought he knew exactly where the play would be made.The human storm had finally arrived, and the thunder and lightning which descended upon the Mafia hardsite was entirely manmade.Rattling volleys, the big booms of shotguns, and the impressive staccatos of big automatic weapons were woven together in a concert of wholesale death that was all too familiar to Bolan's experienced ear.And this concertmaster was wholly aware of each movement and countermovement, the sounds of command and countercommand, the cries of victory and defeat—and, yes, a very hot war was raging across the holy ground of that blessed thing of theirs.The enemy had engaged itself, and Bolan could think of no better troops to fight this war of liberation; he wished a total victory and a total defeat to each side.Bolan himself was hardly more than a shadow moving across the field of white, an instinctive creature of the night now, homing on the target of targets for the grand-slam clincher of this mob wipe-out.He gained the rear corner of the building—so carefully noted during his earner pass—and abandoned the snapbrim hat and overcoat in a snowdrift.The Thompson went across his shoulders and he began the difficult and dangerous hand-over-hand ascent to the roof, using windowsills and cornices and whatever precarious handhold presenting itself.The weakened shoulder protested and once threatened to quit altogether, but he issued stern inner commands and pressed on—and then the railing of the private sundeck was his and he was up and over and moving swiftly across the wind-drifted snow of that upper porch.The French doors gave quickly and with only a light snapping sound to the sudden pressure of Bolan's boot, and he was moving silently across a small room that smelled of liniments and leather and maybe a trace of human sweat lost without labor.Suddenly the sounds of murmuring voices were rising to meet him, unreal and ghostly against the louder background of the hell let loose outside, and Bolan realized that he was standing at the head of a short circular stairway.Across a metal railing and just below could be seen the silhouettes of several figures standing carefully at a wall and peering obliquely through a window upon the landscape of swirling action outside
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