Save the Children Read Online Free PDF

the wall and moved soundlessly along its base, advancing on the parked car from the rear and to the right.
    He paused, the silenced Ingram now snug in his grip. Through his NVD goggles, he made out the form of a single person in the car, sitting behind the steering wheel.
    Male, though Bolan could not discern the man's facial features.
    The faint strains of an old-fashioned ballad floated across to Bolan. He saw a brief flare as the man lit a cigarette and continued to stare at the gate. The two rifle-toters inside the compound glanced his way, then seemed to lose interest, as if they recognized the car and accepted its presence here.
    The man appeared at ease inside his car, his overcoat collar snug around his neck, smoking his cigarette lazily.
    On the back of the car, Bolan saw a bumper sticker that read: I Am a Policeman and Proud of It.
    The nightstalker's gut tightened, angry, like a fist inside of him.
    Was the dude in this car the worst wart of all, he wondered. Filth who abused public trust every bit as much as the bribed politicos who kept the system oiled to further their own aims for more power at the expense of others while criminals ran free to maim and murder?
    The police in bed with the Mob?
    But why would he advertise? Or was he a cop who numbered among his duties keeping an eye on the Parelli estate?
    There was no way Bolan could be sure.
    He faded farther back from the car, moving around the corner of the wall to distance himself from the guards and the man in the sedan.
    He stepped away from the wall and unhitched the looped climbing rope with the three-pronged metal hook from his military webbing.
    He twirled the rope twice above his head and a loose-armed toss released the end with the hook in the direction of the wall's top. One of the grapnel's sharp points bit into the brick with a barely audible metallic clink.
    After a pair of tugs to test the hold, he silently scrambled up the wall at full speed.
    He gained the top of the wall, and lay flat. A few moments later, he straightened into a sitting position and reset the climbing device on his webbing. Then he snapped his wrist around so the MAC-10 filled his right fist.
    He dropped loose and easy to the ground just inside the walled perimeter, landing in a crouched position...
    a spectral shift in the frozen darkness, nothing more...
    his penetration wholly undetected by the sentries. He saw them across the distance where they huddled together for warmth under a single light by the gate a couple of hundred yards to the north.
    And yeah, those two hardguys were alone.
    The night penetrator scanned what he could make out of the grounds of the estate, his MAC-10 and his senses probing the night for danger.
    A narrow asphalt path wound its way through a miniforest of towering fir trees.
    Ahead, one lone second-floor window of the Parelli home glowed in the gloom.
    Bolan left the base of the wall, advancing on the house on a zigzag course from tree to tree, ever wary, but finding the security force conspicuous by its absence.
    He turned over in his mind again what he knew about the man he had come to Chicago to kill, but it was not enough to give him a clue as to where Parelli would have gone to ground, if he was not here.
    Bolan knew far more about David Parelli's late father.
    Vito "The Butcher" Parelli had first come to Depression-era police notice when he'd been collared during a raid on Al Capone's old headquarters at the Montmarte Cafe in Cicero. Parelli had been sitting guard outside of Scarface Al's office, a tommy gun propped across his lap.
    Vito had not opened fire with the Thompson on the cops, of course. That only happened in the movies. Vito and the score of other bodyguards on the speakeasy's premises were there in case rival bootleggers showed up looking for trouble, not to shoot it out with the cops. Hell, the fix was in.
    The Butcher had gone on from such humble beginnings to claw and kill his way to the top of the heap of the ever-warring