The Bone Yard Read Online Free PDF Page A

and the mafioso would get back to Bolan at his earliest convenience. Bolan killed his smoke and checked his watch again. There was a chance that Nino would not call. Bolan realized the pressure he was under, living on the razor's edge between the Mafia and the government; an edge honed all the sharper by his off-the-record link through "Leonard Justice" to the Executioner's private war.
    As if in answer to his thoughts the telephone began to jangle; shrill tones ripping at the predawn silence of the parking lot. Bolan scrambled from his car and caught it on the third ring.
    "Morning, Sticker." It was the code name he had used with Leo Turrin in the "old days," and it felt good, rolling off his tongue without a second thought.
    "Morning, hell," the gruff male voice came back at him. "I'm not awake yet. What's the rumble?"
    Bolan smiled.
    "Rumor has it that Minotte bought the farm last night."
    Surprise was evident in Nino's distant voice.
    "Oh, yeah? I hadn't heard that. Who was selling?"
    "They're a new firm in town," Bolan told him. "I take it that they're based in Tokyo."
    There was a moment of thoughtful silence on the other end before Tattaglia continued.
    "Well, uh, maybe I have heard of that, after all."
    The Executioner sensed the mafioso's hesitance, realizing the position he was in, but it did not change the immediacy of Bolan's problem, the urgency of his need.
    "I need whatever I can get," he prodded.
    "Well, there might be something... sorta vague, you know, but nothing definite."
    Bolan could feel the strain the other man was under, wondering how much to say, what to hold back.
    "Anything at all. I'm on short numbers here."
    "You've got a guy out there," Tattaglia said at last. "He runs a restaurant or something. Sushi, all that kind of shit. Name's Seiji Kuwahara. What I hear, he's sort of the ambassador from Tokyo. You know?"
    "How firm is that?"
    "It's carved in stone. Like, maybe, headstones, if he made the move against Minotte."
    Bolan frowned to himself.
    "You hearing war drums?"
    "Nothing solid but it's on the edge. Chicago's asking for a sit-down with the Five Families, to protect their investments."
    "Is it set?"
    "Not yet," Tattaglia responded. "I get the message that somebody in New York is stalling. As to why..."
    Nino let it trail away, and Bolan did not pursue it. He had plenty on his mind right there in Vegas, without wasting precious time on the motives of an unnamed "someone" in Manhattan.
    "Okay," he said at last. "If you run into anything..."
    "Just pass it on to Leonard J. I know."
    There was another hesitation on the line and Bolan was about to break connections when Tattaglia spoke again.
    "Hey, Striker?"
    "Yeah?"
    "Good luck. I really mean it."
    "Thanks."
    The line went dead and Bolan cradled the receiver, staring at it for a moment, mixed emotions welling up inside him. Instinct told him that Tattaglia was sincere or getting there, at any rate. And Bolan knew that nothing was impossible. There might be ways to reach the hardest heart, given time and patience.
    But right now in Vegas, Bolan did not have the patience to sit back and wait for answers to come calling on him. He would have to hunt them down and find them for himself if he intended to find out what all the rumbles coming out of Vegas really meant.
    And if the melee at Minotte's was a preview, open war between the Mafia and the Yakuza could lead to bloody chaos in the streets. He hoped to head it off with swift and surgically precise preemptive strikes. But in order to accomplish that objective he would need a better handle on the situation in Las Vegas. There were still too many open-ended questions: the vacuum left by Bob Minotte's passing, the role of Seiji Kuwahara and the reticence of "someone in New York" to make a stand. Mack Bolan had to know the enemy before he moved against him. And for that he needed hard intelligence, the kind that canny warriors use when making battle plans for doomsday.
    By the time he reached his