War Against the Mafia Read Online Free PDF Page A

formality to be observed?" Bolan said, his features rigid in a set smile.
    "You aren't being charged," the lieutenant replied. "Not yet. But I know exactly what happened, Bolan. You understand that. I know. I know that some one broke into The Hunt Shop on August 18th, took a shiny new.444 calibre Marlin lever-action rifle and a powerful scope. I know that he took the rifle out to the old quarry to sight it in. We know that
somebody
was out there for two hours on the morning of August 19th, firing methodically in bursts of five along three precise ranges-one of a hundred yards, another a hundred and ten, and one a hundred and twenty yards. The caretaker didn't think much about it until he saw the papers yesterday morning, and I won't insult your intelligence by trying to make you think he got close enough to identify anybody. Just so you'll know I'm not playing games with you, Sarge.
    "Then two days ago our marksman went up to the fourth floor of the Delsey Building. He sat in an open window of an empty office. He smoked four Pall Malls-
your
brand, I see-and he used a Coke bottle for an ash tray. At almost exactly six o'clock he levered five soft-nosed slugs into the street below, with the punch of a bear-gun, and the Triangle Industrial Finance Company suddenly went temporarily out of business... And vengeance is mine, saith The Executioner."
    The lanky sergeant shifted his weight, causing the chair to creak beneath him. If you
know
so much," he said softly, "why aren't you charging me?"
    "Would you like to make a statement?"
    "Not unless I'm under arrest."
    "You know you're not under arrest."
    "Then I have no statement," Bolan said, smiling tightly.
    "What sort of screwy ideas you got in that noodle of yours, Sarge?"
    Bolan held his hands up, palms out "No screws whatsoever," he replied.
    "When are you due back in Vietnam?"
    "I'm not due back." Bolan grinned engagingly. "New orders came yesterday. Humanitarian reassignment."
    "Reassignment
where?"
Weatherbee asked quickly.
    "To the ROTC Unit at Franklin High, right here in Pittsfield."
    "Aw
shit!
the policeman exploded.
    "Because of the kid brother," Bolan added meekly. "I'm his only kin."
    Weatherbee charged to his feet and paced the floor between the desk and the door, working furiously at a sudden charge of static energy. "Well, this just complicates the hell out of things," he said presently. I thought you'd be tucked securely away in those jungles and out of my hair." He stabbed a finger to punctuate each word as he added, The front lines of Vietnam would be the most humanitarian assignment you could get!"
    "I don't know what you're talking about," Bolan said uneasily.
    "Sure you do, you know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the Mafia, an organization that can't afford to forgive and forget. I'm talking about a guy known as 'The Executioner,' who may or may not have executed five of their number-and those guys don't give anybody the benefit of any doubts the way the law does. I'm talking about the streets of my city becoming a shooting gallery, and of my inability to do anything but sit on the sidelines and watch like a spectator because I don't have any physical evidence to take into a court of law.
    "I'm
levelling with you, Sarge. Understand this! You're up the creek whether you're guilty or not! You
look
guilty as sin-maybe not guilty enough for a court of law, but guilty sure as hell enough for the law of the Mafia! They may not get to you today, or even tomorrow, but believe me they
will
get to you. And I'm sidelined. Understand? I can't do a thing to help you-even saying I wanted to. So what becomes of the kid brother now, eh? What becomes of the kid brother with your blood filling my gutters, Bolan?"
    "What would be your suggestion?" Bolan asked, eyeing the other sharply.
    "Give me a statement. A confession. It's the only way you can get the protection of the law."
    Bolan laughed tartly. "Some protection. All the way to the electric chair, eh?