“He’s your chief enforcer.”

“Yeah, but he’s on a long leash.”

“Not anymore.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Jo Jo shivered. “They said they never found nothing of him but his teeth. What a way to go.” He frowned. “That was you! You’re Bolan the...”

“Bastard,” the Executioner filled in. “You’re right. Want me to roll over and play dead so you can collect that five million dollars head money?”

“Look. I didn’t know nothing about that girl. I swear! Franconi’s been in trouble that way before. He’s wild. No way you can blame me for what he did on his own!”

Suddenly Jo Jo broke for the rack on the wall and pulled down a pool cue. He grabbed the tapered end and swung the heavy handle.

“Now you’re getting smart, Jo Jo. Going up against a silenced Beretta automatic with a pool cue.”

The hoodlum swung the cue viciously at Bolan’s chest. The Executioner jumped out of the way and shot him in the shoulder. The Mafia lieutenant dropped the cue, momentarily held his arm, then scrambled for the cue, which Bolan’s boot held to the floor. When he reached for it, the Executioner kicked Jo Jo’s head, smashing him backward on the floor.

“You’ve been calling the shots too long, Jo Jo. You’ve forgotten how to roll with the punches.”

Bolan put the Beretta away. He lifted the pool cue and held it in both hands.

“On your feet, scumbag.”

Jo Jo shook his head to clear it as he began to struggle up. When he straightened, a wicked-looking blade materialized in his fist. He lunged at Bolan, snarling.

Bolan used the stick to parry the thrust, then feinted forward with the tapered end. Jo Jo Albergetti tried to step back, but was blocked by the billiard table.

Bolan used the opening he sought and brought the tip of the cue down with lightning speed. The wooden lance pierced the mafioso’s chest, entering his heart. Bolan’s two hundred pounds of might powered it forward. The Mafia lieutenant was dead within ten seconds.

Bolan left him where he fell, the cue sticking out of his chest straight into the air. He dropped a marksman’s badge on Jo Jo and checked the far door. It led to a hall toward the rear of the building. A few moments later he found a back door into the alley and went out.

He was at his car before anyone noticed Jo Jo’s absence.

It was nearly an hour later when a waitress went into the private room and found Jo Jo.

Don Carlo Nazarione sat at the big desk in his office on the third floor of his mansion and shook his head.

“How many men we lost on the Chief Smith hit? Ten? Are all of them dead?”

The other man in the room, Ardly Scimone, his second in command, stared at the godfather.

“I’m afraid so, Don Nazarione. Five shot, the others dead from hand-grenade fragments, and the fires. It has to be the Executioner again.”

“He’s cutting us into hash! Why can’t we stop him?”

“We could call for help from the commission.”

“Hell, yes, but by the time reinforcements get here we’ll all be dead. How many men did we lose on that try against Jansen?”

“Four.”

The tall man stood and walked around the putting green, elevated to allow for the holes with their small flags.

“Well, we missed him, but there’s a chance that they got the head man, Smith.”

“If that’s so, then one of our men could move into the chair.” Pacing, he lit a cigar and puffed.

“We’ve still got the resources and the men to pull off the grab. We’ll continue. Keep everything on schedule. We’ve got the two inspectors and the two city councilmen on the payroll. They’ll do what we tell them. And we have a hand-picked candidate for the new chief when we need one. Yes!” Nazarione smiled.

“So keep everything moving. We’re going ahead. Ard, let me know of any problems. We have two more days. Let’s hope nothing else goes wrong.”

Nazarione saw Ardly out and descended in his private elevator to the “home” apartment on the second floor. This was sacred territory. No stairs led here, only the private elevator. Here Carlo Nazarione became a family man.

His wife, Sydney, smiled at him. She was his rock. Here he was totally away from business. None of the hardmen ever came here. They were not allowed. Only personal servants — and just three of them — were admitted. It was essential to him to keep his family and business separated.

Tall and blond, Sydney was not the good Italian girl he was supposed to marry. But she had been good for him, good to him and never thought about another man. Their two children, fourteen and sixteen, were away at school.

“Hard day? “she asked.

“Seems they’ve all been hard lately. But I want to forget that. What are we doing tonight?”

“A movie, the one everyone’s been talking about — I got a video cassette of it. We can see it right here.”

Carlo laughed. “You know just how to pick me up when I’m down. I hope it’ll always be this way.”

“It will. Soon the kids will be grown and gone and you and I will be old and gray and we’ll sit on the beach in Acapulco or maybe Greece.”

He kissed her forehead and led her to a soft chair in the living room where an enormous TV screen covered one wall. He adored Sydney but did not share her faith in the future. He lived in such an intense world, with so many pressures. The police and the government were easy to battle. Now he was suddenly faced with an enemy who thought the way the family did and who fought with intense savagery without holding to the strict ethics of the police.

Carlo tried to throw off the black mood. Then he thought about all his men who had died in the past two days and a tremor darted up his spine.

No! It could not be. He would not let it happen. He had let the Executioner invade his headquarters once with that fake story about his friend Augie Bonestra. That would not happen again. They had Mack Bolan right there! They should have killed him a dozen times, yet he had escaped, laughing at them, and knowing a lot more about them. Carlo would never let anything like that happen again. Security was of the utmost importance.

Carlo prayed that it was not too late, that he had not made a fatal blunder, one that could not be corrected.

That evening at nine-thirty, Assistant Chief Gene Vincent finished work, signed out at the front desk and went to his car. Lately he had been working overtime on a secret report on gambling in Baltimore and how it had touched even some police officers. There still was a lot of work to do, but he was making progress.

Vincent entered the official car and locked it. His mind was still on his report. Yes, he was right in presuming that the more money offered, the more takers you would find in any kind of a bribery situation. Just what it took to push a normally honest cop into going on the take, he was not sure. If he were lucky, he might find out.

He left the parking lot and headed for the expressway. As usual during the forty-five-minute drive home, he would relax totally.

He turned right and took his usual shortcut along a side street toward the highway’s access ramp. He saw a car coming up fast behind but decided it had time to slow down.

It did not slow down.

The other car rammed the chief’s rig, slamming it across the curb and into a pole. The seat belt held, but Chief Vincent swung forward and hit the steering wheel with his chest and the windshield with his head. It was not enough to make him lose consciousness. His first thought was that he would be terribly late getting home.

The car stopped, and someone ran to it, banged on the door, then smashed the window to unlock it.

Vaguely he saw a face over him, then felt something wet splashed over his face and suit. It smelled strange — whiskey! He was being soaked with booze! He tried to call out, but his mind was still foggy from the knock on the head.