"What kind of claws are they using?" Bolan wondered aloud.

"The best kind there is. Money. When money is tight, black money is king. The guy that controls the purse also runs the show. In any business."

"But it all fits together somewhere, doesn't it? On the merry-go-round, I mean."

"Sure," Lyons said. "You know how the mob operates. They carve all the action into private concessions. One family has the entertainment concession. Another specializes in the narcotics angle. Still another gets the contraband. And on and on endlessly — a carousel, yeah. Now you're saying Havana, eh? Hell, that could mean anything. From atomic secrets to small revolutions to a whorehouse in Guantanamo Bay."

"Or…" Bolan suggested quietly, "a new Vegas."

"Yeah, that's possible. There's a lot of action in the Caribbean already."

"And the heat in this town is getting pretty fierce, isn't it? For the mob, I mean. How many dealers and shills and coin-girls do you figure are on the FBI payroll?"

Lyons snickered. "You noticed."

"Sure I noticed. And don't think the boys haven't noticed. When the heat gets too high, Lyons, the mob moves on. If they can't fight it or buy it, they leave it. Vito let it drop that he sent sixteen million to San Juan in one year. And that's just from one casino."

Musingly, the cop said, "Even our esteemed local billionaire has shaken the dust of Vegas from his feet… and moved on to…"

Bolan's eyebrows formed a peak. "I've never heard anything tying him to..."

"No I wasn't saying that," Lyons replied. "But you don't make a billion by playing trie losers. Maybe he knows something the rest of us don't."

"Like, maybe Vegas is dying."

"Like maybe something like that," Lyons said, sighing. "Bug off, will you? I can't keep my eyes open another minute. You heard the nurse, don't excite me."

Bolan grinned and said, "Okay. You lay here and snooze while I go play cop."

"Take a friend's advice and stay out of it, Mack. The feds are waltzing this thing along with a very delicate touch. I told you what Brognola said. That will go double, here in Vegas. They'll take no interference, buddy."

"I'm not competing with the feds," Bolan replied. "But I'm not playing tiddley-winks, either, and I need every handle I can get. I'm going to bust this town, Lyons."

"Don't. You've done enough already. Just pick up your chips and get out while you can."

"Too late for that now," Bolan told his friend. "From what I overheard on Vito's pipeline, my only chance is a sweep through the middle." He grinned. "Did you know, that guy's got his own casino bugged, ears everywhere."

Lyons smiled faintly. "In this town, nobody trusts anybody. And, I've learned, with damn good reason."

"Well, I'm going to flavor their pots a bit."

"Some Bolan spice, eh?"

"Something like that."

"Be careful, dammit," the cop said fiercely.

"My heart even beats careful," Bolan told him, and that was his parting line.

He went back along the corridor, thanked the nurse, and re-invaded the night. There was not much of it left — it was nearly dawn and almost time for the next maneuver.

The Executioner had a plane to meet.

Bolan was not only an expert marksman, he was also a highly skilled armorer — or gunsmith, to use the civilian term. His expertise with destructive weapons extended into areas of military ordnance, munitions and various types of explosive devices. He was a weapons specialist and his warwagon reflected this facet of the Bolan threat. It was a rolling arsenal, featuring the most advanced and versatile selection of arms available in the secret marketplaces.

Of all the weapons in the collection, however, his most cherished possession was a non-military piece, a sportsman's big-game rifle which could be purchased almost anywhere — though this particular one had been highly refined and "worked-in" — a Weatherby Mark V. He had acquired it during the London adventure, and he'd gone to great trouble and expense to have the weapon forwarded to him upon his return to this country.

The bolt-action piece handled .460 calibre Magnums with a point-blank range of 400 yards, maximum range 1,000 yards, and the big sniperscope that came with it would resolve the head of a pimple a half-mile away. The muzzle energy was 4,000 pounds; the Magnums carried more than 300 grains of push behind the expanding, high-shock projectiles which could tear a man's head off at 500 yards.

The range on the present mission would be much less than that. The only problem Bolan was sweating was the question of light. The scope would be useless in the dark. If that plane should beat the sun into the target area, Bolan would have to scrub and withdraw. He could not "work close" on this type of hit. The odds would be too great, the route of retreat too shaky.

There were no doubts regarding the target area. The private jet would almost certainly not use the facilities of the airline terminal, but would taxi to a convenient spot for transferring her passengers directly to waiting automobiles. This was SOP for Mafia war parties. And there had been no problem locating the line-up of crew wagons, the big eight-passenger jobs the mob. preferred for their headhunters. The limousines were waiting on a service apron, a hundred yards or so from the flying service building and about two hundred yards from the blast fence which was presently shielding Bolan's van, at the end of the primary runway.

He counted nine vehicles and ran his war party projection from there — sixty to seventy people were arriving. Figure the plane crew at about four, each of them a hardman, from the chief pilot on down. Say then, possibly, seventy-five guns out there, plus the nine wheelmen and maybe a couple of ranking greet-ers — round it off at even figures and call it ninety guns.

Yeah, those were some odds. Impossible? Scary as hell, sure — but no, not impossible. He would not be trying for a wipe-out… a bit of jarring, maybe — spice for the Vegas pot — a pinch of fear and stir well.

And then a new thought occured to him, and a smile played briefly upon the Executioner's face. If the conditions were just right… if he could be assured of a clean target and a well-defined safety zone for non-combatants… if the sun and the airport traffic would play ball… then just maybe he could come up with an alternate target area and an extra pinch for the pot. Yes, and maybe he could show the Talifero brothers just how he felt about their damn warparty.

Part of the Talifero legend was that the brothers had attended law school at one of the big prestige universities of the east. One story said Yale, another Harvard; still another, probably pure fantasy, claimed that both had attended under a single tuition and alternated at classes.

It was true that the brothers were practically identical in appearance, that they sounded alike, walked alike, and seemed to think alike.

It was also true that they ran a bodyshop to put Murder, Incorporated to shame. They enjoyed equal rank with other members of La Commissione and their cadre was an elite corps said to be as secretive and effective as the Gestapo of the early Nazis. The Talifero cadre was, in every respect, the invisible secret police force of the organized underworld.

A Taliferi, it was rumored, could hit a Capo — without a contract and without fear of reprisal from other bosses. This story could be an exaggeration, but in several instances the brothers had done so, of their own initiative and without prior consultation with the council of bosses. The Taliferi were the most feared and respected force within the Mafia.

One would not receive such an impression, upon a casual encounter with the brothers. They dressed conservatively and impeccably, their speech could be flawless and impressively articulated, their manner urbane, and they smiled a lot — particularly at each other, as though forever sharing some secret joke.