Still, ten men … nine shots. That was with a full magazine of eight and a round chambered. A man left over. An armed man.

All right. Then four shots each in the first two boxes. Change clips, three each in the remaining three boxes.

Then you are empty, Bolan told himself.

I am empty of silenced pistol shots. I still have a huge, bucking, silvered .44 Automag. I will not be exactly defenseless.

Bolan jogged along behind the truck as it slowed to a crawl near the top of the high ridge, then started down the other side, gaining speed rapidly, bouncing and swaying and when the rear wheels hit an unpaved rough spot, Bolan swung aboard. He kept low on his belly. Rapa, the driver, had either been given instructions or figured for himself he wanted the rearview mirror operable, giving him a view out through the covered back of the truck.

Bolan kept to the left and crawled forward. When he reached the first box, he rapped on it with bis knuckle and muttered.

The box moved squeaking, and Bolan rapped again. The lid suddenly popped open and two men stood up. Bolan shot them both between the eyes, one, one, and let them collapse back into the box. He squirmed around, got his back braced against his own heavy MAGO crate, placed his feet against the other and shoved.

The box containing the two deads went off the tailgate and shattered, dumping the two limp bodies across the road.

Bolan simplified matters for himself and reloaded his Beretta clip. Then he rose to his feet, leaned a hip against the side of the swaying truck, drew the .44 Automag with his right hand after taking the Beretta in his left, and shot all the packing cases besides his own full of holes.

At the first crashing report of the .44 Automag, the truck swayed violently, walked back and forth across the crude highway, nearing the precipice on one side, the high cliff wall on the other.

In swift succession, while the driver still whipped from side to side in panic, Bolan shoved and pushed the other crates and toppled them end over end, and sent them off the tailgate, shattering to kindling, leaving bodies strewn.

Bolan punched the magazine release buttons on both weapons and reloaded.

Sidling up to the back window, Bolan looked into the cab.

Besides Turnip, two other armed men crouched in the floor board. Bolan shot them both in the top of the head, one, two. And through the shattered window shouted, "Pull up!"

Turnip switched off the key and with trembling hands guided the truck to a stop. Turnip proved himself not only a man with a ridiculously descriptive nickname and a fan— truckdriver but also a fool. He went for the gun inside his shirt and Bolan blew the front of Rapa's face off, catapulting him down the steep seaside of the highway.

Bolan climbed into the cab, dragged the other two bodies out and tossed them over the cliffside toward the grumbling surf below. He got in under the wheel, switched on, let the truck roll, slipped into high gear on the downgrade, popped the clutch loose and let the engine catch.

In the light of new day, he filled with gas in Catania and turned west.

Beachhead established and consolidated. Issue no longer in doubt.

None of the dons cared to look directly at one another. They all knew they'd been had, and each of them felt so helplessly frustrated with anger, none wanted the job of speaking first — of bringing the subject out.

Finally, the Roman, Brinato said, "Well, whadda we gonna do, sit here with our thumbs up our butts all night?"

"The first thing we gotta do," said Vandalo, "is get Naples back under control. I sent some of my boys — "

"You sent some of your boys?" demanded Ricercato. "And where you get off with that shit? You sent your boys."

"Somebody had to get in there fast, and the rest of you — " Vandalo gestured obscenely. "Sitting around on your asses while the whole organization falls apart."

"Shut up!" Brinato roared in his gravelly voice. "Knock it to hell off!" He glared around the room. "This is just what Bolan wants, us squabbling, fighting amongst ourselves, going to war over Naples." Brinato shot looks of anger at each don around the table; they looked back at him, and shifted uneasily in their chairs. "I say for right now, Naples is open. We got a lot bigger worry on our backs than Naples ... that goddam Bolan!"

Brinato stared at them again. "Now, anybody argue with that?"

No one answered.

"Okay! Now, you, Ruvido," Brinato demanded of the man from Reggio, "what did you find out from that ragazza, that girl Alma, right?"

"Nothing. A dumbass farmer. She didn't even know who she was helping, his name or nothing. She was so dumb she still carried one of them marksman medals in her blouse, didn't know any better."

"But you took the farm apart, just to make sure Bolan didn't double back."

"What the hell you take me for?" Ruvido said, insulted.

"Okay, okay, save the ruffled feathers for later."

"He's on the island," Ricercato said, primly.

"And passed right through your fucking town," snapped Vandalo. "Drove right into Catania and filled up with gas and ate breakfast in plain sight, and then … phutt! Vanished."

"Tell me about it!" snapped Paffuto, the chubby boss of Messina. "Those were my soldiers he blew up, my truck he stole. That bastard." Paffuto's fat hands worked as though he held Bolan's throat in them.

"Let's just cut the crap," Brinato said flatly. "Stop whining about who lost what, and who made this mistake or that fuckup. Okay, goddammit? You guys ready to talk now? You ready to make some plans, use your heads, think!" In a rage, Brinato shoved back from the table so hard his heavy chair upset and clattered halfway across the room. He went to a window and stood before it, breathing deeply. Sons of bitches, Brinato thought, pissing their pants over nickles and dimes and a few dead punks, and conniving over what slice of Naples they might or might not get. While we got a war on our hands!

Brinato lit a cigar. Well, he thought, they could forget Naples, all of them. Naples is mine. I got my own boia, my personal executioner in old Napoli, sorting things out, so Naples don't matter. What matters is that goddam Bolan!

Brinato stared off into the night through the window, eyes going out of focus, trying to envision where Bolan was at that moment, and doing what....

Brinato turned back to the table, picked up his chair, but he did not sit down. He leaned forward on his hands, and once more glared at each of the other men, one by one. "Now! Listen to me. Clear all the cheap penny-ante thoughts out of your minds. All the crap about a slice of Naples, your deads, stolen trucks, all that!"

Brinato flicked ashes from his cigar. "First, we know why Bolan came over here. We know his target." He paused, then growled a grainy coarse laugh. "Does anybody doubt now we are dealing with Bolan? Anybody got more smart ideas about taking down one of our own? It's Bolan and he raped us blind, so now let's get the son of a bitch."

Then with a deceptive mildness that held a sneer of contempt, Brinato said, "Okay? That okay, boys? Anybody disagree?" He had deliberately taken control of the table because he had been the first to call for a vote at Frode's table. For years Brinato had coveted Naples, especially after his recent probes into the territory verified that Frode's underbosses were stealing him blind and Astio Traditore undercutting him more each day, getting ready to make his move for the takeover. And Brinato had already given his best hardman, his boia, the contract on Astio. Bolan, however, had solved that minor problem.