"Bolan," said the don; it came out as a squeak.

"No," said the voice on the intercom. "It was Francesco."

"Francesco!" Tony Guida shouted. "You're outta your friggin skull."

"No, no, listen. Francesco, he's been carrying wine up with him on watch, and today he must've come in drunk. Eddie beat his face off, but Francesco got off a shot I mean we checked the pistol and everything, Tony."

Jeeez-uss, thought Tony Guida, how much luck could a guy have? The bastard I want hit so I can take over gets blown up while I'm sitting here with the boss, and I don't have to trust a lousy goddam junkie on the job.

Eddie pressed the lever. "Okay, cool it, huh? Now, who's in charge up there?"

"Well, no one, I guess. Gino was sort of taking over, I mean, you know he did some army."

"Okay, let me talk to him."

"Well, that's what I mean. He ain't here. I think he was coming down to report in, you know, about Eddie."

A huge sigh of utter relief gushed from the don's lips, and Tony watched the old man slack into a chair, wiping his sweaty gray face.

"Well," Tony said flatly, "you better take charge yourself, because I got a feeling Gino ain't coming back. We just had some gunfire down here, and I think one of our outside men took Gino down."

Tony paused a moment, thinking, totally aware of the don watching him. He had to make a good impression, and he had to do it now, in a crisis, while the don watched. No one ever knew what that blank-faced, conniving, ruthless old bastard was thinking. He may have had someone else already picked out to replace Eddie, if Eddie ever got blown up; so I won't get a better chance to show my stuff than right here, right now.

Tony pressed the lever. "Okay, do this. Tell the troops I said you're in charge till I get up there. Get the cooks to put out a good meal, I mean good; and plenty of wine for everyone. Get something going up there, card games, anything, I'll send for some girls. Just get to work smoothing it all out, settle everything down up there and I'll do the rest."

"Sure, okay, Tony. You, ah, you taking over for Eddie?"

"That's right," Tony Guida said flatly, turning his head and looking at Don Cafu, "I'm taking over for Eddie. I am speaking for the don."

Don Cafu nodded, and he smiled briefly.

Tony felt elation zing through him like a shot of God-power.

"Don Cafu's right here if you want to verify it."

"Hell, no, Tony. You're the man. I'm with you all the way, and don't forget, huh? The name is Giacomo, I mean Jack Vincent, huh, Tony. I'm your guy up here."

"Right, Jack, now get your ass in gear and take charge. Anybody gives you any shit, have'm check with me, or the don. But it better be goddam important, like life'r death before they bother the boss."

"No sweat, Tony. Most of the guys are here now, listening."

"Okay, move it!"

"Check, boss!"

Another ambitious son of a bitch, Tony Guida thought, turning from the intercom. But let him work his ass off. Who gets the credit? Me! The don's new right arm. Tony went to Cafu and gently put a hand on the don's shoulder. "Anything I can get you, boss? You okay?"

"You done fine, Tony. You done as good as Eddie."

"Eddie's dead, boss. Dead." Tony spoke flatly, with an edge on the word.

"You're right. Eddie's dead and now I got Tony. I like you Tony, how you handled everything."

"Okay, boss, now I got to check outside, see what to do with that dumbass Gino who got hisself shot, coming down without warning us." Tony picked up his machine-pistol again and went outside, whistling. He had another thing to take care of, too. Anybody who trusts a junkie is crazy; it's crazy even having one around, unless you can use him. With the death of Eddie The Champ, Tony Guida's tame junkie had gone, in a heartbeat, from an asset to a very distinct liability. Tony wouldn't last ten seconds in his new job if the old man, or anyone, discovered he'd been supplying Riarso with morphine.

Well, never put off till tomorrow ... no time like the present ... and all that old shit....

Only the last slug of the three-shot burst got Bolan, and he went down, partly from the shocking impact of the slug, but mainly because the shots had come from so close. How in hell had he let that happen! He cursed himself.

His back felt afire, but he did not feel anything loose or busted apart inside himself, so maybe he'd had more luck than he deserved. Bolan had no way of knowing he'd been shot only because the hardman was off his post, that he belonged where Bolan had seen the gap in the house-patrol, that he was a junkie nicknamed Drymouth, and that Riarso had sneaked away from his post to give himself a jolt of morph and just happened to see Bolan; and with the euphoric high just hitting him solidly, lifting him ten inches off the ground, Drymouth ripped off a burst at the man-sized shadow he saw moving toward the house. Drymouth had to protect the house. Frig that old don. Drymouth had to protect Tony Guida. So he shot whoever he thought he'd seen sneaking up on the house.

Bolan lay on his back and waited, gritting his teeth against the pain. From hunter he had in an instant become prey. He was shot and down, fifty yards from Don Cafu's house. Somewhere in the dark behind him was the man armed with a submachinegun who had shot him. It was miles back to his weapons cache, and the malacarni camp lay between him and his heavy weapons. What was it he'd told himself earlier that day? Laziness killed more men than caution ever did. I got lazy. I got overconfident. I walked in like I owned the joint, and got blown up.

Still, Bolan waited, unmoving, breathing shallowly and silently through his wide-open mouth.

Then he heard the shooter coming. Lying on his back, Bolan saw him emerge from the shadows, and Bolan shot Drymouth through the right eye. Riarso took his Last Trip ever. He took an OD of Mack Bolan, The Executioner.

Bolan rolled over on his stomach and shoved up on his knees. The pain in his wound took his breath, and for a moment the pain was so bad Mack Bolan could not believe it. He put the Beretta on the ground, then felt high up under his left arm and around over his back. The slug had gone into the heavy muscle up fairly high, just missing the shoulder blade, then Bolan felt sticky wet on his right wrist, and probed lightly with his fingertips. The bullet must have hit a rib, skittered along it and emerged almost directly under the armpit. There was a small puckered exit hole, slightly shredded at the edges.

Bolan thought, this isn't possible. The brachial artery runs right through there somewhere; it's probably nicked and I'm bleeding to death like a faucet inside my body cavity. Bolan remained there on his knees, waiting for the dizziness, the faintness proceeding death. Nothing happened ... except the excruciating pain that went on and on and on.

Bolan retrieved the Beretta and knee-walked to the dead.

He searched the man, astonished to find two morphine syrettes wrapped in a handkerchief in one pocket, exactly the same kind of syrettes used by combat medics. Bolan did not hesitate. The pain was too bad. He could not hope to function, keep his senses clear and alert while fighting such intense pain. He peeled back his left sleeve, made a fist, felt with his fingertips and found the vein, slipped the needle in and squeezed the small plastic container, shooting the morphine into his bloodstream.

Within a minute, Bolan felt the pain diminish enough so he could think past it. He also felt drowsy, but knew he could overcome that. He dropped the remaining syrette into one of the leg pockets of his blacksuit in case he absolutely had to use it later on.

Bolan took a compress from his combat med-kit, put it over the bullet-exit hole and clamped his left arm down over it; he put another compress on the hole in his back. With his right hand, Bolan slipped the dead man's belt from the body, then the necktie. Holding his arm clamped to his side, but leaving his left hand free, Bolan tied the belt and tie together, fashioned a loop, slipped it over his head, fitted it across both compresses, then drew it as tight as he could stand, mashing the bandages into place over the wounds. For a moment he rested there on his knees, head hanging, dripping sweat, muzzy and faint. He'd have given almost anything for a cigarette, and the safety in which to enjoy the smoke.