"I know what I'm saying, goddammit. Go if you want but I'm staying. I know."

Bolan thought, you know too much, asshole; so lie down and stop breathing, you're already dead."

He could hear the one man going downhill, fast, crashing through the brush, tumbling stones, calling out, "Come on, come on."

Bolan dropped another round down the tube.

Each time he fired, Bolan not only clamped his hands over his ears, but ducked away and clamped his eyes tightly closed. That a mortar threw no muzzle flash at all was fiction. It blazed enough to blind a careless gunner, and enough to be spotted by a careful observer who knew where to look.

Night vision unimpaired, Bolan drew the silenced Beretta, sat with his elbows locked on his knees and waited for smartguy Franco. He saw the bulky shape appear, and heard the man panting like a hospital case dying of asthma. Bolan let Franco have his small victory. Let him see the firebase Bolan had established. Let him turn, even let him shout, a shout unheard as the third round's explosive noise came rebounding up the mountainside.

Then Bolan shot him three times through the chest, for insurance, not completely certain he'd adequately protected his night vision.

Bolan got up and walked over to Franco and rolled him over and saw he'd wasted two bullets. He dragged the body back to his firebase, laid him down carefully, then unwrapped another chocolate bar and ate it.

From Journals, Mack Bolan, The Executioner:

Many times when 1 go in, I never know how I will get out, or if I will. More than once in these pages I've declared myself already dead. All I care about is accomplishing the mission. Beyond that nothing matters.

The central piazza of Agrigento was but three miles inland from the seaport of the same name. Around the town square, as in most cities throughout the world, stood offices of the local, provincial, and federal governments. In the office of the Night Chief of Police, sat a man of great bulk and substance. He wore a uniform, and polished cavalry style boots actually equipped with small spurs. He wore a Sam Browne style waistbelt and shoulder strap, and a tiny automatic pistol. Above the left breast pocket of his nicely tailored uniform the man wore an ornate solid gold, silver inlay, blue and green enameled badge.

The door to the man's office was locked and his telephone off the hook.

It required considerable concentration, but the Night Chief did not heed the pounding on his door, the shouts of the door pounders, or the thin high-pitched squawk issuing from the earpiece of the telephone. Instead, the man read with some relish the latest scandal among the cinema actresses, and licked his lips lasciviously when he looked at highly revealing photos of Sophia Loren.

The Night Chief of Provincial Police was not only aware of what seemed to be happening a few miles outside his city, but had been aware of it for at least thirty minutes before the townspeople. A policeman relied heavily upon informers. Policemen who wished to live good and satisfying lives, grow old, retire gracefully, die in bed of such reasonable ailments as heart disease or other disorders brought on by a lifetime of dissipation did not foolishly rush off into the night when any damned fool with ears knew there was a war in progress at Don Cafu's.

The Chief was fully aware of who and what Don Cafu was and represented. It was, in fact, with the don's blessing, combined with certain arrangements, that the Night Chief got his job, which did not include interfering with happenings of any land whatever upon Don Cafu's estate. If, upon the morrow, Don Cafu emerged victorious, the Chief had less than nothing to worry about. He would, in fact, be rewarded for not intruding himself into Family matters.

On the other hand, if he learned that Don Cafu had gone down in defeat, the Chief still had nothing to lose. Certainly, the new don would see how wise and provident the current Night Chief of Police was, and would therefore have no reason to wish for a replacement. Certain understandings and arrangements would be made, and things would go on as they had always gone on in Agrigento, Mafialand.

Of course, certain base and faithless persons might jeer at the Chief behind his back, and others possibly find a printing press to run off cowardly caricatures; and without doubt some vile creature would shit on his doorstep or call his wife to accuse him of being a secretive homosexual, but a policeman's lot, as the saying goes....

The one thing the Night Chief was totally unprepared for was the arrival of a sleek turbojet helicopter, letting down directly in front of the police station. At the authoritarian command that he unlock the door, the Chief did so at once. Of course he recognized Signor Brinato at once, but not the smiling youngster who followed the most esteemed Signor Brinato into the office, like a shadow.

Brinato spoke with a voice that sounded like his throat was filled with crushed ice. He complimented the Chief on his behavior. He complimented the Chief upon his willingness to let Family matters sort themselves out. He introduced himself as the new, ah, resident — possibly in absentia— of what was formerly known as the Cafu estate. And, of course, all previous, ah, arrangements would continue in effect, until some more convenient time for renegotiation. Did the Chief have any objections?

"Absolutely none and let me be the first to welcome you."

"I thank you. Now, perhaps you could clear this rabble from the streets. The helicopter is extremely expensive, extremely so, and easily damaged."

It was done in minutes, and so was the Chiefs personal Rolls Royce Silver Cloud brought around so Signor Brinato might ride to the Cafu — the new Brinato, formerly Cafu, estate.

Bolan heard the chopper pass overhead, and was plainly startled to see it circle, then hover, and slowly begin descending over the city.

His first thought was: "Cops!"

His second thought came a fraction of an instant later. It's time to strike. I'm not killing any cops.

He checked the positions of the mortar baseplates, adjusted the sights, dropped the parachute flare round down one tube, and the William Peter down the other.

The flare lighted the whole island, it seemed. The stark bare hills lay naked, the outposts' foxholes, the trails, the old mineshafts. Farther down, he saw the buildings of the malacarni camp, and beyond it the big stone house. The WP smoke shell landed sixty yards long. Bolan adjusted the tube, then ignoring his ears, he pulled the safety pins and dropped shells down both mortar tubes one after another as fast as he could. He had twenty rounds in the air before the first hit, landing beside the cookshack door. The explosion tore the whole end off the building. The remainder of the flimsy structure swayed and buckled, swayed, then caved in. Other rounds fell in, crunch! crunch! crunch! and an air-whapping wave of sound came up the mountainside, whipping dust into Bolan's eyes.

Small, antlike men ran in all directions. Bolan saw one mortar shell hit a running man in drawers square in the top of the head, and the man vanished.