"Do you expect me to take that bullet out?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I've done it before. I can do it again." She pushed him over flat and moved a pillow beneath his head. "You're not going to do this one," she said bruskly. She picked up the tweezers. "Now hold still," she said, between clenched teeth.

The Lull Bolan was lying on a silk-draped lounge, naked from the waist down. Angelina Turrin, in revealing green hip-huggers, was sitting astride him, pressing a glowing soldering iron into his shoulder. "Yore a G.o.dd.a.m.n iron man, Sarge," Leo said, from somewhere in the background, and that's a d.a.m.n sweet little wife you got there." "I'm going to kill you just the same," Bolan said calmly, "just as soon as I wake up." He did awaken immediately, bright sunshine spilling into his eyes and little fire demons dancing inside his shoulder. A girl was standing at a window next to the bed, doing something to the venetian blinds, her back to him. Jet black hair cascaded onto delicately curved and bare shoulders; she was dressed in a bra and a half-slip, this fact causing her considerable embarra.s.sment when she turned and saw that his eyes were open. She grabbed a smock from the foot of the bed, turned her back to him once again, and fumbled her way into the billowing garment.

"You're the cat lady," he said groggily.

She perched on the edge of the bed and shoved a thermometer into his mouth. "I thought you would sleep the day through," she told him, then shushed his reply with a meaningful glance at the thermometer. They looked at each other in silence for a while, eyes locked together, the girl smiling faintly. Then she retrieved the thermometer, studied it intently, and said: "Well, you must be an ox. Not a sign of a temperature." "It's all in my shoulder, I think," he replied, grinning.

"I know who you are," she told him, her face going serious.

"Is it good or bad?" he asked, watching her eyes.

"Bad I guess," she said soberly. "It's all over television and radio and your picture is in the morning paper. They're calling you "The Executioner." Are you an executioner, Mr.

Bolan?" "Let me see, I'll bet you have a very exotic name," he said. "Carmencita. Yeah. You look like a Carmencita." She flushed. "It's Valentina. Querente. You can call me Val." "Valentina fits you better," he told her.

"What time is it?" "It's nearly noon." "Which means you've had plenty of time to call the cops and get me off your hands, Why haven't you?" "I almost did," she replied, peering at him from beneath partially lowered lashes.

"But you didn't. Why?" "Well--you did trust me, didn't you? Besides --a man is innocent until proven guilty." "I'm guilty as sin," he said.

"I know." "Just how much do you know?" "All of it, I guess. You've killed eleven men in less than two weeks. You're a living tragedy, Mr. Bolan. I suppose that is why I couldn't turn you in." He smiled. "You sympathize with my cause, then?" She shook her head firmly. "Not at all.

No man has the right to take human life. There is never any justification for killing." "No kidding?" "No kidding. There's no way to justify it." Bolan chuckled and shifted to a more comfortable position. "I don't need to justify it," he told her. "It justifies itself." She moved another pillow over to offer better support to the wounded shoulder. "The end justifies the means?" she asked, smiling faintly.

"No--the means justify the end. It's the ages-old battle, Valentina. Good versus evil. Good justifies itself. Doesn't it?" "I'll argue that with you some day," she said soberly. After we have identified good. Right now I'm going to get some food into you. How do you like your eggs?" "Cooked," he said, grinning.

"Seriously." "Seriously, I like them cooked. Any way you go about it. Uh--what happened to my clothes?" She made a face. "I stole them. You picked on the wrong old maid, Mr. Bolan. When I get "em in my bed, I keep 'em there." "Some old maid," he replied, staring soberly into her eyes.

She colored and jumped to her feet.

"Scrambled," she said.

"Huh?" "No matter which way I go about it, they come out scrambled. So I hope you eat them that way." She smiled and sailed out of the room. Bolan immediately threw back the covers and cautiously moved to the side of the bed. He was stark naked. He stared at himself for a moment, then regained the protection of the bedcovers. "What'd you say you did with my clothes?" he called.

"I said I stole 'em," she replied from the kitchen. "If you're going to be disagreeable about it, you can steal 'em back. In the bathroom, if you feel able." Bolan felt able. He pushed to a sitting position and swung his feet over the side of the bed, fought back a wave of dizziness and got up and staggered nakedly to the bathroom. The black jerseys were pinned to a clothes hanger, suspended from the shower curtain rod. They had obviously been washed and drip-dried. The jockey shorts were on a towel rack, also clean and dry. He slipped into the shorts, grabbed the jerseys, and went back to sit on the side of the bed. Valentina rapped her knuckles lightly on the doorjamb and said, "Don't put the shirt on until I change the bandage." "The way I feel under that bandage," he growled, "I may never put that shirt on." "Are you decent?" she asked.

"I guess so," he replied.

She stepped into the room, stared at him frankly, and said, "Well, almost anyway. You'd better let me help you with those pants. Honestly, that is the most ridiculous outfit. Who do you think you are-- Captain Marvel?" She was kneeling at his feet, and she seized the jersey pants and began stuffing his feet into them.

"They're entirely practical for sneaking about," he replied.

"I'll bet. Into your tent I'll creep, huh?" Bolan was embarra.s.sed, and he realized this with some surprise. "They, uh, really are very practical," he said. The first time you try going over a fence or other obstacle in a baggy outfit you'll know what I mean." "I know what you mean." she told him. She had threaded his legs into the costume to just above the knees.

"I guess you'll have to manage the rest by yourself," she said. "I'll bet the eggs are burning up." "You took 'em all the way off," Bolan observed pointedly. "Is there some reason why you can't put them all the way back on?" "I said, the eggs are burning up! She went to the doorway, then threw him an impudent look.

"Besides, I Just skinned them off from beneath the covers and I didn't see a darned thing." Bolan had his mouth open but she was already gone.

He smiled and stood up and succeeded in finishing the job with his good hand. She was quite a gal he was deciding, even if the unmistakable odor of burning eggs was drifting through the open doorway. Yeah, quite a gal.

The Sergio Frenchi home dominated the skyline of South Hills, the luxury suburb of Pittsfield. The site had been selected because of its resemblance to the Mediterranean coastline, though the ocean was hundreds of miles distant, and the house itself was of traditional Mediterranean architecture, stone and mortar and sweeping windows, multilevel porches and patios, the lower levels built into the hillside and exploiting the natural topography to the maximum. Shown a photo of the Frenchi estate, one would think the setting to be one of isolated seclusion; in reality it was the scene of an exclusive neighborhood of millionaires.

Frenchi had merely gotten there first and carved out the large and commanding site; the others had followed.

One rumor had it that Frenchi had acc.u.mulated his fortune in the export-import business; another, that he had been a shipping magnate. The first story was closer to the truth--Frenchi's rise to riches had been chiefly through the international traffic in illegal drugs. He also had much reason to thank organized prost.i.tution, bootlegging, gambling, and various other illegal American pastimes. In recent years, and especially in the impetus received during the Robert Kennedy Attorney-General days, Frenchi had been "legitimizing" his interests to every extent possible. He actually did own a small shipping line now, and his other latter-day interests included a string of loan companies and various small businesses, all lumped into the loose coagulation which was "Frenchi Enterprises." First, last, and always, however, Sergio Frenchi was a "Family" man--the Mafia family. It was not a family one could disinherit or disclaim, even had he been so inclined. The family vows were a lifetime oath of primary allegiance, with all other considerations-- including even marriage and fatherhood--falling into subservience to the higher obligation to the Mafia-- G.o.d Himself and the church itself even stood in line behind the all-demanding sacred vows to the Mafia. Sergio Frenchi had been married to the same woman for 41 years, but it had been a barren marriage; there was no seed of Sergio Frenchi to immortalize this man.

A warm and loving man, on his one side, Sergio filled this lack of his own loins with the products of other marriages close to him; he was "Uncle" Sergio to many, "Father" Sergio to a choice few and Leopold Turrin was one of those latter. The Turrin children were as much at home in the sprawling Mediterranean villa as in their own residence; Angelina Turrin, orphaned at the age of ten, had actually come to think of Father Sergio as the grandfather of his children. Mother Frenchi had spent most of the past decade in traveling about the world; she was often present in the conversation of the Frenchi mansion but rarely seen in the flesh.

On this late morning of early September the Frenchi villa seemed much the same as always to Angelina Turrin, except that there were a few more cars in the drive than usual. The Turrin children leapt from the family convertible and raced excitedly up the stone steps to the sun deck in their usual display of animated greeting. Leo gave his wife's hand a comforting pat and left her standing beside the car; he followed a trail around to a rear stairway and disappeared from her view.

It was funny, she was thinking, how a person's world can change almost overnight. The big house she had loved so, for so many years, now seemed threatening and foreboding of evil. She wondered if she could go through the motions of warm cheer and happy a.s.sociation, just as though nothing at all had been changed in her life, just as though Father Sergio was still the warmly loving nonno of her earlier ignorance. She shivered, though the sun's rays were warm on her skin, and followed the children up the steps.

Her husband had come here to plot a man's death.

He was sitting down in the midst of racketeers and murderers, while his children frolicked in the sunshine outside, to work out the grisly details for the entrapment and extinction of another human being.

Angelina herself, of course, had come painfully close to snuffing out that very life, but for her it had been a wild panic of reaction to an impossible situation. She could still not remember actually pulling the trigger--thank G.o.d she had, of course, thank G.o.d for that panicky reaction. But to sit and plot ... She shivered again and forced her legs to keep moving her up the steps. Perhaps reaction was a relative thing, she reasoned. Perhaps the reaction of these men was no different from hers--it was a matter of survival, and they were reacting in the only rational manner available to them. And perhaps some day she would forgive Leo for his underworld ties. And maybe-- maybe she would end up like Mother Frenchi, moving aimlessly about the corners of the world to avoid the confrontation with reality in her own living room. What is the profit for a man to gain the world, only to lose ... She abruptly snapped off the chain of thought, blinked back the tears, and went in search of her children.

They had learned from the earlier experience. The meeting was being conducted behind drawn blinds. A security force of twenty men had been moved onto the property, and an additional dozen quietly patrolled the neighborhood.

"So our little Angelina very nearly did the job a small army could not do, eh?" Sergio said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "With a little toy of a pop-pop gun, eh?" He laughed, and turned chiding eyes onto an uncomfortable Leo Turrin.

"You married well, Leopold. You take good care of that little lady. She will make a man of you yet." "I'm just glad she was there," Turrin muttered.

"She saved my life. You ever feel the muzzle of cold steel against the back of your head?

h.e.l.l, I'm just glad she was there." "And you have no apologies," Sergio observed quietly.

"h.e.l.l, I told you how it happened. All of a sudden, blam, there he was. And I didn't call those cops. h.e.l.l, they were all around the place.

I'm just surprised that Bolan got away from them.

I'm telling you, they were all around the place. It was like a police ball, and they were holding it at my place." "I said you have no apologies. You know what I think?" The old eyes shifted about to take in the expectant stares lifted to him. "I think this guy is working with the cops. Not the locals--no, not the locals. He is an import--I think he's federal. Maybe he's CIA or something, with a license to kill. You know?" A small man at the far end of the table shifted nervously, cleared his throat, and said: "Doesn't sound logical, Sergio. I'm sure I would have gotten wind of anything like that. Believe me, the department is going all out to get this guy." Sergio fixed the speaker with a stern gaze. "And you would know about all these things, hah? You were too important to be bypa.s.sed on a hush-hush federal game, hah?" The other man nodded his head. "Yes, I am.

You know I am. I've never steered you wrong before, have I?" "They've tried every way to bust us!" Sergio cried, suddenly emotional and pounding the table with his fist to emphasize the words. "Now why wouldn't they try this? Eh?" "It's just alien to the American way," the small man replied, his voice taking on a clearly placating tone. "They simply do not operate that way, not against American citizens at any rate." "But look at who has been killed!" Sergio retorted. "Have any of us been shot? Huh? Or even shot at? No. No! A man who can shoot a gla.s.s almost out of my hands can shoot Sergio if he wants to! Huh? Can't he?" "What do you think he's up to, Sergio?" Plasky asked.

"Psychological warfare!" the old man snapped. "This Is what he is up to. And maybe..." The eyes took on a dreamy look.

"Maybe, bambini, maybe this Bolan is more than one man." A long silence followed the declaration, all eyes on Sergio. He took his seat, fiddled with a c.o.c.ktail napkin, then continued the line of thought.

"Look at it," he said softly. "Just look.

Five people are shot down in the street outside our Triangle office. n.o.body sees the a.s.sa.s.sin, eh? This soldier shows up at Nathan's place, he is seen for the first time, and he cons our college-man Walter into a place in the organization. As soon as he has had time to learn a few faces and a few places of business, we get word through our intelligence-was He raised his eyes and scowled at the man at the end of the table.

"comthrough our intelligence that this soldier is the a.s.sa.s.sin of our Triangle people, and that he is out to get us all. So! We get the contract out for this a.s.sa.s.sin, and he is there waiting for our contractors, eh? Again, he is not seen by anybody now living. He puts in an appearance at one of Leopold's places, but again he is seen only momentarily, and who is to say that the man who set the fire is the same man who fired senseless shots into an automobile, eh?

Again, at Walter's home, a man who fits the general description of our soldier has a conversation with the kitchen woman--but who can say how many other men were on that property, eh?

"See what is a-building here, bambini? An image. An image of an invincible ghost who walks among us unseen and untouched, killing and destroying at will--an image of fear, eh?" The men around the table, exactly twelve in number, were beginning to get excited. There were murmurings and creakings of chairs. Several cigars and a half-dozen cigarettes were lighted.

Sergio seemed to be enjoying his role immensely. He was smiling now, expansively so.

"You begin to see, eh? Our intelligence is not so hot, eh? The Mafia is getting soft, they say.

Too much easy living, they say. The new generation of the family are mush-heads, they say. Let us shake their brains, they say. Let us push them as far as they will push, and see what mistakes they will make, eh? Let us play games with the Mafia, and maybe their panic will bring their house down. Eh?" "I don't like this situation as much as the other one," Seymour commented sourly. "One lone guy, even a ghost, gives me a lot more comfort than a concentrated a.s.sault by the federal government, and with no regard for the rules of play." "Comfort?" Sergio thundered. "You want comfort?

Take your comfort, college man, and sleep with it!

Sergio Frenchi wants a dead Bolan! Not a ghost, not an invincible destroyer, but a dead body." "But you just said..." Seymour began weakly, then lost steam altogether.

"I said you should get some bone in your back," the old man said sternly. "Forget all this whimpering and weeping about the Bolan ghost. Make him a ghost, a real one, and tell the feds to send us another. And we will make him a ghost, and tell them to send us another. Eh? Who is the bold and the brave, eh? Eh, Leopold? Is it our women?" "We'll get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Turrin declared grimly, his eyes falling away from the old man's.

"Yes, yes we will. And this is how we will. Now, Nathan, first of all you will..." And so began the council of September First.

Angelina Turrin's foreboding of evil could well have been shared by Executioner Mack Bolan. And she had provided the lull that made it all possible.

The Mafia had found a second wind, and it was to be an ill one for the Executioner.

BOOK THREE.

In With the New Mack Bolan had, for more than 48 hours, been a guest in the apartment of Valentina Querente. He had learned that she was a teacher of history at the local high school, coincidentally the same school to which Bolan had been a.s.signed as ROTC instructor--an a.s.signment he would never fill. He had learned also that she was 26 years of age, single, given to swift changes of mood from the deeply sober to the richly humorous, that she appeared to be both virginal and worldly-wise, easily embarra.s.sed by the most innocent of things while entirely at ease with some of the most s.e.xually suggestive. They shared the same bed, with a rolled blanket separating them, Bolan practically naked in nothing but jockey shorts, Valentina well-bundled in a bulky gown. Her hands moved freely upon him in an a.s.sistance to his awkward attempts at dressing and undressing and he had observed her on several occasions in nothing more than panties and bra, yet their bodies had never touched, nor had their lips--not even their hands.

Bolan awoke to his third morning in the Querente bed with the lovely young woman seated beside him and peering into his face. "Hi," he said. Her eyes shifted away from his in obvious embarra.s.sment.

"You always wake up and catch me staring at you," she complained.

"I really can't think of a nicer way to wake up," he told her. His hand found hers and enfolded it, for the first time.

"Don't, uh-you'd better not," she said breathlessly, feebly attempting a withdrawal from his grasp.

"Why not? It's a nice, soft little hand, entirely comforting to hold." "It, uh, that's your sore arm." "It isn't all that sore now. I could probably even hug you with it." "Get serious, Mack," she said soberly.

"Really--the reason I was sitting here like this--I mean--well, it's about time you left the nest, isn't it?" "You kicking me out?" he asked.

She nodded her head. "Especially if you're feeling all that strong." "All what strong?" he asked whimsically.

"All that strong to hug me with your sore arm." "Lie down here and let's give it a test run," he suggested.

"I want to," she replied, her eyes unwavering. "That's why I think..." "That I'd better be leaving?" he said.

"Uh-huh." She withdrew the hand from Bolan's and clasped both her hands nervously in her lap.

"Have you ever been in love, Valentina?" Bolan asked softly.

"Oh gosh, please don't start-was "No fooling," he said, "and no line. Have you ever been in love?" "Of course," she replied. "Two or three times." "What does it feel like?" There was a brief silence, then: "You are serious, aren't you?" "I said I was." "Well I just said that. I don't know how it feels to be in love. I mean, really in love.

I've had crushes. I think I have one on you, now. I think." He chose to ignore the not-so-surprising declaration. "I'm thirty years old," he said musingly.

"I know that." "Years ago, a lot of years ago, I used to think that someday I'd fall in love with some girl." "How many years ago?" "I don't remember thinking much about it for a long time now. Long time. All of a sudden I'm thinking about it again. How come?" He was staring at her intently, as though perhaps expecting to find the answer to his question in that stare.

"Oh, Mack-please-don't..." His arms went about her and he pulled her onto him; her face was suspended directly above his, eyes large and frightened. "Mack, please don't let's be in love," she whispered. "I don't want to be in love with a murderer." His eyes froze and she saw the veils sliding across them. He released her and she flung herself away from the bed and lurched through the door. Bolan was muttering beneath his breath. He swung his feet to the floor and looked about for his clothing. He could hear Valentina sobbing, in another room. "Thanks," he muttered. "Thanks for reminding me." He went into the bathroom, found his clothes hanging just where they'd been that first morning, relocated them atop the vanity, turned on the water, and stepped into the shower.

He removed the bandage from his shoulder, slid back the shower curtain, and inspected the wound in the mirror. He decided that soap and water would not hurt it any, closed the curtain, and took a leisurely bath. Then he dressed and went into the kitchen. Valentina had his breakfast waiting for him, but she was nowhere in evidence.

He ate mechanically, in sober contemplation, and he had finished a cigarette and was working on his third cup of coffee when he heard the front door open. Valentina appeared a moment later, slightly breathless, very lovely in shorts and bare-midriff blouse.

"I moved your car again," she told him, sinking into a chair opposite his and regarding him with misty eyes.

"Thanks," he said softly. "I'd like to give you a citation for service above and beyond, or something. I guess instead I'll just give you ten grand." "Ten what?" "There's a lot of money in the trunk of that car.

I'm going to give you ten thousand of it." "I don't want any money," she said, eyes clouding. "Anyway, where'd you get it?" "The money?" He smiled and took time to light another cigarette. "Well, besides being a murderer, I'm also a thief, but that's something that did not get reported. They couldn't afford to report it. I stole a quarter of a million of the Mafia's secret bucks." "My gosh!" she cried. "All that money is out there in that car?" He nodded. "And I intend to keep it. There's no telling how long this war will last, and it takes money to wage war. So I'll fight 'em with their own money. See? I not only kill, but I also steal, cheat, and lie." "I-I don't really think of you as a murderer, Mack," she said contritely. "I don't know why I said that." "No, you're right," he told her. "School starts tomorrow and you'll be going back to the cla.s.sroom, I'll be going back to the battlefield. That's the way it has to be, and there simply is no room for anything in between." He looked at her and grinned.

"I'm sorry I lost my head." "I-I really don't think of you as a murderer," she repeated, avoiding his gaze. "And I'm uh, not going to kick you out of the nest, either. You can stay as long as you'd like, but you'll have to sleep on the couch from now on. Unless..." Bolan's eyebrows raised. "Unless what?" "Unless nothing," she mumbled. "I guess I'm not kicking you out of my bed either." She underwent one of those lightning changes of moods, smiling impishly, eyes sparkling. "Twenty-six, never kissed, and never a man in my bed--until you. Now you don't think I'll let you out all that easy, do you?" "I just might slap you silly," he growled, dropping his eyes to the coffee cup.

"All righty, I'll even let you slap me silly." A tear oozed out of each eye and slid silently down the smooth cheeks. Their eyes met and Bolan knew a wrenching of the heart he had never before experienced.

"G.o.d, Val!" he groaned. They left their chairs simultaneously, meeting at the end of the table and falling fiercely into each other's arms.

Bolan ignored the tiny twinge at his shoulder and clasped her in tight enfoldment. Her face tilted to his, lips moistly parted, and her mouth grafted to his with consuming urgency, the pet.i.te body melting into him in total surrender. His hands moved automatically to the vibrant flesh between shorts and blouse and she twisted against him with a racking sob.

She dragged her lips away from his and moaned, "I can't help it, Mack, I just can't help it." Without a word he lifted her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom, she clinging to him and moaning breathless little sounds into his ear. He stood her up on the bed and undressed her, placing a moist kiss upon each of her hips and upon the delicately folded belly b.u.t.ton. Her fingers curled into his hair and she shuddered, then dropped to her knees, arms about his neck, mouth hungrily seeking his as she wriggled against him. She pulled away abruptly, weakly gasping, "Oh, oh, oh." His lips nuzzled into her throat and followed the delicate contours onto firm little b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the nipples of which were stiffly extended and vibrantly responsive.

"Let me help you," she panted, her fingers twisting ineffectually at his clothing.

Bolan gently pushed her hands away and disrobed himself. She fell back onto the pillow and lay very still, gazing up at him with glistening eyes. "I love you, Mack Bolan," she whispered.

"Thank you," he said softly, settling beside her.

"You're quite welcome," she gasped.

"You, uh, have to put your legs, Val-uh, like this." "Oh, oh Mack!" "G.o.d, you're sweet. You're so d.a.m.n sweet!

Val-was "I-love you-Mack." "I love you too, Val." "Oh, Mack-oh-Mack!" "G.o.d, Val, G.o.d!" "Oh Mack! Oh Mack! Oh Mack!" And so ended the lull for Executioner Bolan.

The Whole Truth She was curled loosely into his arms, lying half atop him in utter relaxation. There had been a long period of silence when she stirred slightly and rocked her face out of the hollow of his shoulder.

"I don't think I..." she began, then lapsed back into silence.

"Huh?" "I was going to say I didn't want today to ever end. But it must, of course. Regardless of what happens next, though, I'm glad and-and thankful for-for this." He twisted around and kissed her, then said, "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Valentina. You deserve better--a lot better." "I guess I couldn't stand it much better," she replied, smiling shyly.

"You should at least be able to love a man you approve of," he told her.

""Resist not evil,"" she whispered.

"Huh?" "Get out of it!" she said urgently, twisting fully atop him and peering into his face. "Go away and forget about these people. There must be any number of safe places for you somewhere in the world.

I'd go with you Mack. I'd go anywhere you asked me to go." "Now, wait a minute," he said feebly.