Poison Justice

The Executioner rolled out of the shadows, Beretta up and chugging

Bolan made quick work of putting them in their resting place. He closed the lid on the coffin and leathered the Beretta. Retreating, he checked the parking lot. Before coming in, the soldier had considered fixing the fleet of fancy wheels with plastic explosives, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. This was a commercial and residential neighborhood and no one on the block needed to pay indirectly for the crimes of these savages by finding their homes and businesses pummeled and damaged by raining debris.

Melting into the deeper shadows of the alley, Bolan determined that for all enemies concerned, reality was only just beginning to heat up.

MACK BOLAN®

The Executioner

#241 Evil Reborn

#242 Doomsday Conspiracy

#243 Assault Reflex

#244 Judas Kill

#245 Virtual Destruction

#246 Blood of the Earth

#247 Black Dawn Rising

#248 Rolling Death

#249 Shadow Target

#250 Warning Shot

#251 Kill Radius

#252 Death Line

#253 Risk Factor

#254 Chill Effect

#255 War Bird

#256 Point of Impact

#257 Precision Play

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

#303 Sea of Terror

#304 Soviet Specter

#305 Point Position

#306 Mercy Mission

#307 Hard Pursuit

#308 Into the Fire

#309 Flames of Fury

#310 Killing Heat

#311 Night of the Knives

#312 Death Gamble

#313 Lockdown

#314 Lethal Payload

#315 Agent of Peril

#316 Poison Justice

The Executioner^®

Poison Justice

Don Pendleton

Even in theory the gas mask is a dreadful thing. It stands for one’s first flash of insight into man’s measureless malignity against man.

—Reginald Farrer 1880–1920

The Void of War

I have seen the terrible result of greed and betrayal. I have seen the innocent poisoned by evil. It is my duty to provide those victims with justice.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN^® LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Prologue

The future belonged to the sociopath.

Spoken by his predecessor—before the black magic baton for head of Special Action Division was passed on to him—Richard Grogen recalled the statement for reasons that pertained to more than his own world. Cradling his HK MP-5 subgun with laser sight and sound suppressor, he believed there was no hidden meaning in the cryptic statement, no warning prophecy. Aware his hold on power was tenuous, at best, he knew both professional and personal fate hedged on the whims and paranoid myopia of faceless powerful shadow men, any of whom called the shots from about three thousand miles east. And, like him, they had more to lose than just careers, if the truth about their black project leaked out for public devouring or congressional cannibalizing. No crystal ball gazing was needed for Grogen to know phantoms would arise in the middle of some future midnight. They would come, shipped out of nowhere to make sure he, too, took all his secrets with him to an unmarked desert grave.

Given what he knew about Project Light Year, aware of the nature of the beast he was chained to, Grogen supposed they believed his fate was inevitable. But, where there was a will to fight, nothing was ever carved in stone. If he was going to retire, it would be on his terms.

Starting now.

He peered ahead into the darkness, absorbing the jounce and pitch of the Hummer from the shotgun seat as it rolled along at a scorpion’s pace, wheels catching ruts and furrows, here and there, in the dirt track. The future was somewhere ahead in the utter blackness, but he’d be damned if he could find any sign of life, beyond the combined fanning glow of headlights from the trailing vehicles. The travel brochures claimed Nevada trooped in some thirty million visitors a year, ranking it ahead of Orlando, Florida, as the country’s number-one tourist mecca. Naturally, Vegas, Reno and Tahoe gobbled up the lion’s share of human life. But out here, Grogen thought, pushing for the Arizona border, where giant prehistoric reptiles, mastodons and woolly mammoths once trod, he might as well be on another planet.

This turf was rumored to have seen more visitors of extraterrestrial origin than human. A younger Grogen, he thought, the Green Beret with a wife and kids to consider—all of whom had abandoned his ship in recent years—would have scoffed it off as so much fantastic rubbish fabricated by local desert rats and freelancing journalists broke, hungry and eager for a sensational story.

He’d heard the wild tales from Area 51—recently emptied of men and material. But, relocated to his new classified base of operations, these days he could be sure they were building—and hiding—more than just the prototype fighter jet for the next generation. And after bearing recent eyewitness to an event he could not comprehend in earthly terms, he began to believe the truth was, indeed, stranger than any fiction.

Grogen felt his driver, Conklin, tensing up, then saw the ex-Delta commando throw him a look. The hero’s lips were parting to fire off questions. He could almost read the man’s thoughts, the mind rife with curiosity about why they were veering from the quarry.

“Stay the course, son. Hold her nice and easy.” It was a shame, Grogen decided, the veteran fighter didn’t deserve what was coming, but he wasn’t part of the team. Or the future.

Wondering briefly how it had all come to this, the SAD commander looked into the sideglass. One black GMC and one custom-built canvas-covered transport truck with government plates picked up the rear. It might be a strange and crazy world, one that was ruled by those sociopaths, but the cargo they carried—and that would stamp a gold seal on his own future—was something he could barely fathom.

Who could?

When first assigned to Area Zero he’d been briefed on what to believe. His Defense contract underscored the penalty for loose lips. They told him he would be burying nuclear waste and other toxins in the desert. They told him they were brewing a cutting edge rocket fuel in the underground labyrinth of the compound. Whatever spent toxins resulted would be his task to secure and dispose of. They said they were creating nuclear propulsion from a toxin of unknown origin, rumored to be capable of delivering man into deep space at light speed. The source of the first batch of the mystery toxin was so jealously guarded by Washington that he was authorized to use deadly force if there was even a whisper of a rumor that an employee at the compound even speculated about its origins.

The trouble was, no human tongue could ever really keep a secret. Worse, when the hidden truth was sought for personal gain, the future had a way of taking on a life of its own, an angry leviathan boiling up from the deep, ready to eat or be slain.

Another bounce through a deeper rut and Grogen checked on the transport, his heart skipping a beat. Eight fifty-five-gallon drums were encased in lead shields, wrapped together with wire. The cargo was on steel pallets strapped to the walls. But he’d seen human flesh melt inside HAZMAT suits from a spoonful’s splash of the mystery toxin. No way in hell did he want to be anywhere near those drums when they were transferred. If it could eat its way through material designed to see a man safely through a few thousand degrees of nuclear fallout.

Grogen was shuddering at the image of the human puddle when he spotted the behemoth parked on the rise. Conklin looked at him when he said, “Flash your lights, twice.”

“Sir, I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand, soldier! Just do it.”

Grogen felt the heat rise from his driver, but Conklin followed the order. The headlights on the eighteen-wheeler blinked in response. Grogen sighted two shadows on the port side.

“Park it, lights on. Fall out,” Grogen ordered, slipping on his com link.

The driver was questioning the moment, reaching to open the door, when Grogen jammed the subgun’s muzzled snout in his ribs. Hitting the trigger, Grogen blew him out of the vehicle and into the night.

Grogen saw armed shadows flapping their arms. They were shouting at one another in their guttural Brooklyn tongue, flinging around a variety of curses. He was out the door, subgun up, the transport rumbling up on his right flank when he spotted the red eyes dancing over his chest.

“Get those off me now, or the deal dies here!” he shouted. Another red dragon’s eye stabbed the blackness from a jagged perch beyond the transport’s cab. He marched on through the light, drawing a bead on the capo. “Do it!”

Advancing, Grogen felt his finger taking up slack on the trigger. His soldiers fell out, black-clad shadows taking cover behind the GMC and the transport. A quick count of hostiles, spotting two with AR-15 assault rifles hunkered behind the doors of an SUV, and he figured seven goons to his seasoned foursome.

“Everybody, cool it! Lose the light show!”

When the laser beams died, Grogen keyed his com link. “Road Warrior to Dragonship, come in.”

“Dragonship here, sir.”

“You have them painted?”

“That’s affirmative, Road Warrior.”

“Bring it on, but hold.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“You nuts, Grogen? What are ya doin’?” said the capo, approaching.

“Covering my assets, that’s what.” Grogen halted, lowered his weapon and studied the engineer of the future.

Mikey “The Pumpkin” Gagliano had broken out in a sweat. He swore as he noticed the corpse dumped by the Hummer and fired off more questions, lacing them all with the “f” word as if he’d invented it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grogen told him as he made out the first faint buzz of rotor blades to the southeast. “You have my money?”

He waited for Gagliano to make the move, wondering how the capo got his nickname. Figure the fat head with cauliflower ears, a squat walrus frame with a buffet of pasta for a midsection had helped earn him the tag. The capo wasn’t exactly dressed for warfare of any kind, standing there in his silk threads, Italian loafers and five pounds of gold. Typical hood. It was hard for Grogen to believe this was the future of the New York Mob, but the ilk of the Mafia lineage was little more than a long succession of thugs with a lust for money, power and pleasure. Brute animals, more hyena than lion, but still dangerous criminal scum.

“Joey! Bring the case!” the capo ordered.

Gagliano was on the verge of composing himself, squaring his shoulders, face hardening to street tough, when the rotor wash blew a squall over the rise. The hoods were shouting and cursing once again and Grogen was smiling as The Pumpkin jacked up the decibels of outrage at the sight of the winged behemoth.

“You wanna explain what’s goin’ on with that kind of firepower? I thought we had a deal, Grogen, but I’m startin’ to feel you’re ready to break it off in my ass.”

“You just worry about me and my money,” Grogen shouted back.

The capo was unable to take his eyes off the black warbird. It was a fearsome sight, and Grogen completely understood his anxiety. Hovering to the rear of Gagliano’s SUV, Dragonship was a hybrid cross between the Apache and the Black Hawk. Winged pylons housed ten Hellfire rockets. Grogen knew a 30 mm chain gun in the nose turret was ready to cut loose on his word and grind them into puddles of human pasta and marinara.

Grogen grabbed the briefcase from Gagliano’s errand boy and hefted it. “Something tells me you couldn’t exactly pack two million in this,” he shouted.

“You get the balance when I deliver the merchandise.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“Neither was your messenger boy tellin’ me to bring space suits if we wanted to check what we’re buyin’.”

“What you’re buying, pal, isn’t any tub of irradiated water.”

“So you better be right.”

“Heads up,” Grogen called to his men. He tossed the briefcase toward the GMC. “Oh, I’m right, Mikey. I’m so right, if the people you’re unloading it to get popped and start singing to the Feds like your boy back home we’ll all be on death row faster than you can suck down a plate of linguini.”

Grogen watched the fear flicker in Gagliano’s cunning eyes. Thugs. Animals. Sociopaths. To do business with such loathsome creatures stung his professional pride.

What had started as his predecessor going for his own pot of gold now dumped Grogen into deep waters already chummed. And there were far bigger man-eaters in this game than a bunch of leg-breaking hoods.

As Gagliano barked the order to roll the forklift down the ramp of the big rig’s cargo hold, Grogen came to understand a little more about the future—what would separate the winners from losers. It all boiled down to survival of the fittest in his mind, but those without conscience or scruples held an edge. With what was on the table for the players in this future they would have to turn two blind eyes and harden the heart still more if they were to use the toxin the way he believed they would when it reached its principal buyer.

Grogen backed up, and his men moved away from the transport. He saw Gagliano making faces, holding out his arms.

“What the…You booby-trapped my merchandise?” The Pumpkin was startled.

Backpedaling farther from the truck, Grogen chuckled as he nodded at the forklift driver. “I’m merely establishing my comfort area, in case your driver tips it off the pallet.”

Gagliano scowled and waddled away from the forklift. “You drop it, it’s your ass!” he screamed at the driver.

“By the way, Mikey. There’s been another change of plans,” Grogen said, grinning.

“How come I know I ain’t gonna like this already?”

“Your problem back home?”

“It’s under control.”

“Wrong. It’s now under my control. See, you and me, Mikey, we’re taking this ride to the end of the line.”

“You don’t trust us to fix the problem? You maybe worried about us stiffin’ you on the rest of the money?”

Grogen smiled into the darkness. “No truer words have you ever spoken.”

1

When United States Department of Justice Special Agent in Charge Thomas Peary considered the stats he reached the same conclusion he had during his first five years on the job.

The future of America belonged to the criminal.

Why bother fighting at all? he wondered. Once upon a time he’d been a devout Catholic, a family guy even, but reality had a strange and uneasy way of making a man a staunch believer only in number one. If there was a God, he thought, he was surely looking away from a world gone mad. Let the wild beasts eat one another.

Peary had problems of his own to solve, and the first of several solutions was sitting right under his roof. Soon, he would be packing up, moving on to a paradise of his own making and choosing. It might as well already be written in stone.

Peary was at the kitchen table, thinking about the culture of crime, when the future downfall of the New York Mafia fell into the late-night routine. Peary nearly bit his cigarette in two when the first chords of the same song he heard every night on VH1 videos blasted from the living room. By now he knew the lineup of hits by heart and had heard the songs repeated so many times the past week that he thought he might go ballistic any moment.

And, of course, every time a favorite was aired Jimmy “The Butcher” Marelli had to crank up the volume until it shook the floor and the walls of the Catskill hunting lodge.

Peary looked at the slab of human veal perched on the edge of the couch. His superiors claimed Marelli was last of the old school Mafia, honor among thieves and all that nonsense. He was a dinosaur among the new coke-sniffing crowd of backshooters and Mob clowns who killed while driving past sidewalk crowds, indiscriminately blasting any and everybody as long as they got their target. A button man who did his work one on one, face-to-face for the Cabriano Family. The Butcher was famous for whacking malcontents, traitors and songbirds, loyal only to the late Don Michael Cabriano. Only what Jimbo purportedly so loathed way back when he had now become.

The Mob was notoriously creative when it came to weaving legends about their own and making myth stick as truth for wise guy, public and G-man consumption. In this instance, the Justice Department had flown Marelli up the flagpole as a marquee hitter with a body count of biblical proportions to his credit. Whether or not that was true, Peary figured the hit man was costing the Justice Department a small fortune in wine and Scotch, cigars and cannoli alone. Not to mention all the veal linguini in white clams and twenty other pasta dishes he concocted and ate around the clock.

How many bodies, Peary wondered, really came attached to this baby-sitting detail on the government’s tab? There were fifty-two kills the FBI and Justice knew about. The Butcher confirmed that during an eighteen-hour Q and A session. All the I’s were dotted, T’s crossed on the Who’s Who of Mafiadom during his three decades of slaughter. There were at least two to twenty other corpses they were guessing had his brand on them, maybe more. Only Marelli enjoyed playing the big shot, stringing them along, feeding them just enough to have the FBI drag a river or dig up some earth in the New Jersey woods. Beyond cold-blooded murder he’d been granted full immunity for extortion, truck hijacking, assault, assault with intent, pimping, pandering and drug trafficking. There was also witness intimidation, tampering and execution. The deal was enough to make Peary wonder if the Justice Department had watched its balls go out the door with the change in administration, but he’d made his own plans well in advance to castrate the whole bull. The time to act, and get the hell out, had just about arrived.

Shaking his head, Peary watched the hit man, decked out in a flaming Hawaiian shirt and white silk slacks, staring dumbly at the blaring television. He wondered what the world was coming to. He was getting sick of being forced to breathe the same air as the pampered killer.

Suddenly Peary felt his hand inch toward his shoulder-holstered USP Expert .45. Ten hollowpoints in the clip, and a nasty little resolution to the noise problem flamed to mind.

“Sir? It’s your move.”

Peary laid an angry eye on Hobbs. The pink-faced kid was maybe two years out of Quantico, attached to the task force at the last moment when some desk-lifer at the FBI had, for reasons unknown, been able to catch and burn up the ear of the Attorney General. FBI, Justice, U.S. Marshals, everybody wanted in on this gig. It was a chance, he figured, a trophy for someone’s mantel on the climb up the pecking order. Problem was, all the headshed wanted to do was make sure The Butcher was coddled and comfortable, practically warning them all to be careful not to upset or press him too much for information on the Cabriano Family. What next? Bring on the strippers? Everybody chip in for the guy’s lap dance? All the big consideration and fawning the murdering asshole got, what happened to paying for your crimes?

Peary watched the FBI rookie shrink into himself under his steely gaze, then checked the board. Back-gammon was the game, and they were playing for a four-hour watch, thirty minutes per win. But the way Hobbs had been rolling double fives and sixes on a whim and bumping him all over the board the past two hours, Peary figured he owed the kid two weeks’ worth of shift duty.

“With all due respect, you need to relax, sir. Don’t let him get to you.”

“What’s that?”

The kid showed a weak smile. “It could be worse. It could be rap.”

Peary hit the kid in the face with a fat cloud that could have choked half a city block.

Hobbs flapped a hand at the smoke, making a face like he would puke. He coughed for another moment, then said, “I mean, he’s a thug, sir, and a pain in the ass, but he can cook.”

“So, he can cook for the troops, Hobbs, that make him a goodfella to you?”

“Well, what I meant—”

“Let me tell you something, son. I operate on the general principle I don’t know a damn thing about another human being until they show me some cards. Just because you’re in love with his spaghetti and meatballs doesn’t mean he’s shown a damn thing to anybody. Let me tell you something else, junior. I’m not in this world to be popular or liked. Fact is, the more unpopular, the more disliked I am the better I stand in my eyes.”

Hobbs cleared his throat, staring at the game. “With all due respect, sir, I think there’s a lot of anger in you.”

Peary bared his teeth at the kid, wondering if he was serious or being a smart-ass. He looked at the board while running a hand over the white bristles of a scalp furrowed in spots by some punk’s bullets long ago. Double sixes might get him back in the game.

He was shaking the dice when Marelli shouted an order for somebody to grab him a bottle of red wine from the cellar and some more cannolis while they were at it. Peary looked at Grevey and Markinson, wondering who would make a move as butler or if they had enough pride not to kiss ass. To their credit, he found both marshals with their faces buried in newspapers. They glanced at each other from their stools at the kitchen counter, passing the telepathy for the other to go fetch. Peary heard the thunder of his heart in his ears, then The Butcher cranked the volume high enough to bring down an eagle soaring over Windham High Peak.

It was more than he could take. The kid had to have seen it coming, but Peary didn’t give a damn if a missile plowed through the roof. He was up and marching, the .45 out, the kid bleating something in his slipstream. The marshals were dropping their papers now, jowls hanging, but Peary was already sweeping past them.

Marelli was squawking for someone to shake a leg, when Peary drew a bead on the giant screen TV. The peal of .45 wrath drowned out the shouting and cursing around him. Marelli leaped to his feet, dousing his flamingos and island girls with blood-red wine. Peary became even more enraged when he saw the picture still flickering behind the smoke and leaping sparks. One more hollowpoint did the trick.

For what seemed like an hour suspended in time, Peary savored the shock and bedlam. He found less than ten feet separated himself from The Butcher and considered ending it right there. Marelli was bellowing, but it was clear to Peary he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. The kid, the marshals and the other agents on sentry duty around the lodge were now swarming into the living room, hurling themselves into a buffer zone between him and the wise guy.

Peary wrenched himself free of someone’s grasp. They were all shouting at him, arms flapping, hands grabbing whatever they could. Marelli was already launched into a stream of profanity, threats and outrage, interspersed with taking the Lord’s name in vain, among other blasphemous obscenities. He might have turned his back on Church and God, but he itched to shoot the hood for blasphemy alone.

Peary heard them asking if he was nuts, what was wrong with him and so on. Turning away and heading for the door to grab some fresh air, he heard Marelli railing how he wanted a new and bigger television, and he wanted that lunatic bastard off his detail or he wasn’t talking to nobody. Peary encountered a marshal with an AR-15 who shuffled out of his path, but stared at him like something that had just stepped off a UFO.

“What?” Peary shouted, holstering his weapon. “You never see a TV get shot before?”

Peary rolled outside, breathing in the clean, cool mountain air. Alone, he laughed at the chaos he heard still bringing down the roof. What a few of them in there didn’t know was a lot, he thought.

Losing a television was soon to become the least of Marelli’s woes.

PETER CABRIANO TOOK a look at the bloody mass of naked flesh hung up by bound hands on the car lift, and believed he could read the future.

The empire was either his to save, or his to watch go down in flames. That was the problem, he knew, with narcotics trafficking. It built kingdoms, but it also tore them down. For some time now, he’d been scrambling to avoid this day, branching out into other avenues for fast cash. But narcotics had been the Family’s bread and butter since the early eighties, and without the Colombians there would be no promise now of steering the Family into other business ventures, which he knew were the wave of the future.

There was no time to dwell on rewards not yet earned; he needed quick solutions. One answer was already in the works, but where there was one loose tongue he feared a whole goddamn chorus of squealers was out there ready to bring the walls crashing down.

Even though his Italian loafers were covered in rubber galoshes, he veered away from the oil splotches, found a dry spot in the bay, stood and considered the dilemma while his two soldiers watched him, awaiting orders. He was forty-six years old, but with a lot of life to live, two young sons to think of bringing into the business and worlds still to conquer. The keys to the kingdom were recently handed to him after his father died behind bars in Sing Sing from testicular cancer and complications of syphilis. The death three years earlier of his younger brother had left him sole heir, and no man who considered himself a man ever let a sister anywhere near the handling of Family business. He wondered how the old man would take charge of the present crisis. Two things he knew for sure. One, the old man would never snitch. Two, he would take the fight to his enemies. Part of the problem was figuring out who his enemies were.

The fiasco, he realized, all began when Marelli got popped by the FBI. Or maybe it started before that. How in the world he let himself get talked into the purchase and sale of what came from a classified spook base in Nevada, and in whose hands it would end up….

So what, he decided, he loved money. The focus now needed to be put on what Marelli had on him.

Cabriano ran his hands over his cashmere coat, gauging the number Brutaglia and Marino had done on Marelli’s lifelong friend. A mashed nose, both eyes swollen shut, blood streaming off his chin where his lips were split open like tomatoes.

“Bruno. Wake him up.”

Cabriano took a step back as Marino hefted a large metal bucket and hurled the contents. The effect was instant and jolting. Cabriano listened to Berosa’s startled cry echo through the empty garage, the man shuddering against the sudden ice water shower, eyes straining to open.

“The beating’s as good as it’s gonna get, Tony. Talk to me about Jimmy. You don’t, I think you know what’s coming.” Cabriano listened as Berosa cursed, called him a punk. He chuckled and gave Brutaglia the nod. “You know, Tony,” he said, as he saw Brutaglia lift the small propane torch from a work bench, then twist the knob, a tongue of blue flame leaping from the shadows, “Jimmy, he figures he can just walk out on me, retire to a beach somewhere, the Feds throwing their arms around him. Maybe he thinks he’s gonna land some big book-movie deal, be a big star, a bunch of Hollywood starlets giving him blow jobs around the clock, telling him how great he is. He thinks he’s gonna rat me out, bring me down, I end up doing life like my father while he’s living the good life.”