late show. They should give up watching
The Untouchables
and get in touch with modern-day realities.
It was an act that George Fratierri had perfected over thirty years of dress rehearsals, fending off the questions of police and federal officers, congressional investigators and the media. His injured innocence routine was easily the longest-running joke in town, but so far prosecutors had been unsuccessful in connecting him with any of his extra-legal enterprises. Members of the DA's staff were absolutely certain that Fratierri held controlling interests in cocaine and heroin for south Manhattan, that he dominated out-call prostitution city-wide and that he had been personally responsible for twenty-seven homicides since 1980. The hit on Paulie Castigliano and his two bodyguards was the latest in a series of strategic murders that had placed Fratierri in position to unite the city's powerful Five Families beneath his own umbrella... and the DA couldn't prove a thing.
Mack Bolan, for his part, did not require corroborating evidence prepared in triplicate. He recognized Fratierri for the animal he was, and in the instant of that recognition had decided on the means of coping with his evil. Years might pass before the government prepared a solid case for prosecution, if they ever got that far. In the meantime, Fratierri's sordid empire would be growing, fattening upon the flesh and blood of citizens from coast to coast. The Executioner already knew of the Mob chief's ties with the narcotics syndicate out west, his plans for squeezing out the Cubans and recapturing control of cocaine traffic nationwide. The money earned from coke and skag would strengthen his position in the East, and let his morbid influence expand from sea to shining sea.
Unless he was eliminated.
Castigliano's sudden death had left the New York Families confused, disoriented, just the way Bolan liked to see them. If he could not finally eradicate the enemy, at least he could perpetuate dissension in the ranks and turn the cannibals against themselves, devouring their brothers in a struggle for the throne. Fratierri's sudden rise to power threatened to impose stability upon Manhattan's Mafia, and Bolan did not choose to let that happen. On this Saturday the soldier was prepared to use his veto, coolly and decisively, before the coronation could become accomplished fact.
New York was a familiar battleground to Bolan. He had visited the Families from time to time, before and since the interlude at Stony Man, reminding them as necessary that their chosen lifestyle had a price attached. A more impatient warrior might have given up, become frustrated with the New York syndicate's refusal to collapse, but Bolan recognized his private war as something of a holding action, a containment of the enemy. No victory was guaranteed forever in the kind of war he fought; no threat was finally eradicated while a single enemy survived. The capo that he killed today would be replaced next week, next month, and he would have to do it again. But the reality of everlasting war did not discourage Bolan. Going in, he had known the long odds and there could be no turning back.
Today at least he had the opportunity to make a difference, and the streetwise soldier took his opportunities as they arose.
Downrange, an armored Lincoln nosed along the boulevard, its driver and the shotgun rider scanning windows, cars parked along the curb. They didn't bother with the rooftops, trusting years of grim experience to let them spot an ambush on the street as they had spotted others in the past. A lurking Cadillac was trouble, or a curtain drawn too hastily, but no one put his shooters on a roof. Invisible behind the tinted glass, their passenger was confident that he had hired the best available, that they would see him safely to his rendezvous and back again. Three days was three damn days too long, and he did not intend to keep the lady waiting.
Bolan shifted slightly, reaching for the
The Untouchables
and get in touch with modern-day realities.
It was an act that George Fratierri had perfected over thirty years of dress rehearsals, fending off the questions of police and federal officers, congressional investigators and the media. His injured innocence routine was easily the longest-running joke in town, but so far prosecutors had been unsuccessful in connecting him with any of his extra-legal enterprises. Members of the DA's staff were absolutely certain that Fratierri held controlling interests in cocaine and heroin for south Manhattan, that he dominated out-call prostitution city-wide and that he had been personally responsible for twenty-seven homicides since 1980. The hit on Paulie Castigliano and his two bodyguards was the latest in a series of strategic murders that had placed Fratierri in position to unite the city's powerful Five Families beneath his own umbrella... and the DA couldn't prove a thing.
Mack Bolan, for his part, did not require corroborating evidence prepared in triplicate. He recognized Fratierri for the animal he was, and in the instant of that recognition had decided on the means of coping with his evil. Years might pass before the government prepared a solid case for prosecution, if they ever got that far. In the meantime, Fratierri's sordid empire would be growing, fattening upon the flesh and blood of citizens from coast to coast. The Executioner already knew of the Mob chief's ties with the narcotics syndicate out west, his plans for squeezing out the Cubans and recapturing control of cocaine traffic nationwide. The money earned from coke and skag would strengthen his position in the East, and let his morbid influence expand from sea to shining sea.
Unless he was eliminated.
Castigliano's sudden death had left the New York Families confused, disoriented, just the way Bolan liked to see them. If he could not finally eradicate the enemy, at least he could perpetuate dissension in the ranks and turn the cannibals against themselves, devouring their brothers in a struggle for the throne. Fratierri's sudden rise to power threatened to impose stability upon Manhattan's Mafia, and Bolan did not choose to let that happen. On this Saturday the soldier was prepared to use his veto, coolly and decisively, before the coronation could become accomplished fact.
New York was a familiar battleground to Bolan. He had visited the Families from time to time, before and since the interlude at Stony Man, reminding them as necessary that their chosen lifestyle had a price attached. A more impatient warrior might have given up, become frustrated with the New York syndicate's refusal to collapse, but Bolan recognized his private war as something of a holding action, a containment of the enemy. No victory was guaranteed forever in the kind of war he fought; no threat was finally eradicated while a single enemy survived. The capo that he killed today would be replaced next week, next month, and he would have to do it again. But the reality of everlasting war did not discourage Bolan. Going in, he had known the long odds and there could be no turning back.
Today at least he had the opportunity to make a difference, and the streetwise soldier took his opportunities as they arose.
Downrange, an armored Lincoln nosed along the boulevard, its driver and the shotgun rider scanning windows, cars parked along the curb. They didn't bother with the rooftops, trusting years of grim experience to let them spot an ambush on the street as they had spotted others in the past. A lurking Cadillac was trouble, or a curtain drawn too hastily, but no one put his shooters on a roof. Invisible behind the tinted glass, their passenger was confident that he had hired the best available, that they would see him safely to his rendezvous and back again. Three days was three damn days too long, and he did not intend to keep the lady waiting.
Bolan shifted slightly, reaching for the
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