Point Blank. Don Pendleton
“I couldn’t say. It’s registered commercially,” Adamo answered. “To our winery, if I am not mistaken.”
“Never mind,” the lieutenant said. “I can check that myself.”
“Why do you ask about the car?” Adamo pressed him.
“Ah. Because we found one at the scene, damaged by gunfire. It’s a rental, from the airport at Lamezia Terme. It was hired out today, in fact, to someone named...um...Scott Parker. Is that name familiar to you, sir?”
“It is not,” Adamo said. But it will be, he thought.
“An American, it appears, if we may trust his operator’s license and the credit card he used to hire the car. We will be tracing both.”
“Of course. Please keep me informed of any progress, and advise me when the bodies may be claimed for burial. Their families...”
“Under the circumstances,” Albanesi said, “I’m afraid the magistrate will certainly demand autopsies. The delay in their release may be substantial.”
“Do the best you can,” Adamo said. “Your efforts are appreciated, Lieutenant.”
Meaning that he owed the little troll another envelope of cash, with more to come if Albanesi could identify the killer and deliver him to the family.
But the main headache for Adamo now was the missing woman.
A headache he was about to share with his padrino.
Bracing for the storm to come, Adamo made the call.
“I need to ditch this car,” Bolan informed his silent passenger. “As soon as possible.”
“Of course.” She answered dully, as if they were discussing the weather.
The police would find his rental car sometime within the hour, if they weren’t already at the shooting scene. That meant they’d trace it to the airport and discover his I.D. An all-points bulletin was sure to follow, with a photocopy of his driver’s license and a tight watch on his credit card in Scott Parker’s name.
Bad news, but he was not prepared to call it a catastrophe.
The I.D. was disposable. Once he’d placed a call to Hal, inquiries into Scott Parker would collide with cold stone walls, all record of the man erased, leaving police—and anybody else who tried to trace him in the States—without a clue. As far as money went, he had enough on hand to see his mission through, and he could always pick up more by ripping off the ’Ndrangheta.
But his enemies would be looking for the car he’d borrowed. Whether they passed on its description to the cops or not, all eyes beholden to the syndicate would be wide open, watching for the black Lancia Delta.
Too bad, Bolan thought. It was a nice ride, but every minute he spent behind its wheel brought him closer to danger. Losing the car in Catanzaro shouldn’t be a problem, but his best bet for a quick replacement was the long-term parking lot at the same airport where he’d rented the Alfa Romeo. Maybe he could put the woman on a flight out of Calabria at the same time.
“You saved my life,” the woman said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
“Happy to do it,” Bolan replied.
“But why?”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. “Are you...’ndranghetisto?”
“No,” Bolan said. “Not even close.”
She tried again. “Police?”
“I’m strictly unofficial,” he said. She looked confused. “You are not Italian.”
“No.”
“ American, I believe.”
“Does it matter?” Bolan asked.
“No, I suppose not. I simply want to understand.”
“I saw an opportunity to help and took it. Let it go at that.”
“What happens now?”
“First, I find another set of wheels, and then I make arrangements that will keep you safe.”
That brought a bitter laugh. “Where on Earth will I ever be safe?”
“I have some friends. They’ll think of something.”
“Oh, yes. That’s what they told my brother. Now he’s dead and I am hunted like an animal.”
“Your brother?”
“Rinaldo,” she answered. “Rinaldo Natale.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Bolan said. “He was—”
“An informant, yes. He brought shame onto all of us.”
“And you were being punished for it.”
Bolan knew the ground rules of a classic vendetta. No survivors could be tolerated.
“Not only me,” she replied. “My mother, aunts and uncles, cousins. Everyone. Gianni will not rest while any of them are alive.”
“Gianni Magolino.”
She was staring at him now, eyes narrowed. “You know of him?”
He rolled the dice. “I’m here because of him. Because he killed your brother in the States.”
“I asked if you are police,” she said, her tone accusatory.
“And I’m not,” Bolan assured her.
“What, then?”
“Someone who solves problems when the law breaks down.”
“What will you do with me?”
“I told you. Find someplace where you’ll be safe.”
“There’s no such place in Italy. No such place in the world.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She laughed at that. “I’ll be surprised if I wake up alive tomorrow, Signor... What should I call you?”
“Scott Parker,” Bolan said. At least for now, he thought.
“And I am Mariana.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“How will you save me then?” she asked.
“First thing, we find new wheels. Then I need to make a call.”
Le Croci
CAPTAIN NICOLA BASILE stepped out of his Fiat Bravo, surveying the crime scene on Via Solferino. Off to his left, a bullet-riddled Alfa Romeo sat in a farmer’s field. The pavement before him was bloodstained, with police trying to step around the evidence while taking measurements and photographs. Basile frowned as he saw Lieutenant Carlo Albanesi approaching, face cracked by a smile.
“Captain, you’re here.”
“Where else should I be, Lieutenant?”
Albanesi blinked at him. “I simply meant—”
“I understand four dead ’ndranghetisti. True?”
Albanesi took the interruption in stride. “That is correct.”
“Their names?”
Albanesi took a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Ruggiero Aiello, Gitano Malara, Fausto Cortale and Dino Terranova.”
“So, the Magolino family,” Basile said. “And no one else?”
“No