Assault On Soho Part 7

Those cells had been feebly lighted and deserted during Bolan's earlier visit. Now they were lit well enough to allow televised surveillance, and none of them were deserted. Young men and women appeared to languish there in att.i.tudes of suffering and submission, all naked and cowed and bound into the various types of imprisoning devices.

The monitors showing the harem room were something else. Here men and women lay about in a variety of luxurious accommodations, and in a scene combining the best of Arabian Nights Arabian Nights and the wildest in and the wildest in Roman Orgy. A Roman Orgy. A party was most emphatically in progress, and just as emphatically it was geared to the most offbeat varieties of erotic delight. Most of the men, it seemed, were middle-aged or beyond-except for an occasional consortium of aged lechery with pretty lad. The women were without exception young and beautiful, and there were many. Everywhere Roman togas mixed and contrasted with colorful harem pajamas, slave girl costumes, and the inevitable devices of "bondage." party was most emphatically in progress, and just as emphatically it was geared to the most offbeat varieties of erotic delight. Most of the men, it seemed, were middle-aged or beyond-except for an occasional consortium of aged lechery with pretty lad. The women were without exception young and beautiful, and there were many. Everywhere Roman togas mixed and contrasted with colorful harem pajamas, slave girl costumes, and the inevitable devices of "bondage."

On a small revolving stage at the center of all this, a huge black man was spread-eagled upon a simple upright cross, bound hand and foot. He was nude, and he was obviously in a state of wild s.e.xual agitation. A tall blond girl, also nude, was tantalizing him with a lewdly suggestive dance in which she frequently wriggled against him then swayed back to avoid his wild lunging after her. Following each of these sallies, the big fellow was punished for his impertinence by another girl, an Amazonian figure, with a wicked looking black whip. It was theatre in the round, a la Sade a la Sade, and it made Bolan's guts creak. He had to wonder how many other acts had preceded this one across that small stage, and he began to understand what Ann Franklin had meant by "a paid staff." These people were performers, actors actors and d.a.m.ned convincing ones in their own peculiar specialty. Even the cell-sufferers were undoubtedly acting out a role with all the stage vigor of any thespian anywhere. TV monitors were banked about the revolving stage, allowing the audience to also keep track of the activities in the cells. and d.a.m.ned convincing ones in their own peculiar specialty. Even the cell-sufferers were undoubtedly acting out a role with all the stage vigor of any thespian anywhere. TV monitors were banked about the revolving stage, allowing the audience to also keep track of the activities in the cells.

The console in the security station apparently was geared more to the entertainment angle than to items of security. Bolan wondered if they had video-taping capability-and he also wondered if the revellers upstairs realized that they themselves were on candid camera. Talk about blackmail mills-this one was a natural goldmine for anyone with such ambitions.

His attention was drawn to the monitor showing the cell with the barrel balancing trick. An Amazonian beauty in weird garb had just stalked into camera range in that cell. She wore thigh-high boots of glossy black leather and a tightly laced corset affair that sucked her into an hourgla.s.s from armpits to hips. Cutouts at the chest provided a free and high projection of magnificently sculpted b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Thick black hair descended in a free fall to her waist. Grotesque facial cosmetics conveyed a convincing impression of satanic evil. She must have stood six feet tall even without the high-heeled boots, Bolan guessed, and she carried the inevitable black whip.

A well formed young man occupied the balancing platform. His back was to the camera; he was imprisoned by the wrist irons with his face to the wall. The devil girl went directly to the task at hand, las.h.i.+ng out energetically against his nude flanks with the whip. He reacted with a believable display of pain, lunging away from the stinging tips of the lash, losing his footing, clawing desperately at the chains to relieve the harsh pressure at his wrists-just about as Bolan had visualized the thing earlier.

The performance was too realistic for Bolan. He supposed that the whip was made of some sort of trick material, but it was still too much for his stomach. He whirled away from the console, wondering what had become of Charles and what had prompted the old man to desert his station and leave it wide open. This was obviously a party night at the museum, certainly no time for the security watch to be relaxed.

Bolan made another quick inspection of the entire bas.e.m.e.nt area, returning none the wiser some minutes later to the control room. During his absence the black man had left the stage in the party room and another act had replace him. This consisted of two young men lashed nakedly together back to back and two girls bound to each other in a side-by-side arrangement. The nude foursome's problem of the night was an erotically obvious one, and their frantic attempts at resolving it were acrobatically ingenious.

Bolan's attention was suddenly diverted from the Siamese-twin act by a peculiar movement across the screen of one of the cell monitors. A satanic Amazon had uncharacteristically staggered past the camera lens, her face showing genuine shock and revulsion as she hurried out of the little room. Bolan bent closer to the monitor. The scene there, at first look, seemed a typical one. A "victim" was imprisoned in a variation of the stocks-a particularly evil device consisting of a small platform raised a few inches above the floor, in which were set ankle holes for imprisoning the victim's feet; just behind this was another platform slightly higher off the floor, with holes for neck and wrists.

Bolan had noticed the contrivance on his trip through the maze, and there had been no puzzle as to its function. The victim would be required to bend over double, standing in the stocks in a grotesque position with his head practically between his feet. Too much bodily fatigue, vertigo, dizziness, or any other circ.u.mstance which would cause the victim to sway too much in any direction would undoubtedly choke him. Total imbalance would result in a broken neck. Bolan had gathered all this in one quick glance, the previous night. Now he realized that he had not grasped the full diabolicalness of this device. In its present usage the victim was doubled over backwards backwards, and an extra feature had been added. A narrow platform, resembling a sawhorse with steel spikes along its back, was thrust under the arched spine. If this had been a staged act, the role would have called for a contortionist.

But this victim was no contortionist. The closer inspection sent chills along Bolan's spine and sucked all the moisture from his mouth. This victim was no performer. He was quite an old man, and there was simply no way to feign the racking distress of that distorted body. The camera angle was in bad relation to the lighting, besides which only the back of the victim's head showed-but Bolan knew immediately what had become of Edwin Charles.

An animal growl rumbled past Bolan's lips and he was out of there and running up the stairs to the ground level before his thinking mind took charge. He erupted into the small room which lay just beyond the clubroom and smashed through into the party chamber. The scowling black clad figure with submachine gun in hand went virtually unnoticed through the crowd. Indeed, he looked no more out of place there than anyone present, and he received his first challenge at the l.a.b.i.al doorway.

Two of the leather-clad Amazons guarded that portal, standing stiffly spread-legged with crossed arms and dangling whips. The satanic-pretty faces registered puzzlement at Bolan's aggressive approach. At the last moment, one of the girls expertly curled her lash about Bolan's chest and the other stepped into his path. The whip, he found, was of soft and harmless nylon. The girl herself was something else, as big and strong as she seemed.

Bolan snarled, "The old man's in trouble!" and pushed the girl roughly aside. He went on through and up the stairway, with one of the girls right at his heels and panting along in hot pursuit.

He had only a vague idea as to his destination as he hurried through the cellular maze, but he knew he was getting warm when he spotted a devil girl crumpled to the floor in a doorway.

To the girl following him, Bolan snapped, "Help her!"

He stepped over the unconscious girl and into a reality much more horrible than could be gathered by a TV camera. The unmistakable smell of blood was mixed with the acrid odor of burnt flesh to overpower the atmosphere of the tiny airless cell; death had come there to release human agony and misery, and Bolan knew it the moment he stepped through that door.

Here was one old soldier who had not merely faded away. Edwin Charles had died hard.

The sawhorse affair was built of adjustable wooden legs and an iron crosspiece with conical protrusions along its top. The iron section had recently been intensely hot, and still was radiating considerable warmth. A blow torch lay discarded on the floor in the corner of the cell. Bolan decided that this had been used to heat the iron of the medieval device, which was then positioned beneath the arched back of the old man and probably slowly raised in height until the brittle old spine could no longer accept the demands placed upon it. He had sank back onto the red hot iron, and it had literally eaten its way into him.

It seemed likely also that the spine had snapped, and perhaps other bones as well. The red heat of the iron bar had probably cauterized and sealed ruptured blood vessels as it advanced into the body, but bleeding of an internal nature had found its natural exit through both the bowel and the mouth of the victim. It was a macabre scene. Bolan could understand why even the devil girl had fainted.

He grimly inspected the remains and muttered, "The things men do to one another." Then he stood there for a moment in angry contemplation of a grand old soldier's final moments. What was it the old fellow had said about the museum? Something about a deeper meaning, a sign of the times.

Bolan grunted, "Yeah," and went back out. He found the two devil girls leaning weakly against each other in the next cell.

"Is he dead?" whispered the girl who had chased Bolan up the stairs.

"He sure is," Bolan muttered. "Just how long has this party been going on?"

"Since eleven," the girl replied in a funereal whisper.

Bolan looked at his watch. The time was then shortly past midnight. He shook his head and said, "I don't know how long the old man has been in that room, but he hasn't been dead for more than half an hour."

The implications of that decision hit him immediately. Edwin Charles had died with his agony on full display in the party room below, the reality of the gruesome scene concealed by the bogus suffering going on all about him. Quietly, Bolan told the girls, "He's been dying through half of this nutty party."

The girl who had fainted seemed in danger of doing so again. Her hands clutched at Bolan for support and she told him, "I was in and out of there many times. I didn't know he was..." Her eyes rolled. "Until it started to smell smell so terrible..." She looked as though she wanted to be sick. . so terrible..." She looked as though she wanted to be sick. .

"Who puts these people into these nutty devices?" Bolan asked.

The other girl murmured, "Normally they attach themselves, and they can get out any time they wish, without aid. It's all in fun, you know. I mean, who would've thought... ?" Her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s shuddered with the unspoken horror of the idea and she swayed toward Bolan.

He steadied her and muttered, "Yeah, this is some kind of fun place," and then he left them to console one another and he went back through the harem room. Little had changed down there, except that the frantic foursome had discovered a way for s.e.x en ma.s.se s.e.x en ma.s.se to overcome the physical limitations of human anatomy. to overcome the physical limitations of human anatomy.

The cell of Charles' final agony was in prominent display just above this living exhibition. As he walked past, Bolan drew his Beretta and sent a quiet round into the monitor. There would be no more ghoulish jollies from an old man's final torment.

He pa.s.sed on through, spurned the stairway to the bas.e.m.e.nt, and strode purposefully toward the main exit. As he approached the door, he loaded the Uzi Uzi and made it ready. Mack Bolan was in killer mode, and his mood was now definitely inclined toward thunder and lightning. and made it ready. Mack Bolan was in killer mode, and his mood was now definitely inclined toward thunder and lightning.

Chapter Eleven.

THE PRISONER.

Danno Giliamo sat in quiet thought on the rear seat of a large black sedan which was parked just off the square near Museum de Sade Museum de Sade. He was alone except for one other man who sat quietly huddled over the steering wheel. The sound of an approaching vehicle intruded into the silence. Moving slowly, it swung close then halted at the curb just opposite Giliamo's car. A man stepped out and the car moved on. A moment later the sedan door across from Giliamo opened and Nick Trigger slid in, hastily closing the door to deactivate the domelight mechanism.

By way of greeting, Giliamo emitted a bored sigh and said, "I guess you was right, Nick. He ain't showed up here. Nothing on your end either, huh?"

"Nothing, h.e.l.l," Trigger replied quietly. "We had plenty on my end. But you were right about that lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he's as slippery as melted jello."

"You mean he got away again?" Giliamo replied in a dulled voice.

"Yeah, he got away."

"Well he ain't turned up here." Giliamo nervously tamped a cigarette against his fist then shoved it between his lips and lit it, his eyes weary and disturbed in the glow of the lighter. "So what happened?" he asked.

Trigger sniffed and settled deeper into the seat. "We had him bottled in a rock joint over by Soho Square." The ma.s.sive shoulders raised and settled again in a tired shrug. "He busted out, that's all, got away clean.

And cops all over the G.o.d d.a.m.ned place, I mean crawling out of every hole."

Giliamo took a nervous pull at the cigarette and asked, "Okay, so what happened to my boys?"

"Six of your freelancers are dead," Trigger reported with a sigh. "Also Looney and Rocky got arrested. Don't worry, I'll have 'em sprung first thing in the morning."

Giliamo mouthed a string of half-audible obscenities, then said, "You see what I been up against, Nick?"

"Yeah." The London enforcer punched his elbows into the backrest with a loud sigh. "I don't see any sense in hanging around this neighborhood, Danno. Leave a couple of boys to keep an eye out, just to make sure, but I guess we might as well tuck it in for the night. Bolan isn't going to run from one setup right to another. Arnie Farmer and his army is due in first thing in the morning. We'll huddle with them and see what we can come up with."

"I was hoping to get it all over with before they showed up," Giliamo muttered. "Do you know this Arnie Farmer?"

"We met a couple of times," Nick Trigger replied heavily. "Do I get it right that you feel about this Capo Capo the way I feel about him?" the way I feel about him?"

"If you mean is he an uncomfortable so and so to be around, then we feel the same way, Nick, yeah you got it right."

"Then you might as well come out and say it. Arnie Farmer is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and I don't like him coming over here. I wish he'd stayed home."

"That's exactly right," the Jerseyite muttered. "And I wish to G.o.d we could've got Bolan before the other b.a.s.t.a.r.d showed up." His eyes flicked to the man in the driver's seat. "n.o.body better not go repeating that, though. Right, Gio?"

Gio Scaldicci, the wheelman, swivelled about with a grin. "Right, Mr. Giliamo. I got ears that don't hear nothin' that's not spoken to 'em."

The two men in back settled into an uncomfortable silence, then Nick Trigger said, "Well, I'll ride back with you, Danno. Let's get out of here."

"We gotta wait, I got Sal out on the street makin' his rounds. h.e.l.l be back in a minute."

The three Mafiosi Mafiosi sat through a protracted silence, then a front door opened and a fourth man hastily entered the car. This was Sal Ma.s.seri, one of Danno's crew leaders. In a choked voice, he announced, "We got three dead soldiers out there, Danno." sat through a protracted silence, then a front door opened and a fourth man hastily entered the car. This was Sal Ma.s.seri, one of Danno's crew leaders. In a choked voice, he announced, "We got three dead soldiers out there, Danno."

"What do you mean?" the New Jersey caporegime caporegime growled. growled.

"I mean Willie Ears and Jack the Builder and Big Angelo are dead as h.e.l.l, that's what I mean. No blood or nothing, they're just laying there dead. I think their necks are broke or something."

Giliamo was speechless. He gaped at his companion in the rear, then made a lunge for the door. Nick Trigger quietly restrained him and asked Ma.s.seri, "How long have those boys been dead, Sal?"

"I'd say no more'n ten or fifteen minutes. I went on around and warned the other boys. n.o.body's seen nothing, though, Nick, not a d.a.m.n thing."

"Ten or fifteen minutes," Trigger repeated musingly. "That means he could have hotted it straight over here and..."

Giliamo slid forward to the edge of the seat and craned his head for a tense inspection of the hulking outline of the museum, just around the square from their position. In an angered tone, he declared, "That cuts it! That b.a.s.t.a.r.d has found some way to get in and out of there without being seen. I'll bet he's in there right now." He tapped his driver on the shoulder and commanded, "Pull around there slow and quiet, Gio. Park in front of that bus stop."

The car moved quietly around the corner and eased to the designated spot, directly across the street from the museum.

"Are we going back in there?" Ma.s.sed asked nervously.

"Bet your a.s.s we are," Giliamo barked. "You get out there and pa.s.s the word along."

Before Ma.s.sed could react, two men ran quietly up to the vehicle. Giliamo lowered his window and thrust his head outside. One of the new arrivals breathlessly reported, "We just wanted to tell Sal that we found something. Over there." He pointed to the opposite side of the square. "A book store. The back door has been jimmied open. It could mean something."

"Awright, take some boys and check it out," Giliamo commanded.

The men jogged away. Ma.s.seri said, "Maybe I oughta go see what they got, Danno."

Nick Trigger chuckled coldly. "I think Sal is awful anxious to stay out of my little playhouse," he observed.

"As a matter of fact he is," Giliamo answered for his man. "And that goes for me double, but that don't cut any ice. You stick right here, Sal. We'll give Stevie a chance to check out that store, and then we're gonna be moving."

"Well, I don't like it either," Trigger growled, "but I guess not for the same reasons. There'll be too many people in there now. That means too many witnesses.

Besides that, we're messing up the sweetest little operation I ever walked into."

Gio Scaldicci turned toward the rear seat and asked, "How'd you ever get onto a creepy joint like that, Mr. Trigger?"

The London enforcer shrugged his shoulders. "You learn to use what's available, kid, and don't forget that. Don't ever forget that. That creepy joint as you call it has given our thing a clean sweep in this part of the world. I just hate to see it getting messed up, that's all. Especially over a crumb like this Bolan."

The four men sat in a strained silence for another long moment, all eyes glued to the building across the street. Presently a man approached from the other side on a dead run. He pulled up panting beside the vehicle and reported, "Stevie's found a tunnel! He wants to know should he go on through!"

"O' course he should go on through!" Giliamo snarled. "Tell 'im to G.o.ddammit be careful and remember who he's going against!"

The messenger sped back into the night.

Giliamo said, "Well, well."

Nick Trigger produced a revolver and swung out the cylinder to check the load. He sighed and clicked it into place and said, "I guess we better go in just the same, Danno."

Sal Ma.s.seri swung outside with a Thompson sub under one arm, then leaned back in for a word to his boss. "I'll bring the other boys over, Danno," he said tightly.

"Do that."

"Uh, listen Danno. Big Angelo was a good boy. Anybody can have any part of Bolan they want, but when we get 'im, I get the target practice on his nuts."

"Sure Sal, I know how you feel," Giliamo told him.

Ma.s.sed walked off into the darkness, the Thompson cradled casually in his arms.

Nick Trigger opened his door and slid his feet to the ground, remaining seated in the open doorway, no longer concerned about the dome light. He said, "I've got a feeling."

"Me too," Giliamo replied. He opened his door and stepped onto the street, then paused to glare across the roof of the car toward the museum. "He's in there, I know it."

At that precise instant a door opened across the way, dull light spilled forth, and a solitary figure in black stalked out. He halted and framed himself momentarily in the lighted doorway, then he sent a burst of fire from an automatic weapon into the air, and immediately disappeared into the surrounding darkness in a diving leap. The Executioner was no longer "in there."

The driver of the Mafia vehicle gasped, "Well, dig that cool b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

But he was talking to himself. Danno Giliamo had gone to ground behind the car and Nick Trigger was scrambling for cover inside. The automatic weapon chattered again, but not harmlessly into the air this time. The window gla.s.s of the big vehicle exploded in an inward shower and Gio Scaldicci's head underwent an explosion of its own, pieces of the skull flying into the rear seat amid bloodied bubbles of brain tissue, and what was left of Gio slumped forward onto the steering wheel. The horn began sounding in an endless wail and presided over the louder booms and staccatos of combat weapons as thunder and lightning enveloped the night outside Museum de Sade Museum de Sade.

It had not been an act of mindless bravado that sent Mack Bolan through that lighted doorway. He was angry, yes, and disgusted right down to the s.h.i.+vering center of himself, but the combat specialist had known precisely what he was doing.

The idea was blitz blitz, from the German word meaning lightning war lightning war, and the intent was to shock the enemy, disorganize them, perhaps demoralize them, and then destroy them. Bolan knew what he was doing, from the first harmless burst into the air to all that followed.

The lighted car directly opposite his position had been a G.o.dsend. Even though he had just come from a lighted environment and his night vision had not been given time to develop, he was of course aware of the men grouped in and about that lit vehicle, and it was a natural target. The second burst from the Uzi Uzi went in for maximum effect. He saw Gio Scaldicci's head fragment, he saw the big guy in the rear scrambling for the floorboards, and he saw Danno Giliamo rolling frantically across the square in search of darkness. But heavy fire was already coming back at him from various areas of that darkness, and Bolan wanted to see more. went in for maximum effect. He saw Gio Scaldicci's head fragment, he saw the big guy in the rear scrambling for the floorboards, and he saw Danno Giliamo rolling frantically across the square in search of darkness. But heavy fire was already coming back at him from various areas of that darkness, and Bolan wanted to see more.

His third burst was to reach the gas tank and to make frictional .sparks ignite the ready fuel into a bonfire. He was rewarded: the big car went up in a towering fireball and with an explosion that rocked the earth beneath his feet.

But since someone out there had a Thompson, Bolan was not standing still for the thundering sweeps of that big chopper. He moved out with the shock of the explosion, circling deep around the fire and trying to get behind the main force, in the hope of backdropping them against the roaring flames. Someone rose up right in his path, grunting with surprise and fear, and Bolan cut him down with the b.u.t.t of the Uzi Uzi without breaking stride. He was following the traffic circle now, running along the street and coming around in the general area of the bookshop, moving recklessly through the open. Darkness was nowhere in that square now, the yellow glare of flames licking about in a wavering illumination of the entire area. The whole enemy force was apparently converging on the burning auto, shooting at only G.o.d knew what, Bolan didn't, and shouting excited instructions back and forth in a pyramiding sense of confusion. without breaking stride. He was following the traffic circle now, running along the street and coming around in the general area of the bookshop, moving recklessly through the open. Darkness was nowhere in that square now, the yellow glare of flames licking about in a wavering illumination of the entire area. The whole enemy force was apparently converging on the burning auto, shooting at only G.o.d knew what, Bolan didn't, and shouting excited instructions back and forth in a pyramiding sense of confusion.

Bolan reached the position he sought and threw himself to the ground at the curb of the traffic circle. The horizon thus presented was a beautiful one, to a combat infantryman, with the enemy highlighted as well-defined shadows against a blazing background. He emptied three clips into those shadows, grouping carefully and conserving the flow of ammo through the chattering weapon, until suddenly there was nothing left to shoot at.

Bolan lay there for a moment, listening and looking and refueling the Uzi Uzi. Utter silence had descended, except for the whoos.h.i.+ng of the flames of the burning car. Bolan arose, inviting fire but receiving none, then slowly advanced across the island inside the traffic circle. The dead and the dying were sprawled about, and the hated smell of blood was everywhere he walked.

Too easy, Bolan was thinking, much too easy much too easy.