Mac Wingate 11, page 14
Mac figured that would placate the hulk, and he was right. To show his appreciation of Wingate’s quick response, he grabbed Mac by the neck and the back of his shirt and then threw him deeper into the room.
Wingate’s legs tried to keep up with the speed of the throw, but it was impossible. He left the floor and dove over it, before coming to a stop amid a pool of flaming oil.
He had been able to roll onto his back before he hit the stuff, and he kept his head up, hoping his hair wouldn’t ignite. Thankfully, his head was just outside the pool’s perimeter as he slid in. He instantly jumped to his feet, his back in flames.
He stood and saw Pallottola laughing at him with complete abandon. The giant was so sure of himself that his hands were on his hips and he reared back with mirth.
Mac gave him something to laugh about. Running right at him, he leaped, twisting in midair so that his flaming back slammed right into the bodyguard’s face. The fiery punch stunned the man and sent him stumbling back, giving Mac enough time to land, pull off his jacket and literally tie the flaming thing around the guard’s face.
Wingate did it all with an angry scowl and a nasty disposition. That’s what the bastard got for underestimating him. Just because his coat was burning didn’t reduce Captain Mac Wingate to a terrified Ricottari. He had a job to do and Pallottola was getting in the way.
The giant roared in shocked pain as Mac tied the coat’s sleeves behind the Sicilian’s head in a knot. Then he ducked under the guard’s flailing arms and stuck his leg between the legs of the staggering man. Pallottola tripped and fell heavily to the floor, his head smoking.
Mac left him there, knowing that discretion was the better part of valor. He had better get out while the getting was good. The warehouse was rapidly disintegrating into an ashen inferno, and it was only a matter of seconds before the Allied supplies exploded.
He raced to the far wall and grabbed the block of gelignite, then turned to scramble out the hole. Whoever had survived thus far had beaten him to it while he was entertaining the bodyguard. The only ones left inside besides himself were the fallen giant and the smoldering dead.
Wingate ducked down onto his hands and knees and started out the ragged opening, pushing the gelignite ahead of him. Three-quarters of the way through, he felt familiar hands clamp around his right ankle. That was what he got for underestimating Pallottola.
The man-beast pulled and Wingate slid right back into the warehouse. He came to a stop between the man’s legs, his blackened, now nearly hairless head glaring down at him like a maddened bull.
Wingate kicked up instantly, his foot sinking very satisfactorily into Pallottola’s groin. He then grabbed the back of the man’s legs and pulled himself out from under the incapacitated colossus.
Unfortunately, his incapacitation was only temporary. As Wingate tried to slip around his crouched shape, Pallottola’s arms shot out and wrapped around Mac’s waist. On his knees because of the near paralyzing pain between his legs, the titan still had enough will to pull Mac to him in a crushing squeeze. Over his shoulder, Wingate saw the flames licking ever higher and ever closer to the explosives in the center of the room.
He looked down to see Pallottola’s head upraised, holding on with his eyes shut. This was it, Mac realized. The bodyguard had no intention of ever letting go. Second by second, Mac felt the Sicilian’s grip getting tighter and tighter.
He hit the man as hard as he could in the Adam’s apple. The blow, which would cause a normal man to grip his throat at the very least—and die at the very most—seemed to have no effect on the bodyguard. His grip just got firmer and tighter.
Wingate smashed the flat of his hand as hard as he could against the giant’s nose. He could feel the bones breaking and saw the double torrent of blood erupt from his squashed nostrils, but still Pallottola held on, his bear hug crushing Wingate more and more.
A second later, the guard started to rise, still holding on to Mac like a rag doll. The smoke was stinging the American’s eyes and the flames were cracking his skin, but it was Pallottola’s death grip which would kill him before anything else would. Although his hands were free, they seemed to be having no effect on the “bullet.”
Finally, Pallottola regained his feet, standing at his full height, holding Mac above the floor and crushing the life out of him. Wingate’s limbs began to be useless to him. Incredible pain coursed throughout his arms and legs. He felt his teeth clench, his lips pull back and his eyes try to roll back in their sockets. He looked down, seeing Pallottola’s eyes open and his mouth widen into a heartfelt smile.
Wingate couldn’t stand the thought that the monster was taking pleasure in his death. That one gleeful look pushed Mac back on a rational track. It made him remember that he had one trick left up his sleeve. Or, in this case, under his shirt.
He reached back and pulled his second knife out of its scabbard on the small of his back. Then, without guilt, he plunged the half-foot blade right between Pallottola’s eyes with all his might.
The strong metal point went through both skin and bone. It sank up to its hilt in the Sicilian’s brain. The smile vanished and the man’s eyes suddenly saw nothing. His limbs frozen in position, he fell forward, Wingate beneath him.
Mac hit the floor first, all Pallottola’s crushing weight on top of him. He nearly lost consciousness again, but managed to survive. It turned out that the fall was a blessing in disguise, for just as he began to crawl out from under the dead beast, something exploded.
From its sound and strength, not to mention the fact that he was still alive, Wingate guessed that it was a sack of grain that had ignited. But if it hadn’t been for Pallottola’s protecting form, Mac would have been knocked out by the blast. As it was, the Sicilian’s corpse took the brunt of the nearby detonation. It was only a matter of seconds before the warehouse came apart at the seams.
Wingate wrenched himself out of Pallottola’s loosened grip and sped for the exit as all the sacks began to explode. They splattered across Mac’s running form, but they didn’t slow him down. He felt the grain flail his exposed skin, but he ignored the pain. It was just another layer of sensation atop previous layers.
As he forced his way through the opening at top speed, he felt a bright whomp behind him. The major explosion propelled him forward, once more completely off his feet. If the warehouse had not been at the top of a hill, he would have been caught by the debris and torn apart.
As it was, Wingate fell down the hill as the shrapnel flew out and up. Mac somersaulted and rolled down the incline, hardly aware of what was happening, while the storehouse was first blasted by the TNT and ammo, then eradicated by the gelignite.
Pieces of wood, food, metal, paper, dirt, bone and flesh floated down for hundreds of yards around.
Duga’s men searched every inch of town for Wingate. But no one could find him. It wasn’t until Willona returned to her room that she found the soldier on the other side of her door wearing a dead man’s suit.
“You wanted repeat business,” he said. “Now you’ve got it.”
The woman, wearing a long robe, gasped and jumped back when the door had swung shut behind her. Mac had pushed it closed. “Where did you come from?” she breathed. “You look awful. Everyone is looking for you.”
“Where do you think?” Wingate answered, coming closer. “Where would you hide a dead man so he won’t be seen?”
Willona waved her hand in front of her nose, and turned her head away. “Phew,” she grimaced, backing off. “Where I put the German you killed, of course,” she answered, getting a breath of fresh air near the bed.
“No ‘I,’” Mac told her, pulling the evil-smelling suit jacket off his military shirt. “You didn’t take that Nazi down there alone.”
“Who says I didn’t?” she said defensively.
“I said,” Wingate replied, pulling off the baggy pants to reveal his own army pants underneath. He had hidden from the searchers in the catacomb. Even though some men had come by, they weren’t looking at the noxious corpses. “There was always something odd about this setup,” he went on. “It occurred to me when I saw all that money.”
“Oh? And what was that?” Willona asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and lighting a cigarette.
“No pimp,” Wingate said. “No one to live off the fat of your land.”
“I beg your pardon,” the girl interrupted.
“No one with which to share the spoils,” Wingate continued. “It didn’t add up.”
“Why not?” she asked lightly. “A lot of girls were on their own once the draft board got through with their men.”
“Not you, darling,” Wingate said, approaching the bed. “Not someone as good as you. Not someone who speaks three languages fluently and fairly reeks of class.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” she said with a grin.
“Don’t mention it,” Wingate replied, also grinning. But his smile was that of a wolf, illuminated by the dim gold light of the oil lamp. “The beauty of it was that you never lied to me. You just never told me the whole story. Don’t you think you better tell me the whole story now before I tear off your head?”
Willona looked up at Mac with humor in her eyes. But when she saw the expression on his face, she became serious immediately. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?” she said with surprise.
His reply was toneless and completely believable. “You’re damn right.”
The floor of Don Duga’s dining room exploded up with a shattering roar. It was perfectly timed so that the mayor and his accomplice were sitting at the far end when it happened.
Wingate had been watching the house closely for several hours, waiting for just such an opportunity. He had waited until he saw Duga’s pitifully small group of tired, old men meet on the main street, decide that searching was no longer necessary and return to their respective homes.
Then Wingate had returned to the catacomb. He had with him the one block of gelignite which had survived the conflagration. He had carried it with him to the far wall before blowing off the balcony’s supports, he remembered. Then, almost unconsciously, he had swept it out ahead of him that first escape attempt before Pallottola grabbed his ankle.
Since his detonators, cutters and tape had been inside his burning coat—the same coat he had wrapped around the giant’s head—Mac had to find other means with which to secure the gelignite to the catacomb’s ceiling. He walked off the space until he was certain he was under the Duga dining room. He was certain that he was correct not only because of his own sense of direction, but because of Willona’s assistance.
But she was in no position to be of any further help. Even if he asked, she probably would no longer be in the mood. Wingate looked over to where she lay between two stone caskets. Her form was visible but there was no movement, as he had done a thorough job securing her.
He was taking no chances. Although he doubted that she had done any killing herself, she was still tough enough to be completely unaffected when a man was killed in bed next to her. Anyone who could handle that without blinking had to be treated with kid gloves.
And Wingate had. He had found some long gloves in her bureau, which he had made her put on to protect her skin. Then, using clothes, rope, wire and everything else he could find in the house, he tied her wrists, her fingers, her elbows and upper arms behind her back; he knotted together her feet, ankles, knees and thighs; attached a makeshift rope from her wrists to her ankles so she wouldn’t crawl around; then finally stuffed a knotted kerchief in her mouth, tying the loose ends behind her head and tying another muffler around that. He just didn’t want her showing up at an inconvenient time.
Looking away from his somewhat willing captive—she had responded to the bondage with a touch of sensual excitement—he looked for a good place to stick the gelignite. He thanked the luck which placed a crypt against the wall in such a way that there was a space between its roof and the catacomb’s ceiling.
Taking the one ring-pin detonator he found in his pants pocket, he attached it to the block, took a string he had found in Willona’s kitchen and tied it to the ring. Then he stuck the explosive right under the ceiling, and moved back to where Willona lay, letting the string out as he went. He crouched beside her mumbling form, putting one hand on her side.
“Be good,” he advised her, and pulled the ring pin out of the bomb by yanking the string.
Ten seconds later the roof blew out and the dining room floor blew in. Seconds after the detonation, Wingate vaulted onto the crypt and through the hole, coming up near the sidewall fireplace. Through the smoke he saw Duga struggling to get out from under his fallen chair, and Private Angelo Gammellini sitting against the far wall, trying to clear his dazed head.
Only it wasn’t the Gammellini Mac remembered. This man had slick, heavily greased hair plastered around his head. Over that he wore a fedora on the left side. It seemed to stay on only because it was stuck to the grease. Instead of his military uniform, he wore the uniform of a different army. It was a wide-shouldered, thin-waisted, double-breasted suit. He looked like a pitiful satire of a “city slicker.”
Wingate spotted the telltale bulges in his jacket’s cut right away. He immediately ran over, put his hand over Gammellini’s face and pushed the man’s head back against the wall. It hit with an audible crack. Mac then pulled his jacket open and hauled out the Webley stuck in his waistband and the .45 automatic he had in the inside jacket pocket.
He rose and turned just as three guards came running around the waiting room corner. One he recognized right away. It was the old man who had served as their host at what could now laughingly be called the “safe house.” Each had a different Italian weapon. Wingate recognized a M1891 rifle and a Bodeo revolver before he brought up Gammellini’s weapons—one in each hand.
Wingate shot each guard with professional calm and without remorse. Looking to his victims like a battered Western gunfighter, Mac pulled the triggers of the revolver and automatic, his knees bent in a firm stance behind the remnants of the shattered table. The Sicilians couldn’t hope to match his speed, accuracy and remorselessness.
The host of the safe house went down last. He twisted from side to side, seeing both the others fall on either side of him, as if Mac were saving him for last. Then he looked directly into Mac’s eyes, just over the barrel of the automatic. For a second the two simply stared at each other, the old man reading the accusation of treachery in Wingate’s eyes. His own eyes held only desperation and tragedy.
Mac knew that the Sicilian had little choice in his decision to side with Duga. The mayor controlled the purse strings and the power in San Marcolo. If the old man wanted to eat, he’d have to pay the price. It was obvious from his face that he had been paying all his life.
For a moment, Wingate was tempted to let him go. But as the old man brought the Beretta up, almost as if his gun arm had a mind of its own, Mac knew he wouldn’t be able to trust the man, no matter now tortured he looked. He was a carrier of the Sicilian sickness, and when that bug bit, it held on for good.
The old man seemed to know it too, because even though his face was still aghast, the gun arm continued to come up, trying to point at Wingate. Mac had little doubt that it was the same Beretta the boy had used on Captain Browne. Keeping that in mind, Mac made his decision.
At the last second, he lowered his .45 and brought up the Webley. Since he was far more familiar with the American weapon, he wanted to save it for last. With the revolver, Mac pegged the last guard right in the middle of his chest. The old man fell back, both feet off the floor. He fell like a comedian feigning death, his feet sweeping toward the ceiling. But in this case, there was nothing to laugh at.
Wingate checked the guns’ ammunition while turning. The Webley was spent. He threw it to the floor in front of the still groggy Gammellini. The .45 had one more round. It seemed that either Duga didn’t have any ammo to spare or Gammellini wasn’t a very careful killer. It made no difference to Wingate either way. He just dealt with the reality of one 9 mm round.
He pushed the .45’s magazine back into its butt and turned completely around. As he did, Duga was just brave enough to peer over the top of his inverted chair. He stared up at the American, who stood with the gun held at his side. Mac then waited for Gammellini’s vision to clear.
“I didn’t think this sort of plot was possible,” Wingate said. “It was too complex, too long in planning and too deep to have possibly worked.”
“But it did,” Gammellini said evenly, his eyes blazing.
“Not while I have this,” Wingate said, holding up the gun.
“You’re supposed to be dead!” the PFC raged.
“I’m not,” Wingate said flatly.
“Captain Wingate, Captain Wingate,” Duga said reasonably in his accented English, slowly rising and attempting to right his chair. “Let’s be reasonable, shall we?” It was a ludicrous statement, delivered as it was to a blood-streaked, tattered man in a room with a hole in the middle of the floor, a table broken into several pieces and three corpses along one wall.
Duga got the chair back on its legs and sat down casually. “There is no need for this kind of thing. I’m sure we can come to an agreeable arrangement.”
“Like the one you made with him?” Mac asked derisively, pointing the Browning at Gammellini.
“Captain,” Duga said sharply. “I see I must remind you who and where you are. In this town, I am the leader, I am the commander. I warn you to be careful.”
“Don’t bluff me,” Mac said back. “All your men are either dead on the floor or splattered all over the hills. No one is going to come to your rescue now. No one is going to help you out the way Gammellini did. Your group of leftovers is finished. There are no more old men and mental degenerates to protect you.”
Duga pushed himself back in his chair, saying nothing. But Wingate could see his eyes were scowling.
