The Bone Yard by Don Pendleton Page B

directory had brought no answer, and the Executioner was betting that last night's festivities had shaken her enough to make her call in sick to work and lay low for a day or two.
    As on the previous visit, Bolan found the guard shack out front unattended, and he cruised past, slowing over the omnipresent speed bumps, following the parking lot that ran around the complex proper like an asphalt moat. The buildings fit the martial image, bearing more resemblance to a desert fortress than anything elsewhere rough stucco with the red tile roofs of vaguely Spanish style.
    The soldier parked as close as possible to his intended target, locked the car and left it.
    Lucy's friend lived back inside the complex, away from the lot, and any way he went about it, he would have to walk. Bolan was counting on the empty sentry booth out front to mean there would be no security on foot inside the complex after nightfall, either. He passed a combination swimming pool and sauna with a couple hiding from the nighttime chill inside the heated whirlpool bath. Their movements told him they were making love — or maybe only warming up for later — but he did not take the time to stop and check it out. His mind was occupied with war and death at the moment; lovers had no place on Bolan's solitary battlefield.
    He moved along the imitation flagstone path to Building 9, then followed his nose around to apartment 186. It was a two-story town house layout and the only lights showing were upstairs, above a boxed — in patio of sorts.
    He spent a moment scanning the surroundings, buttoned his jacket shut, and pressed the doorbell set above a cardboard nameplate that identified the occupant.
    Feeble chimes inside, then nothing.
    Bolan waited thirty seconds and tried again.
    Now he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs inside. Despite the muffling distance they sounded heavy, labored. Male.
    A light went on behind the French doors to his left, escaping through the peephole in the door. A shadow blocked it out as someone planted an eye against the viewing lens.
    "Who is it?" a male voice inquired.
    Right, Bolan thought, noting the heavy flavor of the Bronx. Bolan started thinking fast.
    "Pizza man."
    "We didn't order nothing'."
    He played it cautious, knowing this might be a boyfriend of either young woman. He glanced down at an imaginary sales slip in his hand, performing for the benefit of the invisible observer.
    And what materialized in his fist was the silenced Beretta 93-R, safety off and ready to rip.
    "Well, I gotta note here says deliver one large pepperoni to a Mrs. Castorina," Bolan told the blank impassive door. There was a hesitation on the other side, slow wheels turning in there and sealing the other man's fate.
    "She ain't here now," Mr. Invisible answered.
    "Must be some mistake." You made it, slick, the soldier told himself, and plugged a silent mangler through the door six inches underneath the peephole, following through with a kick to the door that exploded the lock mechanism, slamming it back and open, catching the dead man before he had a chance to fall.
    Bolan dragged him across the room checking him out with a glance — the scarlet flower blooming on his chest, dead center, and beside him on the floor, a Colt Commander .45 that he would never have another chance to use. One down.
    He scanned the combination living room and kitchen, found it empty. He was moving toward the stairs and homing on the sound of running water when a voice hailed him from the second-floor landing overhead. More Bronx in this one, with a hint of speech impediment behind the growl.
    "Hey, Lenny — what the hell?" No answer from the leaking Brooklyn delegate.
    Bolan waited by the stairs until he heard the sound of cautious footsteps, tracking them halfway down before he made his move, emerging in a combat crouch, the Beretta out in front of him and steadied in both hands. A chunky goon in shirt-sleeves spent a second gaping at him, finally reaching for