Free Assault on Soho by Don Pendleton

Joe?"
    "Well, first of all, let's talk about the package I'm going to offer Bolan. It's got to be attractive. I mean, not just a truce, but something he'd really go for, something with a future. Let's talk about rank in the organization. With the Talifero boys temporarily out of the picture, we need a hard arm for the
Commissione
. I'm thinking—"
    "Aw shit!" Castiglione cried, aghast with what Joe Staccio was thinking.
    "No now, wait a minute, Arnie," Marinello said, favoring his old buddy with a sly wink. "Let's let Joe talk about it. Go ahead, Joe, I believe we're getting somewhere."
    "Okay," Staccio said, "what I'm thinking is…"
    And so it went, into the long night at Mafiaville, with frayed nerves, heated passions, cold fears, and a stab at reality. The final result of this "crisis conference" would find a terrifying impact on Mack Bolan's violent domain, and the severest test yet of his holy war with the underworld. Bolan's long night had not ended. It had only just begun.

Chapter Eight
Psyched in
    Bolan awoke to total darkness. His hand found the grip of the Beretta and he lay very still until his mind had found its place and he knew where he was. With this knowledge came a wavering image of a beautiful girl with flawless flesh snuggling to him in a warm embrace, and he had to wonder if the memory was valid. He was alone in the bed now, that much was certain; he pushed silently away and reconned the darkness until satisfied that no other presence shared the apartment with him.
    He returned to the bedroom and turned on a lamp. His digital calchron revealed that fourteen hours had elapsed since his arrival at Queen's House, and the clutching at his stomach was indicating that he'd been much too long without food. The flat's heating system was functioning now; he had no sensation of discomfort as he padded nakedly about the bedroom for his clothing. He donned the black nylon nightsuit and strapped on his gunleather, then went straight to the kitchen. Eggs, milk, and bacon were in the refrigerator. He immediately stirred two raw eggs into a class of milk and consigned this to his clamoring stomach, then lit the fire under the coffee pot and returned to the bedroom.
    It was then that he found the note from Ann Franklin. It lay across his stack of money and read, "Meet me at Soho Psych at 11:00 P.M." Lying atop the note was a glossy book of paper matches, the embossed cover proclaiming that Soho Psych was the swingingest place in London. It also provided the address of the meeting place.
    Bolan finished dressing, adding herringbone tweed slacks and jacket and a fresh shirt and tie over the skinsuit. He pondered briefly over the money, then transferred most of it to the little pouch at the waist of the nightsuit. The only small bills, two American fifties and five British 10-pound notes, went into his wallet.
    By 9:30 he had consumed a comfortable mass of bacon and fried eggs, and the quart of milk, and was topping off with lukewarm coffee. It was time to move out. He went quietly down the rear stairs to the garage, opened the trunk of the Lincoln, and contemplated his arsenal. The
Vzi
submacbinegun went under the front seat, along with a stack of ammo clips. It was a fine little weapon, using the standard NATO round and featuring a folding stock which reduced overall length to about seventeen inches. After a brief mental debate, Bolan took the Weatherby and a belt of ammo to the apartment and stashed it in the bedroom closet. Then he returned to the car and drove to the edge of the Soho district, found a parking place on a side street around the corner from
Ronnie Scoffs
, the renowned jazz club, and joined the foot traffic on Frith Street.
    Here was London night life in all its late twentieth century splendor… and squalor. It was Greenwich Village and Fisherman's Wharf rolled into composite, an assortment of joints, dives, stripperies, fish-and-chip houses, fine restaurants of all nations, and the ever-present