Thomas Vericci, lord of the peninsular area, nervously cleared his throat to inquire, "Can we be sure this really was the guy, Don DeMarco? I mean, what if somebody else just wants to make it look that way? Just to get us off guard or something, I mean."

"Either way," DeMarco replied patiently, "it's a lot of trouble, and we don't need any of that."

A small dark man who had been almost hidden in the shadow of the Capo spoke up with, "I beg your pardon."

"Spit it Out, Matty," the Capo said softly.

"Well there ain't no mistaking in my mind. I saw the guy. I saw him with these two eyes right here, and I'm telling you it was him. It was Mack Bolan. He was dressed all in black like a fuckin' — excuse me, Don DeMarco — like a damn executioner. And the way he walked was like a fuckin' — a damn cat — you know a panther or something. I mean that was him! I was as close to him as I am to you right now, Mr. Vericci, and I seen them fuckin' — excuse me, them damn eyes of his, like two chunks of ice, and I guess I'm alive by a grace of God or something."

Enforcer Laurentis coldly declared, "What you mean is, you're alive because you turned your ass to him and ran away, that's what you mean, Matty."

"Yessir, I sure did, and I ain't ashamed of that. That guy had a fuckin' — a machine gun and he was cutting down everything in sight. I ran back inside to get some more help. He'd already blowed up the goddam joint and set everything on fire. I wasn't about to face down a guy like..."

"You shut up, Matty!" Laurentis snarled.

"Yessir, I beg your pardon, I was just..."

"Franco is right, Matty," the Capo said. "You shouldn't go around spouting off your mouth like that, about how mean this Bolan is. Our boys are already nervous enough. You watch it what you say. Understand?"