Death Hunt (The Assassin Book 4)

Publisher’s Note

PETER McCURTIN ORIGINALLY created the Assassin series for his usual publisher, Belmont Tower, for whom he also worked as an editor. It was clearly designed to cash in on the phenomenal success of Don Pendleton’s Executioner series, and arguably remains the best of all the many Mack Bolan clones to appear in the ensuing years.

But McCurtin ended up selling The Assassin to Dell Books instead … and it wasn’t difficult to see why. According to one of his contemporaries, Dell paid twice as much as [Belmont] Tower. He would get a check for four or five thousand dollars for each book.

Even before Dell published the first book, however, Harry Shorten, McCurtin’s boss at Belmont Tower, told him he could not write any further books in the series for a rival publisher. The series, he said, was to come back to BT from the fourth book onwards.

But now they faced a dilemma. McCurtin had already written the fourth book, so there was no problem there. But Dell had the copyright on The Assassin. Therefore, to avoid any accusations of copyright infringement, it was decided that The Assassin would now become The Marksman, and Robert Briganti would become Philip Magellan.

So it was, then, that the book you’re about to read was originally published as the second Marksman, when all along it should have been the fourth Assassin.

Piccadilly Publishing is proud to finally reissue the book as McCurtin originally wrote it, as the fourth instalment in Robert Briganti’s ongoing war with the Mafia.

Enjoy.

Chapter One

ROBERT BRIGANTI HELD a contract to kill. In the dark and secret world in which he moved, the contract was sacred. It was also like no other. Not consummated on legal paper, with clauses and fine print. Not closed with a handshake between understanding parties. Not even sealed with a kiss heavy with the garlic and wine of brotherhood. The contract Briganti held was by Briganti, with Briganti. It was a contract that pumped through his heart’s blood, piped along his veins; a contract burned in his brain and wired through his nerve endings. And the only thing that could make Robert Briganti break this contract was death. His own.

The food wasn’t bad. The pasta was al dente, firm, slightly underdone; the marinara sauce tangy with tomato and garlic. He bit into the steak pizzaol’ and it was good. Which, he wondered, came first:

Over at a table in the rear three mafia soldiers were making like United States Senators, settling their affairs of state over a bottle of red. He hadn’t stared; he hadn’t even appeared to notice them. But just the barest glance told him who they were, and what. The chief hood sat, like all chiefs, with his back to the wall, flanked by the two lesser lights, button-men. Steel gray hair, wavy and slicked, crowning a sad, heavily-lined dark face. His white collar was starched stiff, and his hands, which moved a lot, flashed with a huge diamond. The other two were just warm bodies; mindless servants, who would say good evening or pull a trigger, whichever was called for. One was short and stocky; the other, thin and dyspeptic.

Briganti had no illusions. They were discussing him. Not too many single strangers drifted into this place, he ventured to guess. Either you knew it for its food or its regulars, or you’d pass it by. It wasn’t much of a place to look at. Just another little storefront labeled Enrico’s situated in the heart of Little Italy; a dozen or so tables, most of them located under a huge mural of the Bay of Naples painted in green along one wall. If Naples ever looked like that, Briganti thought as he chewed, no one would ever leave it.

He became aware of a fat pair of legs standing at the table. Briganti looked up into the eyes of the fat hood. The man was squinting down at him, a quizzical look on his fleshy face.

Eh, goombah, don’t I know you from someplace?

Briganti talked to strangers only when he had to. He went to work with the bread and steak juice.

You from around here?

Briganti popped the bread into his mouth and chewed with deliberation.

You don’t talk a lot, do you?

Briganti stared up at the Senator, or alderman, or button. Do you have lots of questions like that?

Yeah. The edge in the heavy man’s voice was apparent. Yeah, I got questions. You got answers?

Either you’re very smart to think up all those questions, Briganti said slowly, or you’re very dumb to ask them.

The hood’s mouth gaped open. Ohhh, he said, drawing it out like taffy. Oh, we got a wise guy. He swiveled his thick head. Hey, listen to this, he called across the room. His two companions were looking on. We got us a wise guy here.

It could go either of two ways, Briganti thought. He could continue this line of hostility, antagonize the unholy three and risk a messy shootout. Or, he could play it close to the vest: smart, give a little, give a little more. And maybe learn something. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, his mother used to say. Probably true, even in an Italian restaurant.

The thin one started to get out of his seat. The boss with the steel gray hair waved him down with an imperious flick of the hand. Invite the gentleman to our table, he said, with the barest trace of accent. At the same time, he snapped his fingers at the waiter. Rico, the gentleman will take his dessert with us. Briganti carefully ran the last bit of bread around the rim of the platter and popped it into his mouth.

The fleshy hood growled at Briganti, You heard.

Blandly, Briganti matched the man’s gaze. That’s not what he said.

Eh, goombah, the man said with exasperation, you make a Federal case outa everything. He said, ‘Invite the guy over.’ I’m inviting you.

Briganti said, That’s better. Tell the gentleman I accept.

The fat man goggled uncertainly, But—but he’s right here!

Go ahead, Briganti urged. Tell him.

A man had to establish his proper station in life, even if it meant playing games. Briganti was prepared to play. He lifted his glass of wine and drank. From the corner of his eye, he watched the messenger trying to sort out his confusion. But he did as he was told. He returned to his companions and sat heavily. He was, after all, only a messenger.

Rico, the waiter-owner, materialized, and began to clear the table. I’ll bring your dessert over there.

What if I don’t go? Briganti asked.

You go, Rico said. He did not look up.

Briganti drank the chianti and stood up. He strolled leisurely past the few other diners to the rear table. He nodded to the man who sat with his back to the wall.

Chu-Chu, the man elbowed the thin man beside him, a chair for the gentleman.

Chu-Chu leapt to his feet and slid a bentwood chair behind Briganti.

Rico, the head man called. A glass for the gentleman.

All this for Briganti’s benefit. It was important to establish his role, important that Briganti clearly understood his position as host—and boss—at the table.

Briganti sat, but reluctantly. His back was now to the entrance doorway, and this always made him uncomfortable.

Throughout the ritual of the wine-pouring, no one spoke. Three pairs of dark, mute eyes were fixed on the stranger. For his part, Briganti gazed at the headman and waited.

Diamond flashing, he raised a glass and the others followed. Salut! They drank, smacked their lips, set the glasses back onto the marble top of the table. They could now proceed with the business of the day.

The boss (Briganti rated him a capo) rested an elbow on the table, the diamond flashing fire, as he ran a finger sensuously along his lower lip. His eyes, narrowed, bored into Briganti.

’Taliano? he said in Italian.

Briganti nodded once, then studied the Roman street scene framed behind glass on the wall over the capo’s head.

Where are your people from? In Italian.

Milano, Briganti said.

The capo grunted. In the north, everything is possible. Factories, big apartment buildings, even Italians with gray eyes.

And you, he pursued, "where are you from?"

Not New York.

We were saying, earlier, that you looked familiar. Should we know you?

Briganti said, in English, Not unless you know New Orleans.

Oh, the capo said, New Orleans. He nodded sagely. Did you hear of this restaurant in New Orleans? He, too, reverted to English.

No, but maybe I should have. The food is excellent. It would do well even in New Orleans.

Thank you. We enjoy a good meal here in New York, too. The man straightened his shoulders, peered hard at Briganti. Tell me, signor, do you have friends in New York?

Briganti smiled. Does everybody ask questions in this town? In New Orleans, we don’t ask questions.

The capo shrugged. These are only friendly questions, he said easily; then, more to the point, We like to know who is in our neighborhood. Let us start from the beginning. He extended a hand to his right. This is Chu-Chu. And this, the fat man, is Two Cents. I am Vincent Paoli. He sat back and waited for the reaction.

Briganti’s face showed nothing. But the computer in his brain was plugged into retrieval. Vincent Paoli, came the readout. Capo of the Trunzio Family. Kingpin of gambling, pornography and prostitution. Congratulations, Briganti. For a man on the prowl for new contacts, as it were, this restaurant had been a good choice. Already, the meal had paid for itself.

And you? Paoli said, You are …?

Jimmy Corsaro, said Robert Briganti.

So tell me, Jimmy. What are you doing in New York?

Looking, Briganti said. Just looking.

Paoli nodded sagely, as if in reply to something profound. And have you found anything? Do you have friends here?

I’ll make out, Briganti said.

Maybe you need some help, Paoli prodded. Get a few introductions, meet people. I know a lot of people.

Do you take such an interest in everybody, Mr. Paoli?

The capo laughed. No, not everybody.

Why me? Briganti asked.

Vincent Paoli stared intently at the man opposite him. "You have a look, Mr. Jimmy. A