Executioner 029 - Command Strike Read online

  "Watch it, Mr. Omega!" the Head Cock shouted as Bolan drove up. "We got live wires here! Already fried a couple of boys!"

  "Clear me a path, Billy!" Bolan commanded. "Pardon me, sir, you shouldn't go out there now!"

  He was running alongside the car as Bolan continued manoeuvring through the litter. Bolan just gave him a look and kept on moving.

  "I'm the Head Cock, dammit, sir, and I say you should take cover and let my boys secure the situation! We got a full-scale assault here! I already sent a crew out! We think we know where to look! So please! Take cover!"

  Bolan growled, "Cover yourself, Billy!" and bulldozed on out of there. He cleared the wall and hit the roadway at full whine, taking off with a fishtailing squeal of rubber and putting that place quickly behind him.

  But it was no time for self-congratulations. This thing could go sour yet. Billy said he'd sent a crew out. Yeah. "Where to look" was a small knoll overlooking the estate from the western approach, the only really viable position from which the attack could have been launched. And, sure, that was the place. He had to get up there damn quick and cover that front. The war wagon was too valuable a piece of hardware to trade in for a mere Mafia hard-site.

  Bolan had his own damn palace to guard. Sure as hell he was not turning it over to one of Billy Gino's crews!

  The war wagon was indeed a valuable piece of hardware. Conceived by Bolan himself, but actually put together by a team of moonlighting aerospace engineers who dubbed the resulting marvel a "terran module," the new war wagon had served the Executioner well since Its first use during the New Orleans campaign. The basic structure was a 26-foot GMC motor home with a 455-cubic-inch Toronado engine and tandem rear wheels with airbag suspension. She served multiple functions, as home for the warrior, field headquarters, mobile command post, armoury, electronics surveillance post, and battle cruiser. Mafia bucks from the war chest had built her, sure, but the only mortgage on this item of space-age technology was written in blood—and the repossession notice would have to be written the same way.

  Bolan arrived on the scene just a couple of beats behind the head party. There were nine of them, standard crew with standard arms—couple of choppers, couple of shotguns, the rest with sidearms only. They'd pulled their vehicle into some trees about fifty yards below the battle cruiser and were cautiously debarking when the Ferrari pulled up behind them. Bolan recognized the crew chief as a guy he'd glimpsed at the hotel in Pittsfield, one Eddie Rainbow, and Eddie was looking as though he'd found his own pot of gold. Literally, he had. A cool million bucks was awaiting the possessor of Mack Bolan's head.

  Someone whispered, "Relax! It's Omega!"

  At Omega's right knee, nestled between seat and console, a 9-millimeter Ingram machine pistol awaited directions to the front. Basically a one-hand weapon with folding wire stock, the impressive little chattergun was scarcely larger than the AutoMag. The clip held 32 Parabellum flesh-shredders, with feed via the pistol grip. She'd been conceived as a "room broom" for use by sniper-plagued urban police forces and could deliver at the rate of 1,200 rounds per minute. In the interests of ammo conservation and improved fire control, Bolan had modified this one to a 700-rpm delivery. At this very moment, he was wondering if that had been a desirable modification. Desirable or not, it was the only arm he had; he'd just have to make it do.

  Eddie Rainbow was walking toward the Ferrari.

  The others were beginning to separate into fire teams, one to either side of the crew wagon.

  It was going to have to be now, while they were still bunched up—or it was going to be never!

  The crew chief was hung somewhere between a smile and a frown. He was reading Omega's presence here as an interference, perhaps even as a "ace out" of the bounty money. No matter. The Ingram came up blazing, catching the chief with a burst full in the throat at close range, flinging that shocked, unhappy face into a grotesque mask as the head led the way to oblivion.

  The Ingram tracked on, laying a blazing wreath of death around the four gunners of the first fire team, sweeping them into a crumpled heap beside their vehicle.

  The other team was more advantageously placed, beyond the crew wagon, but one of them also spun away with a shriek and both hands at his head. The others instinctively flung themselves to the ground behind the vehicle—and one of the immediate survivors was evidently gripped by the idea that some monstrous error had been committed.

  "Mr. Omega!" he yelped. "We're with Billy Gino! Hold your fire!"

  But Mr. Omega had committed no error whatever, and he did not hold his fire. He had already quit the Ferrari to seek a better fire track. Now the Ingram was firing for effect, searching for a hot spot and finding it instantly. The result came first as a whoof of flame, then as a bellowing roar, as the gas tank of the crew wagon responded to that certain stimulus and lifted all four wheels in a flaming jump to ruin.

  The Ingram's clip was empty. Bolan picked up an abandoned shotgun and made it ready as he circled the funeral pyre. Bodies were aflame back there, one of them flopping crazily in a final, futile gasp at survival. Bolan gave it a round at close range from the shotgun, then pumped in another load and did it again to another, and again and again, purely for mercy's sake and nothing else. And when he was sure that mercy's work was done, he retrieved the Ingram, returned to the Ferrari, and took the hot sportster to her berth in the enclosed trailer behind the war wagon.

  Moments later, the man and his gunship were moving cross-country in a circling return to the main road.

  He was clear, yeah—for the moment—and all was okay. But Mother Death had found Bolan's fix once again. He had wallowed with her for a bare few seconds in the slime pits of humanity and fed her the blood of others for temporary satisfaction.

  It had not been all that easy back there. One missing number, one small miscalculation, one tiny error in timing or in performance—and some surviving headhunters would at that moment be hacking a valuable head from its dead body for triumphal delivery to the council of kings.

  Bolan shivered. No, it had not been all that easy. For damn sure, it would never be any easier. And now, once again, he had to take on the Big Apple. He had to hit the city of cities—old New York herself.

  There would be slime pits enough for everyone there. And old Mother Death would be watching, watching, watching ...

  4

  THE ENGINEER

  "This will have to be quick," Turrin's voice announced from the safe phone in Manhattan. "This is a busy job you engineered for me, buddy. Haven't had a minute to breathe since I got here."

  "What do they have you doing, Leo?" Bolan asked.

  "So far, nothing but protocol. I'm handling the carnal requirements for the visiting families. The funeral, you know. They're coming from everywhere to pay final respects."

  Bolan chuckled. "You're looking after their security?"

  Turrin chuckled back. "Yeah. Bed and board, too—the whole smear. Greasing a few official palms, also, to make sure there'll be no legal embarrassments during the visit. It's a big job. I got five guys working on it."

  Bolan said, "I'll need that list, Leo."

  "Sure. You'll have it."

  "How's Angie?"

  "Angie's fine, Sarge. Kids are fine. Why the small talk?"

  "No small talk to it, friend. You have them safed?"

  "Safe as I can call it, yeah. What's happening?"

  "You didn't hear about the Long Island hit?" Bolan asked him.

  "No. When was that? Something was coming down as I was leaving the office. Very hush-hush. Nobody volunteered to cut me in and I didn't ask. So. What?"

  Bolan said, "I paid my respects to David. Nothing big, just a light probe. But it's moving now, Leo. So watch yourself. You get any tumble yet on Peter?"

  "Not a snicker. Of course, he probably wouldn't walk up and introduce himself. You okay, Sarge?"

  "I'm fine, yeah. What's your reading on the Manhattan climate?"

  "Hot and getting hotter. The whole town
is tense, buddy. If I were in your shoes, I'd be a long way from here right now. And I wouldn't even look back."

  Bolan said, "Don't say it twice, Leo—I could take you up on it."

  "You sound ... kind of ragged. Sure you're okay?"

  "Ah, hell, Leo, I just zapped a bunch of boys who thought I was God."

  "Don't let down now, guy," Turrin said softly. "Be glad you're not the zappee."

  "I'm not letting down," Bolan assured his friend. "Other way around; I'm afraid. I've got to blitz New York, Leo."

  "Don't. It's too tense. DiAnglia and Pelotti have both got every gun at their disposal on the prowl, just waiting for something to go down."

  "Just them?" Bolan wondered. "What are the other bosses up to?"

  "Gustini has airport security. Fortuna is providing mobile shields for the visitors. The manpower, that is. They're all under my administrative control. If that sounds like a fancy phrase, forget it. We Commissione boys talk that way." Turrin snickered. "You'd think we were stockbrokers or something. I don't think I'm going to like this job, Sarge."

  "How does Hal like it?"

  Hal was Harold Brognola, Turrin's federal boss, the nation's number two cop.

  "Hell, he loves it," Turrin said. "Considers it the coup of the decade. Sarge—I got to go. Be sure and make the next scheduled contact. I'll have some real feed for you by then. But listen. Don't go a'blitzing in New York. Wear your soft shoes and smile a lot. I'm serious—it is very tense here."

  "That's the whole idea, Leo. I've got to loosen it up a bit. By the way—Omega suggested to Eritrea that you would be the logical pick to uncover Peter. I think Eritrea bought it."

  "Okay. Thanks. I'll get ready for that."

  "Also, you're to be the point of contact between Omega and Eritrea. So here's the first contact. One of Billy Gino's crews bit Bolan's dust in the aftermath of the Long Island hit. It was Eddie Rainbow and company. Omega got there too late to help them. He's now sniffing along the backtrack and believes he has made Bolan heading toward the city. End of contact."

  Turrin whistled and commented, "It gets deviouser and deviouser. Okay. Are we clear?" "Clear," Bolan told him. "Hang tight, Leo." He broke the connection, lit a cigarette, and returned to his vehicle.

  Yeah, Leo, it gets more devious all the time. It was that kind of world, that kind of enemy, therefore that kind of war. Some kind of monster, Mack Bolan was. How many men had he killed this week? Not enough, right.

  So it was time to kill some more.

  5

  THE MECHANICS

  The cleanup details had all done their jobs, things were under control, and Billy Gino was breathing easily again when the chauffeured Cadillac eased onto the grounds and nosed in beside him. The man in the back seat was Barney Matilda, perhaps the last of his kind now that Marinello was dead. Barney and Augie went back a long way together—back to the Maranzano era. And there'd been a time when those two were the terrors of lower Manhattan. But Barney Matilda had never become a boss. He'd hitched his wagon to Augie Marinello's star, quite content to ride along with the Man as a sort of phantom left hand, personal troubleshooter, and confidante to the court. Largely retired for the past few years, Barney was respected far and wide as a sort of senior citizen type of torpedo, rich in street wisdom and highly expert in the machinations of gangland intrigue. There wouldn't be an other like him in this world; Billy Gino was sure of that.

  "How is David?" was the old man's greeting to the Head Cock.

  "None the worse," Gino growled. Then he saw that Barney was not alone. A pretty young woman, about twenty-five, shared the seat with him. This was highly unusual. Billy could not recall another time when he had seen Barney with a woman.

  "This is Miss Curtis," Matilda explained, without explaining anything.

  Billy Gino nodded an acknowledgment of the one-sided introduction and showed the pretty lady a stiff smile as he held the door for the old man.

  The lady stayed.

  The Head Cock and the Head Mechanic strolled across the battlefield.

  "I was halfway into town when I got your call," Barney half-apologized. "Who hit you?"

  "David says it was Mack Bolan."

  "He says that, huh?" Shrewd old eyes were taking the measure of that hit, triangulating targets, examining small objects tossed up by the fury of battle. "And what do you say?"

  "I say it looks a lot like Pittsfield yesterday. We got met at the airport by the same thing, Barney. It was a rocket attack. Not like you might get from a bazooka, either. Hard stuff, with a lot of whizz, a lot of fire and smoke trailing out behind it." He pointed westward. "Came from that little hill up there. I sent a crew out. We found them up there, nine good boys, torn apart."

  Barney was gazing toward the knoll, a hand shading his eyes. "You saying he just stood up there and tossed down on you? He didn't try coming in? You never saw the guy?"

  Billy Gino shook his head. "We didn't see anything, Barney."

  "Strange," the old man mused.

  "Why strange?"

  "What'd he really accomplish, Billy? I mean, assuming it was Bolan, why the bother for so little? So he burned up a couple of cars. So he started a little fire in the house. So he shot a couple of holes in your wall. And that's all? Does that sound like a Bolan hit to you?"

  Billy Gino shifted his weight uncomfortably as he thought about that. He respected this old man. Barney was still the best cleanup man in the business, and he'd cleaned up behind a lot of Bolan hits. Still ... Billy told him, "It was just like at the airport, Barney. Hit and run. We never saw the guy. But he was there, bet your ass. And I think he was here this morning, too."

  "If he was, then he's changed his M.O.," Barney declared flatly.

  Billy Gino shrugged. "Then he's changed it."

  “Why?”

  "Hell. I don't know why, Barney."

  "Maybe you better start wondering why, then."

  "You're the second guy to tell me that today," Billy said quietly. "What the hell is going down here, Barney?"

  "Who told you to wonder about that?"

  "Not about that, especially. He just said I should start wondering. You probably know the guy. Omega."

  "'Who?"

  "That's what he's calling himself right now. Headshed. You know."

  Barney was giving the Head Cock a strange look. "You had an Ace out here this morning?"

  "Yeah. He was here when the hit came, down. Tore out after the guy just behind Eddie Rainbow's crew."

  "That the same crew you found in bits and pieces?"

  "The same," Billy Gino growled. "We couldn't get a scent of Omega. But I'm not worried about that guy. He knows what he's doing."

  Old Barney sniffed and turned his steps toward his car. "Remember last time I was here, Billy?" he asked the Head Cock. "I asked how long it'd been since you'd seen Augie. Remember what you told me?"

  Billy Gino flexed his hands as he replied, "Barney, I honestly don't know the last time I saw Augie. I had the feeling that he was around but . . ."

  "But you wouldn't swear on that?"

  "No, sir, I wouldn't."

  "Was this Ace asking you about that."

  "Not that I remember," Billy replied, thinking about it.

  "Does the guy seem pretty cozy with David?"

  "Seems to be, yeah. Well, come to think, I don't know. Why're you asking me this, Barney?"

  "Something stinks," the old man said quietly. "I'm just wondering about the wind direction. Forget it, Billy. An old man's wandering mind, that's all."

  But Billy Gino was not buying that. Barney Matilda had never been known for a wandering mind. Quite the opposite. He said, "If there's something I ought to know, Barney . . ."

  The oldster sighed as he opened his car door and prepared to take his leave. "Tell David I concur. It was Bolan. He should cover his ass. Call it a sizing hit. The guy will be back. Tell David I said that."

  "Okay, I'll tell him. Barney. If there's something I ought to know ..."

&n
bsp; "Do you know why they put goats with sheep, Billy?"

  "Guess I never thought about it," Gino replied.

  "Think about it, then. And think about this with it. There comes a time when the goats get separated from the sheep. Hold your ass, Billy, and think about that."

  The limousine slipped away, leaving Billy Gino with his thoughts.

  And he liked not a damn one.

  6

  A TIME FOR TIGERS

  They were known unofficially as "the Incorruptibles"—which was no mean tag for a unit within the most corruptible police force in the nation. The forty-six-year-old Captain of Detectives who headed the elite OrgCrime unit, William J. Rafferty, was also a charter member of the metro tactical intelligence council on organized crime and was now the official NYPD liaison for the various crime commissions at the state and federal levels. It was a job with more pressure than status, more headaches than arrests—a "politically sensitive" position which made the department's other hot potatoes seem more like coleslaw. Few men on that force of more than thirty thousand envied Bill Rafferty or coveted his job. There were times when Rafferty himself would candidly wonder aloud if he were the biggest patsy in town, a "token tiger" for the Knapp Commission's searching probe into police corruption. But Hal Brognola knew better. The nation's number two cop had been instrumental in manoeuvring Rafferty into position as New York's number one cop for organized crime. Brognola knew that Bill Rafferty would never allow himself to become anyone's paper tiger.

  At the moment the big cop sounded less the tiger than at any time in Brognola's memory, the voice coming tired and strained through the safe phone.

  "They've whittled me down to thirty men, Hal. How the hell do I cover this with thirty men?"

  "Maybe you're trying to cover too much," Brognola mused. "Maybe you should be thinking about concentrating the coverage."

  "Where do I concentrate?" Rafferty strained back. "The problem here, Hal, is that I serve too damned many masters. One of them is demanding tight intelligence on all the movements. Another wants head counts, affiliations, and all the social jazz. Another guy is screaming about protocol and protection, believe it or not, for this national gathering of thugs. Still another suggests that we declare a seventy-two hour moratorium—take a vacation or something, I guess, and not come back until the excitement's over. Next someone will be wanting my unit as honour guard for the funeral, chrissakes!"