Three armed figures stood at the head of the stairs

They were debating something that was also holding them back from approaching the office. The Executioner figured they had found the dead guy downstairs.

To Bolan’s right was the door that led to the parking garage—it was the only way open to his escape.

Aware the three men might push caution behind them and head for the office, Bolan acted. He eased the door wide enough to let him through, raised the Beretta and powered into the corridor. He fired off two 3-round bursts in the general direction of the group and heard the startled shouts. Return shots, fired in haste, gouged the wall, sending plaster dust across the corridor. Bolan kept moving, committed to his action. He reached the door and shouldered it open. A final shot from his pursuers thudded into the door frame inches from Bolan’s head. He slammed the door shut, knowing his freedom would be extremely short lived.

The thunder of boots approaching the door and the voices shouting back and forth warned him his time was running out fast. They had his scent. The hounds had taken up the chase and Bolan was the prize. The only thing they should have taken notice of was this prize had the choice of fighting back.

Deadly Command

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can and as often as you can, and keep moving on.

—Ulysses S. Grant

1822–1885

Those who supply the guns that kill innocent citizens can no longer keep their hands clean. I will hunt them down and end their game—hit them where it hurts, and hit them fast.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

1

Miami, Florida

The background intel that set Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, on his current mission had been encapsulated in frustration and not without a little impotent rage. Bolan had sensed the futility of the feelings behind the words transmitted via the interview that followed the triple funeral of slain police officers. He might not have even caught the televised segment if he had not been taking some downtime, following the completion of a mission he had undertaken at the behest of Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Bolan’s chosen R & R had him chilling out in an expensive hotel on Florida’s sunshine coast. It wasn’t usual for Bolan to indulge in such opulent surroundings but his state of mind had allowed him a few days of rest, something he needed at that precise moment in time. After three days of allowing himself to relax, Bolan knew his downtime was not going to last for much longer and when he turned on that evening’s newscast, the soldier realized just how true that was.

In a standoff with warring street gangs in Miami, five police officers had been fired on—three were dead, one was in a coma and the fifth still in critical condition. Two civilians caught in the cross fire were also dead. Eyewitness accounts had been corroborated in their descriptions of the weaponry used by the gangs. They had been using sophisticated arms, autorifles and the kind of ordnance not usually seen on the streets. A recovered weapon was shown. It was military ordnance, not available to the general public, and not even in use by the police.

The reporter, speaking to a Miami-Dade police officer, questioned why such weapons were on the streets. The cop, barely able to express himself calmly, said that the weapons were being supplied by organized crime groups, and that this was not the first time it had happened. The police had their suspicions as to who was behind the supply chain but had been unable to pursue any clear lines of evidence due to lack of solid proof.

The interview ended with a short piece on the funeral gathering, including shots of the four-year-old daughter of one of the slain officers placing a single rose on her father’s casket. The look of bewilderment and the shine of tears on the girl’s face caught Bolan off guard and he could relate to the held-back anger in the manner and tone of the cop who had been interviewed.

Bolan knew the man. He had worked with him on a mission that had taken the Executioner from Miami to an island off the Cuban mainland.

Gary Loomis was a good cop, a dedicated officer with the Miami-Dade force. Bolan remembered him clearly, and seeing the man’s barely checked grief over the slain officers reminded the soldier of the daily risks police officers took when they placed themselves in the line of fire.

Later that night Bolan found himself recalling the young daughter of one of the dead police officers placing that single rose on her father’s casket. It drifted back to him as he slept. It had been a long time since the soldier had been revisited by a disturbing vision—but the image of the child plagued him until he woke the following morning.

He called MDPD and was connected to Gary Loomis.

“Cooper? Hell, of course, I remember you.” Loomis chuckled. “No way I’m liable to forget. So what can I do for you?”

“It’s what I might be able to do for you, Loomis. Can we meet?”

“Sure. Give me an hour.”

Bolan told the intrigued police officer where he was staying, then went down to have breakfast.

On the terrace they faced each other across a small table, having a drink. The Executioner and the Miami cop, men who walked through the shadow world of violence and corruption, one on the side of the law, the other who worked outside that law.

“I saw the interview,” Bolan said.

“Bad time for Miami-Dade.”

“You know those men personally?”

“Every damn one of them. Worked with them. Drank with them off duty. Knew their families, too.”

“The girl who placed the rose?”

“Emily Crockett.” Loomis stared into empty space for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Sweet kid. She’ll be watched over. We take care of our own. Cooper, our guys never had a chance. They were cut down by state-of-the-art hardware. When I did some checking, I found out similar ordnance has turned up across the country. A definite in Chicago and Newark. I dig deeper. There’s a pattern here. Too much weaponry being sent out. It’s like a preamble for something bigger. The cops on the streets are our only line of defense against these bastards. Hell, Cooper, it’s out of control and we can’t keep up.”

“Any link to the vendors?”

“The suppliers?” Loomis gripped his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white. “We have files on them, but nothing strong enough to give us just cause. No real evidence. Oh, we have a couple of local dirtbags we figure are the organization’s crew, but we can’t touch them without airtight proof, and we don’t have that yet. They have lawyers on standby. They’d be back on the street before the charge sheets had finished printing. So we do nothing because if we screw up any investigation, that’s it.”

“So you have names? Locations?”

“Well, yeah. But what good…” Loomis stared at Bolan. “What the hell are you thinking, Cooper?”

Bolan raised his beer. “What am I thinking, Gary?”

Loomis gathered his thoughts before he spoke. “I know the way you operate, and your rules are way off-the-wall.”

“We got results last time.”

“Yeah, I know…but the department would go ape shit if we got involved in something illegal.”

“The department isn’t going to be involved. Or you. All I need are names and a place to start. After that you forget about me.”

Loomis ran his hand across his face, taking a deep breath as he considered.

“Gary, if I’m compromising you, just walk away. I’ll figure another way in.”

“You could be dealing your way into something heavy. So don’t be fooled into thinking they’ll be easy marks.”

“No chance of that.”

Loomis stood up. “Be at the cemetery at five-thirty. Take a look at Jimmy Crockett’s headstone. I’ll be there, too.”

“Yeah.”

Before he moved Loomis said, “There has to be a good reason you want in.”

“There is. Five good reasons, civilians and Emily Crockett.”

Loomis nodded and walked away, leaving Bolan to his thoughts.

The soldier could have moved on, walked away and left the matter in the hands of others. But the Executioner was the one who could stand up for the innocents who were unable to fight back.

Later, back in his room, Bolan powered up the laptop he had borrowed from the hotel. It would allow him to view the contents of the flash drive Loomis had slipped into his jacket pocket as they had stood briefly at the grave of Jimmy Crocket. Loomis had brushed past the soldier as he moved away without a word being spoken, and Bolan had left in the other direction, returning to his hotel.

Sitting with the laptop on the small table, he let the computer power up. He inserted the flash drive into the USB port and waited while it installed itself. He tapped the keys to open the file and scrolled down: a number of mug shots, each with a short note identifying the individuals.

Harry Quintain was the local crew chief, a chubby-faced, balding guy in his mid-thirties. His sheet detailed his extensive criminal record.

Roy Soames was Quintain’s broker-enforcer, a hard-looking guy with a lifelong rap sheet that had started when he was fourteen.

The files stated that Quintain handled illegal merchandise, including weapons, and had connections in Chicago, which was a distribution hub. Quintain ran the operation in Miami, but his allegiance was to the Chicago operation. It was suspected he moved around his local bases, using diverse locations, which meant law-enforcement agencies were having little success pinning them down.

For Bolan this was a beginning. The hard work lay ahead.

THE SOLDIER SPENT a couple of days watching the building that was Quintain’s current base of operations. It was close to the ocean, a modern structure with plenty of glass and shiny steel. The elevator was one of those exposed models that ran up the front of the building so he was able to see Quintain, flanked by two bodyguards and Soames, enter the lobby and step into the elevator. Bolan counted off the floors and saw them step out on the ninth, where Quintain has his suite of offices. His observation of the building, though tedious, fed him what he wanted and by the afternoon of the third day Bolan had enough to make his move.

Quintain and Soames always arrived in separate cars but traveled together to the ninth floor via the elevator. Quintain spent his days in the building, while Soames made a couple of trips outside daily. Same time each day. He always left on his own, the bodyguards staying in the building with Quintain.

Bolan was ready on the third day, in his rental car, watching patiently. When Soames stepped out and crossed to his vehicle, Bolan fired up the engine and fell in behind the man as he exited the parking area. The soldier allowed a couple of cars between them.

They traveled for a good thirty minutes, Soames in no hurry, observing the speed limits. He was in a dark blue metallic Ferrari California convertible, an easy car to follow. Bolan stayed well behind. He saw Soames make a right, off the main drag and into an industrial park. The soldier carried on past the entrance, able to monitor Soames through the chain-link fence as he coasted along the line of storage units. A couple of hundred yards along Bolan spotted a service road, swung onto it and parked. He checked the 93-R in its holster under his sports coat, locked the rental and backtracked until he found a break in the poorly maintained perimeter fence.

Bolan stood for a moment as he fixed the last position of Soames’s car, then moved steadily between the units as he closed in on the general area. It was plainly obvious the industrial area was deserted. Unit doors hung open. Windows, those not smashed, were dusty, which suited Bolan’s purpose.

He picked up the sound of voices and tracked in toward them, the Beretta in his hand. Edging around the building, he spotted the Ferrari parked nose-in by a unit. The doors were open. A parked panel truck stood inside. Next to Soames’s vehicle was a bright yellow Corvette.

He was in conversation with two men. One was well-dressed like Soames. The other had on denims and a florid silk shirt. The conversation appeared amiable.

Soames said something to the denim-clad man, who then went to the panel tuck and opened the rear doors, exposing a stack of long wooden crates. The top was removed from one of the crates and the guy lifted out an M240 7.62 mm machine gun. The weapon was strictly military ordnance, not designated for civilian use. It was a rapid-fire, belt-fed weapon and would prove devastatingly efficient in the hands of illegal users. Regular beat cops would have no defense against such a weapon if it got on the streets.

Soames checked the M240, nodding his approval. From what Bolan could see, Soames was the buyer, the other guy his source—which made him important to the Executioner.

Edging closer, Bolan was able to hear the conversation.

“You can get more?” Soames said.

“No problem.”

Soames waved his hand at the guy holding the machine gun. “Pack them tight and deliver them to the pickup point.” He took out a cell phone, tapped in a number and spoke. “Everything’s okay. One dozen as requested. We can arrange final delivery. Let Cameron know. Yeah, Jake can get more.” He closed the cell phone and dropped it in his pocket, turned and went to his car. He lifted out a leather satchel and handed it to his supplier. “Count it if you want, Jake.”

The man called Jake hefted the satchel. “I can tell by the weight it’s all there. And we trust each other, don’t we, Roy? In this business, trust is everything.”

Bolan allowed himself a tight smile. Trust between scum. That was a new concept.

“You’ll tell your boss the deal went okay? Like I said, I can work out some sweet terms for you on future buys.”

Soames nodded. “Don’t see why not,” he said, and tapped the satchel in Jake’s hand. “Glad to get that cash off my hands.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Jake said.

Bolan stepped into view, his Beretta covering the trio. “Let me take care of it for you,” he said.

Jake stared at the soldier, his face expressionless. “Pal, you don’t want to be doing this.”

Soames’s eyes blazed with anger, his cheeks coloring. “You know who I am, you fuck? Only thing that money will buy is your funeral. I work—”

“Roy, be advised that it doesn’t pay to upset the guy holding a gun on you. And I know who you work for. I’m not impressed.”

Soames’s reaction, whether provoked by arrogance, or a need to maintain his credibility, was way off the charts. The Executioner could only assume the man really believed he could deal with an adversary even under the threat of a gun.

The man went for the autopistol holstered at his hip, brushing aside the coat he was wearing, eyes widening with the surge of adrenaline that forced his action. His fingers brushed against the textured grips and got no further.

Bolan put a 9 mm triburst into his skull. The impact jerked Soames’s head to one side and he fell back against the Ferrari, blood speckling the gleaming paintwork even as the man dropped to the dusty ground.

Behind him the denim-clad guy pulled his own weapon from his belt. It was a heavy revolver, and to his credit he brought it up quickly.

Not fast enough. Bolan had dropped to a crouch, swinging the muzzle of the 93-R in anticipation of the guy’s move. He assumed a two-handed Weaver’s stance, centering his target, and hit the guy in the chest. The thug stumbled back, falling half inside the open panel truck, legs jerking in spasms as the 9 mm slugs dug in deep. Bolan hit him with a second burst that burned in under the guy’s chin and tore through to split his skull on exit.

Jake had turned on his heel and was moving for his own car when Bolan lunged forward. He hooked a hand in the weapons dealer’s coat collar and swung him around. The Beretta made a solid, meaty sound as it slammed against Jake’s jaw. The blow knocked him off his feet and he skidded on his knees into the side of the car. Then Bolan was standing over him, jabbing the hot muzzle of the Beretta into the man’s cheek. Jake stared up into the glacial blue of the Executioner’s eyes and saw his own terrified face reflected there.

“The bad things we do in life eventually catch up,” Bolan said. “I’m not going to reflect on your misdemeanors. But I have a couple of questions, and I need fast answers.”

Jake drew his sleeve across his torn and bloody jaw.

“Those two made wrong decisions and won’t get a chance to clear their consciences. How about you, Jake?”

“What do you want?”

“Military ordnance. Where do you source it, Jake?”

“I’m a dead man if I talk.”

“Look at me, Jake. Do I look as if care?”

The Beretta was pressed harder into his cheek.

“Time to think about yourself, Jake. Today isn’t going to get any better.”

“I can see that.”

“Help me, Jake. My patience runs out fast. Who do you get your weapons from?”

“Guy in the military. Orin Cage. He’s based at a main supply depot, in charge of weapons acquisition. He runs a little sideline business.” The words began to tumble out almost as if Jake was in the confessional.

“Answer one question. Who do Soames and Quintain answer to?”

“Fredo Bella. He runs the Chicago division. Believe me, you don’t want to screw with him. He’s the boss in Chicago but even he works for a higher-up man who’s based in New Mexico. There’s also another guy in Chicago. Bella’s paymaster, Guido Bertolli.”

Jake quickly blurted out the rest of the information Bolan needed before lapsing into a sullen silence.

Bolan stepped back. “You work a dirty business, Jake. Nothing that could ever redeem itself in you.”

“You got what you wanted. You happy?”

“Not exactly happy,” Bolan said. “But at least satisfied for the moment.” Then he hit the man on the side of his head with the butt of the Beretta, knocking him unconscious.

Bolan took the cell phone from Soames’s pocket and put in a call to Miami-Dade PD. He told them where they could find the bodies and a consignment of stolen military hardware, plus a weapons dealer who was ready to talk. He also fed them the information about the Orin Cage and military connection, then cut the call. A search of Soames’s jacket provided Bolan with a fat wallet and another cell phone. He put the items away for later examination and bent to pick up the satchel of money. It would help to finance his upcoming mission. He had a long drive ahead of him. Destination Chicago. The Windy City was going to experience an Executioner-style gale that would hopefully sweep away some of its seedier trash.

Bolan made his way back to his parked rental and took the back roads until he was well clear of the area. He made a wide, circuitous drive back into Miami and his hotel. In his room he packed his belongings and called down to the desk, asking for his account to be readied for checkout.

He recalled the wallet he had taken from Soames’s body and emptied the contents on the bed—a couple thousand in cash, multiple credit cards and a single business card. It told Bolan that Guido Bertolli worked out of Chicago with an office in the city. Bertolli’s profession was financial adviser and his office address was displayed below his title, along with his telephone and cell number. Handy information, Bolan decided. It gave him a starting point once he reached Chicago.

Soames’s cell phone offered nothing but a list of stored numbers. The one Bolan found interesting was listed under the name Quintain.

BOLAN MADE his call to Harry Quintain as he traveled the I-65 through Kentucky.

“Quintain, how’s it going?”

“Who the fuck are you? How did you get this number?”

“From the late Roy Soames. I imagine you’ve already heard.”

“You understand that wasn’t a wise thing to do.”

“Is this because I screwed a deal and lost your cargo to Miami PD?”

There was a considered silence. Bolan imagined Quintain working things through.

“I’ll find you and kill everyone you care about,” Quintain finally said.

Bolan thought about Stony Man and the people associated with it.

“Good luck with that,” he said. “Just one last thing, Harry, I know where you live, too. One day I might come calling.”

Bolan switched off the cell phone. A few miles farther on he exited the I-65 and drove into the small town he’d located. He parked close to the post office, wiped the cell phone clean of any prints and dropped it into the padded envelope he’d purchased earlier. It was addressed to Gary Loomis, Miami-Dade PD. Bolan went into the post office and mailed the envelope. Loomis might find the phone’s contact numbers interesting. Even useful. The soldier stayed in the town long enough to have a meal before rejoining the interstate and continuing his journey.

He had checked the distance to Chicago after leaving his hotel. Miami to Chicago was around thirteen hundred miles, a run of approximately twenty hours. Bolan made it in easy stages, with a motel break to catch up on sleep. He placed a single cell phone call from his room and made contact with Barbara Price.

“You still on R & R?”

There was a hint of something more than just asking about his health.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Bolan said.

“Let’s say a certain incident in Miami aroused my interest.”

“Incident?”

“The kind that sort of has your signature on it. Something I should know about?”

“This is not an SOG issue,” Bolan said. “Flying solo. But I need to talk to the Bear.”

“Okay. Hey, you watch your back, soldier. You want to reconsider the lone-wolf status on this one?”

“Thanks, but no, thanks. This is something I need to do without dragging you guys in.”

“Kind of personal, huh?”

“Kind of.”

“I’ll patch you through.”

“Catch up with you later.”

Bolan heard the soft click as the call was transferred to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s cyber lair. A moment later the recognizable, gruff sound of Kurtzman’s voice came on.

“Hey, big guy, haven’t heard from you in a while. You having an extended vacation?”

“Not any longer,” Bolan said. “I need some intel.”

“Sure,” Kurtzman said. “So what can I do for you?”

“Find out background details on a Chicago lowlife named Fredo Bella, head honcho in the trafficking of stolen arms in the area. A source said Bella’s strings are pulled by a Lou Cameron based in New Mexico. I’m driving to Chicago in the morning, so call my cell when you get the goods. I also need intel on a guy by the name of Guido Bertolli. According to his business card, he runs a financial advisory service in the city. Could be legit, but I found it in the wallet of a dirtbag named Roy Soames. And information I got suggested Bertolli is linked to Bella. I just need you to confirm.”

“You got it, Striker. Anything else?”

“No,” Bolan said. “Just the intel. And pictures if you can find them. Leave it until morning if you get anything. And thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Bolan put the cell phone on charge before he turned in. Last thing he needed was the phone going dead on him if Kurtzman was trying to send him information.

“YOU PICKED a prize specimen,” Kurtzman said over the cell phone.

Bolan was eating breakfast in the diner down the road from the motel. “So enlighten me,” he said.

“Fredo Bella. He’s forty-two years old and heads up one hell of an organized crime business. Arms dealing is one page in his dossier. The guy will buy and sell anything as long as he can make a profit. This is a slippery character, Striker. The Chicago PD and the Feds have been on his case for years, but the man knows the game too well. He’s lawyered up to the ears. Pays very well and expects the best protection. He’s been charged a number of times, but nothing ever gets beyond that. The guy’s been suspected of a couple of homicides, and I stress the word ‘suspected’ as in legally. CPD know he did them, but they haven’t been able to take it any further. Witnesses have a habit of disappearing, if you get my drift. And Bertolli does have connections with Bella. Looks like he could be the local money guy for the organization.”

“Understood. That’s the intel I got myself.”

“There’s a little more you might be interested in. Bella may be the hotshot in the Midwest, but he does dance to Lou Cameron’s tune. These guys are so connected it’s like an old-style Mafia Family.”

“Well, we know what happened to them, don’t we?”

Kurtzman’s rumbling chuckle made Bolan smile.

“You take care, Striker. These people have bad reputations. I kid you not.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Pictures are coming through when we finish speaking. Any thing else?”

“Background on this Cameron and his outfit might be helpful.”

“Leave it with me,” Kurtzman said. “Oh, and Fredo Bella has a number of properties in and around Chicago. His main residence…”

2

Fredo Bella’s main residence was a 2,500-square-foot apartment in a glittering steel-and-glass high-rise situated on Chicago’s North Lakeshore Drive. On the southwest corner of the building the apartment looked out over the city skyline and also had a view across the lake. According to Kurtzman’s intel, the apartment cost in the region of $1.5 million. Probably small change to Bella.

Like many career criminals, Bella, who viewed the law with distaste, had a penchant for flaunting his wealth. He was confident enough to show the results of his illegal operations because he felt secure, untouchable. He surrounded himself with legal battalions and bought favors from those in high places.

Bolan located the building on his arrival in Chicago. His drive by was just a recon. He parked up short of the apartment building, looking it over. He liked to know where his quarry was based. He had no hard and fast plans for the man’s home yet. The Executioner was more interested in Bella’s operations. He was hoping that a visit to Guido Bertolli’s office might give him that information.

GREGOR LEMINOV was far from happy, despite the luxurious surroundings of Fredo Bella’s apartment. The Russian Mafiya broker was not in good humor. In the past half hour he had ordered his burly bodyguard to pour him two more glasses of Bella’s expensive whiskey and had quickly downed each tumbler in hefty gulps.

The heavyset Russian stared out through the apartment’s panoramic windows, watching sheets of rain sweep in from Lake Michigan and slam against the glass. The gray clouds over the choppy water matched his mood, and the longer he had to wait, the worse his mood became. Leminov snapped his fingers and held out his glass.

“I might as well drink his liquor,” he said to Mikhail Rostov, his personal bodyguard.

Rostov, who would never drink while he was on duty, took the tumbler and refilled it. He handed it to his boss, then resumed his position close by.

“Is taking a long time, boss,” Rostov said.

“Always one to state the obvious, Mikhail. In this case you are right.” Leminov sat forward. “Perhaps it is time to remind our host how long we have been waiting.”

The double doors to the spacious room swung open then, and Fredo Bella strode through, a beaming smile on his rounded face.

“Gregor, my friend.” He noticed the almost empty glass in Leminov’s large hand. “Let me fix you another drink. What would you like?”

“An explanation would be nice. Fredo, where are Mr.

Poliokof’s machine guns?”

Bella sat behind his curving pale wood desk. The heavy executive chair creaked as Bella’s weight put it under some strain. The man was six feet tall, and carried a lot of weight. Even his hand-tailored Versace suit failed to hide his soft bulk. He was a big man with big appetites.

“No crap, Gregor. I’m nothing if not truthful. There was an incident in Florida. Somebody, and I don’t know who yet, showed up at the exchange. He killed my guy, Soames, and took out the driver of the van. He took off with the cash, as well.”

“What about the weapons?”

Bella dug a finger inside his shirt collar, where it suddenly started to dig into his neck. “Worst fuckin’ part,” he said. “The son of a bitch went and called the cops in. Miami PD have the M240s in their lockup, along with the delivery guy. I am not worried about him, though. His knowledge is limited.”

Leminov felt a compulsion to drain his glass of whiskey. As he held it up for a refill, Rostov stepped forward and took it.

“So everything has gone and the deal falls flat. I have to tell Mr. Poliokof he doesn’t get his weapons?”

Bella held up a hand. “No, Gregor. The guns will be delivered. A fresh shipment. That takes time. It may be a little late, but the weapons will be delivered.” He cleared his throat, forcing words out that plainly hurt to utter. “You won’t be out of pocket. I’ll stand the loss. It was my end of the deal, so I’ll take the hit.”

This time Leminov sipped the whiskey slowly, savoring it as much as he savored Bella’s offer.

“Look, Gregor, we’ve been doing business for a good few years. This is the first time something like this has happened. I’ve got my people on it. They’re looking for this bastard. We’ll find him, and when I get my hands on him he’ll beg to be killed.”

“Before you do, ask him what he did with the money.”

“If he’s spent it, I’ll strip it out of his flesh.”

“I wish you luck with that. This man sounds extremely capable. He’s not a reckless crackhead.”

Bella shrugged. “I didn’t get where I am by luck. Everything I’ve got is due to hard work. This asshole isn’t going to get the better of me.”

“I think he already did.” Leminov leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Be as casual as you like, Fredo. Just remember who you are dealing with. You do not want to upset Mr. Poliokof. In business he accepts no excuses. Late delivery is late delivery. All I say is this will be marked against you.”

“Christ, Gregor, what am I supposed to do? Snap my fingers and make the fucking guns appear like magic? Poliokof is going to have to wait. Okay?”

Leminov took out his cell phone and hit a number. He stared impassively across the room as he waited. When his call was answered he lapsed into Russian, leaving Bella to wonder what was being said. He completed the call and snapped his phone shut.

“So?” Bella asked.

“Mr. Poliokof is not happy. You lose the guns. You lose the money. Delivery is delayed. Nothing is resolved. He is angry that you make him wait. Mr. Poliokof is not the kind of man you disrespect like this. He warns you this is not the end of the matter.”

“Gregor, I have other clients. The only merchandise I have at the moment has already been sold to someone else. It’s due for pickup. When that goes, the pot is empty. Your order was next. Since it’s gone, I have to wait for my contact to bulk up on stock. Poliokof will have to stand in line until I can sort things out. He’s not the fucking President of the United States. Simple terms, Gregor. If I don’t have it, I can’t supply it.”

Leminov gave a slight shrug. “Then it will have to be. I will pass your remarks to Mr. Poliokof. Then we see what happens.” He pushed to his feet and crossed to the door. As he went through he said, “Watch out for yourself, Fredo.”

And then he was gone, his bodyguard trailing after him.

Next Morning.

“BERTOLLI IS THEIR paymaster,” Zader Poliokof said. “Maybe he can help us out with our cash problem. Find him, take him somewhere you won’t be disturbed and have a talk with him.”

“A friendly talk?” Leminov said.

“Of course. We are not animals, Gregor. Allow him his say. Within reason.”

“He may not be all that willing to cooperate.”

“Then make him realize he has no choice,” Poliokof stated.

“I can see this having a less than pleasant outcome.”

Poliokof smiled. “If it happens, it happens.”

Midafternoon.

FREDO BELLA PICKED UP the phone. “Yeah? What do you mean he isn’t around?”

“He’s not at his office, boss. We checked his apartment. He isn’t there, either.”

“Okay. I got the exchange tonight. Check around and see if anyone knows where he is. Go back to his office. Bring his laptop to me at the site,” Bella said. “No excuses on this, Jerry. Until we know where Bertolli is, I want those codes safe.”

“No problem, boss. Hey, boss, what do you think happened to him?”

“I’m working on it. You just concentrate on finding him.”

3

Bolan found Bertolli’s building and parked in the alley, then walked back to the front and entered the lobby. It was an old building, with few modern electronics. He paused at the indicator board and read off the list of offices and companies. Bertolli—Financial Adviser was on the third floor. Bolan climbed the stairs. He could hear business being conducted behind the closed doors of the offices he passed—the occasional sound of telephones, people chattering.

He reached the third floor and walked the corridor until he came to the door he wanted. The carpet underfoot was worn and dusty. It was obvious that Bertolli had maintained a low profile, conducting his dealings for Bella in seclusion. His financial advice business concealed his involvement in more lucrative operations.

The door, with its frosted glass upper panel, was in keeping with the rest of the building. Bolan grasped the handle and put his hip against the wooden frame, feeling the inner lock give after the third solid thrust. He held the door, glancing round. The corridor was empty. The soldier eased the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind him.

The office decor was impersonal and drab: one desk with a leather swivel seat, shelves holding box files, a row of filing cabinets, a couple of wooden chairs lined up against a wall. Bolan crossed to the desk, which held only a few office items—a phone, a desk pad.

Bolan checked the desk drawers. In the second one down he found an expensive laptop. He slid it out, then closed the drawer and straightened.

And looked at the muzzle of a pistol aimed at him.

There were two men, young and hard-faced. The one by the door had the look of the leader, and he had a hefty pistol in one hand. The other guy, who was holding the pistol on Bolan, had a faint smirk on his angular face.

“Naughty, naughty,” he crowed. “It’s illegal to break into someone’s office and steal things.”

“I’ll try not to lose sleep over it,” Bolan said.

“Should I rap him in the mouth?”

The guy at the door said, “No, Rick, but you should check him for a weapon.”

“Yeah,” the gunner said, and proceeded to feel under Bolan’s coat. He withdrew the Beretta. “You got a license to carry this?”

Bolan resisted the urge to make another smart reply. There was a gleam in the guy’s eyes that told him this one was less in control than his partner.

“You think he’s a cop?”

“No.”

“Fed of some kind. I don’t like Feds.”

“Only their mothers like Feds.”

The gunner dropped the Beretta into a side pocket of his jacket and flicked his head at Bolan.

“Let’s go,” he said before scooping up the laptop and stepping up close behind Bolan.

The guy by the door opened it and checked the corridor.

“Out,” he said. “Turn left and make for the fire exit at the end of the hall.”

The exit door was unlocked and Bolan was escorted through and down the iron fire escape fixed to the outer wall. It took them to a small parking lot, at the rear of the building.

Bolan watched as the laptop was placed inside a late-model Ford. He was considering his options, trying to place himself ahead of the game.

“We taking a ride?” he asked, directing his question at the lead guy.

“We’ve got what we came for, plus you,” the man said. He was looking pleased with himself. “You’re a bonus. The boss is going to be happy seeing you. Maybe you can tell him where Bertolli is.”

“Why should I know? He’s the guy I was looking for myself.”

“Rick, check him over again in case he has a backup.”

Bolan let the guy frisk him. They had his 93-R. It was his only weapon, but the pair was smart enough to make sure for themselves.

“He’s clean,” Rick said, disappointment in his tone.

“Hand me his pistol,” the lead guy said.

Rick passed it over.

“Thought I recognized it.” He inspected the Beretta, balancing it in his hand. “Nice piece,” he said with genuine appreciation.

Rick glanced at it. “It’s just a fuckin’ gun, Jerry. Don’t go getting a hard-on for it.”

“You think? This is a Beretta 93-R, an Italian masterpiece. There’s a setting on the selector that let’s you fire three-round bursts. How many other semiautos can do that?”

Jerry’s partner waggled his head. “Big whoop.”

“Rick, being a moron isn’t enough for you. You prove it every time you open your mouth.”

“Hey! There’s no call for that. I ain’t that dumb. Who got the blonde piece everyone was after the other night? Huh? Go on, tell me. Well, it wasn’t you, Beretta man.”

Jerry shook his head. “Just like I said, Rick, dumb as ever. Stop thinking with your dick and use your brain for a change.”

Rick stared at his partner for long seconds, concentration screwing up his face. Then he decided Jerry was belittling him, and he leaned forward to swipe at Jerry’s arm. “Cut that out…”

He didn’t finish. In fact those three words were the last he ever spoke.

Bolan moved, using the thin window of opportunity, and caught hold of Rick’s extended arm. He propelled the guy forward into Jerry, following through to slam his right elbow down into the back of Rick’s neck. The blow was hard, driving the guy to his knees. Before Rick hit the concrete Bolan had moved on, gripping Jerry’s gun arm and forcing it down. Jerry’s finger jerked the trigger and the pistol fired with a hard bang. The slug cored into the back of Rick’s skull, exiting through his face and blowing bloody gore onto the ground. Bolan drove the palm of his right hand up into Jerry’s face, crushing his nose. Blood squirted in bright streams. The sudden pain drained Jerry’s resistance, and he uttered a strangled moan. The Executioner hit him again, going for the man’s throat, knuckles driving into soft flesh and crushing everything in its path. Jerry gagged, dropping both guns he was holding, and clawed at his ruined throat, desperately trying to suck in air that wasn’t coming. He fell back against the side of the car as Bolan picked up the dropped Beretta. He stepped back and fired a single shot into Jerry’s skull, silencing him completely.

The soldier slid the Beretta into its shoulder holster, then went through the dead men’s pockets. They were carrying very little—some loose cash and a cell phone from Jerry’s leather jacket.

Bolan crossed to the car and slid inside. The laptop lay where Rick had placed it. Noticing a GPS unit mounted on the dash, he turned on the ignition and powered up the unit, checking on the current setting. The small screen illustrated a route that had been entered recently, according to the time readout. It might offer Bolan a destination. He detached the GPS unit from the dash, unplugged it from the power source and took it, along with the laptop, with him.

Back in his own car Bolan set the GPS unit on the dash panel and turned it on. The recent settings still showed. He took the cell phone he’d found and checked it out. No voice calls, but there were a couple of text messages. Bolan opened them. The first was a text from the cell phone provider, offering Jerry free credits. The soldier went to the second, most recent message. It had been received no more than a half hour ago. The text advised Jerry to enter the coordinates that followed into his GPS and to drive the route. They were expected within the next hour. At the end of the message was a single name— Bella. When Bolan checked the coordinates from the text they matched the ones entered into the GPS unit.

He started the car and drove out of the lot, following the screen directions and the female voice backup. He had no idea where he was going to end up, but if it brought him to Fredo Bella it was going to be worth the trip.

The journey lasted almost forty-five minutes. Though the dark and the rain made it difficult for Bolan to know where this trip was taking him, he was aware of the less than pleasant landscape as he drove down poorly illuminated streets, with rundown buildings on either side. There were abandoned cars. Shuttered windows. Then he was entering what would have been a busy industrial section of the city at one time, but urban decay had taken hold, leaving only blackened, abandoned buildings.

Bolan recalled what Jerry had said about Bertolli. It was plain the man had gone missing, and his disappearance was a mystery to Bella’s people. Maybe Bolan could figure it out later.

The soldier followed the GPS as it led him deeper into the industrial wasteland. The voice told him he was within a few hundred yards of his journey’s end. He swung the car into the deep shadows of an open-ended structure that had rusted, overgrown steel rails leading inside. He killed the engine and sat, hearing only the heavy rain on the corrugated roof above him.

Jerry and Rick had been ordered to meet with Bella at this location. Bolan was certain it wasn’t an invitation to a wine tasting.

Something was happening.

Imminently.

Bolan decided to crash the party.

Exiting the car, he raised the trunk and slipped off his outer clothing, revealing his blacksuit underneath. A black baseball cap completed his uniform. From his war bag he chose his weapons and checked their loads. He slipped a compact, powerful monocular into a pocket, closed the trunk and locked the car, placing the key in one of his blacksuit’s secure pockets. The GPS had shown that his destination lay directly to his right. Bolan followed the route, working his way silently through the gloom and the steady downpour. The falling rain would cover his movements and any peripheral sound he might make.

He spotted his destination through the downpour—a haze of light at first, then as he closed in, he made out the dark bulk of the building. Open doors showed him movement inside. Bolan edged closer, using the scatterings of industrial debris as cover as he moved in.

Bolan took out the monocular and focused in on the open doors of the building. He spotted vehicles, men moving back and forth, lifting wooden crates from the largest truck and distributing them between the smaller vehicles. There was enough illumination for him to be able to identify the size and shape of the boxes, even down to the military markings on them.

He saw a number of the men carrying weapons as they kept an eye on the proceedings.

A single, armed sentry covered the exterior, and overseeing the operation was the man himself.

Fredo Bella, in his expensive clothing, dominated the scene as he issued orders.

The darkness cloaked Bolan, the persistent rain matching his mood. He crouched close to his target, a chill wind tugging at his blacksuit. The sprawl of industrial buildings, long abandoned, served the predators who had no idea the Executioner was about to descend upon them and reduce their business to ashes. Inside the derelict structure they handled their illegal merchandise, preparing to ship out the weapons for the deals they had already made, none of them realizing the fury already making his move to close them down.

As he eased up behind the lone sentry by the entrance, Bolan wiped cold rain from his eyes with his sleeve, ignoring the keen slice of the wind scything across the compound. He adjusted the M-16 A-2 across his back where it hung alongside his regular 9 mm Uzi, reaching down to free the Cold Steel Tanto knife from its sheath at his waist. The black blade offered no reflection as Bolan rose to his full height behind the sentry.

The Executioner was a black-clad wraith fully armed for what lay ahead.

The sentry felt the strong fingers that pushed the cap from his head and curled into his hair, yanking his head back, then drew breath as the keen edge of the knife etched across his taut throat. It bit deeply, severing everything in its path, releasing a surge of warm blood that spilled down over his waterproof jacket. He struggled in wordless agony, held upright by Bolan’s powerful grip until his strength dissipated along with his spilled blood. Only when the sentry ceased to struggle did Bolan allow him to slump to his knees, then onto his face. The man was still in spasm as the soldier stepped over him and paused briefly at the entrance. He loosened the M-16, peering inside the opening before he stepped through into the dimly lit interior. Crouching against the wall, lost in the deep shadows there, Bolan surveyed the scene, spotting a ragged line of heavy steel containers. He eased along the wall until the containers provided him with a wall of protection.

From there he was able to view the operation at close quarters.

Two dilapidated panel trucks were parked beneath a bank of pallid fluorescent lights. A number of men were busy checking and loading cases from a third, larger vehicle, distributing them between the panel trucks. Bolan located an expensive late-model BMW nearby, the gleaming paintwork speckled with raindrops.

Even as he looked over the situation, Bolan’s hands were checking his handguns, the 9 mm Beretta 93-R in his shoulder rig, the big Magnum Desert Eagle resting snugly in the high ride holster on his right hip. He carried extra magazines for each handgun, as well as for the M-16 and Uzi, in the combat harness over the blacksuit. In addition he carried a number of flash-bang grenades and M-34 phosphorous grenades.

Satisfied his intel was sound, Bolan eased off the M-16’s safety, selecting the triburst setting. He freed one of the flash-bang grenades, pulled the pin, then threw the canister so hard that it landed in between the parked panel trucks. Bolan opened his mouth, shielded his ears and turned his head away from the harsh burst of sound and white light as the grenade detonated. Men yelled in surprise and pain as they staggered back from the blast. Someone, perhaps shielded from the effects of the grenade, opened fire and Bolan heard slugs clanging off the metalwork around him. Angry shouts erupted.

Still crouching, the Executioner shouldered the M-16 and picked his targets. The tribursts from his rifle set up echoing noise. A man cried out as 5.56 mm slugs found his vulnerable flesh. Bolan swept the M-16’s muzzle back and forth, following targets and dropping a couple more before the main group found cover behind the parked vehicles and began to fire back.

“Spread,” a voice commanded. “Don’t give him easy targets.”

Figures fanned out across the floor, seeking shelter so makeshift firing positions could be established. Return fire was concentrated on Bolan’s position, the steel wall rejecting the hard slam of autofire. The soldier edged along the line of containers until he was clear of his original spot, then raised himself and opened fire again. He heard someone cursing, followed by the clatter of a dropped weapon. More voices called out. Bolan detected traces of panic in some of the words and allowed a thin smile to edge his lips.

He freed one of the M-34 phosphorous grenades, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb in the direction of one of the panel trucks. His aim turned out to be better than he might have imagined. The grenade landed inside the open rear doors, rolling to rest against the stacked cargo. One of the men saw it and made the mistake of scrambling inside the truck to retrieve the grenade. It detonated in the moment his fingers grasped it. The guy let out a harsh scream as the phosphorous burned its way into his flesh, gnawing deep into the bone. Howling in agony, the man was consumed as the phosphorous expanded, filling the truck interior with a blinding surge of incandescent heat that would reach 5,000º F. At the point where the stored ammunition began to ignite, the panel truck was blown apart, the stripped metal panels adding to misery being heaped upon the armed group, slivers of razor-sharp steel scything in all directions. Some of those fragments caught vulnerable flesh and men went to their knees in pain.

Bolan used the distraction to add his own brand of justice, the autorifle pumping out tribursts that took more of the men down. He replaced his empty magazine with a fresh one and kept up his steady fire, punching the shooters down as they attempted to take him out. It turned into an uneven contest. Bolan, despite the shots fired in his direction, continued to mop up.

Out the corner of his eye he saw a bulky, suited figure break free from cover, clearing the drifting smoke from the blown truck, and running in the direction of the BMW. Someone was leaving the party. Even in that brief moment, Bolan recognized Fredo Bella from the mug shot Kurtzman had sent him. The soldier swung the M-16 around, working the lever for single shots. He tracked his target and fired, the 5.56 mm slug impacting against the Bella’s right thigh, shattering bones. The Executioner followed with a second shot that cored into the man’s left leg and toppled him facedown on the grimy floor.

As the sound of the final shots faded, the silence broken only by the moans coming from Bella, Bolan checked out the area. Only when he was convinced the battle was over did he move from cover and inspect the other parked vehicles and their contents. He discovered a generous selection of weapons that included automatic rifles and automatic pistols, as well as a plentiful supply of ammunition for the various pieces. In one van he located a case of military Light Anti-Tank Weapons—LAWs. Bolan’s concern rose at the sight of the shoulder-launched missiles. The ordnance was destined for street gangs—urban crime. Automatic weapons were bad enough, but the inclusion of LAWs took the concept of street violence to a new level. It convinced Bolan that his intel had not been exaggerated. His foray here in Chicago was more than justified.

Bolan broke open one of the LAW boxes and lifted out three of the launchers, slinging them from his shoulder. Additional ordnance was always welcome. Backing off, he primed and dropped more M-34s into the remaining vehicles, including the BMW. With the grenades burning down their fuses, Bolan made a swift retreat and ducked for cover seconds before the grenades ignited and the fearsome burst of phosphorous threw out heat that turned the vehicles into blazing wrecks. The crackling sound of igniting ammunition echoed around the building. Smoke and fire followed in their wake.

Bolan exited as swiftly and silently as he had made his entrance, his work in the Windy City done for the moment. The people who ordered the weapons were going to be sorely disappointed. The Executioner’s work for this dark night was over.

The soldier worked his way out of the area, back to where he had parked his rental, he fished the key from a zip pocket, opened the trunk and placed his weapons inside. He pulled his civilian clothing back over his blacksuit, then donned a cord jacket. Taking his Beretta, he stowed it under the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. He nosed out of the shed and drove away from the battle zone, retracing the route he had used to come in. When he was several minutes away, he picked up the approaching sound of police cruisers. Bolan held his speed as he eased back to the main thoroughfare. He had reached a busy intersection when a couple of CPD cruisers sped by, followed by ambulances and a fire truck.

Twenty minutes later Bolan parked in the basement garage of his hotel, backing the rental into a slot. He locked the vehicle and picked up a leather attaché case from the rear seat. He dropped the Beretta into the case along with the laptop, slipped on the dark topcoat he’d kept on the seat and made his way from the garage to the hotel entrance. As he crossed the lobby, the lone woman behind the desk glanced up. She studied him for a moment, then smiled.

“Late finish?” she said as Bolan requested his key card.

“Corporate takeovers have no concept of time,” he said, giving her a friendly grin. “Some people just don’t know when to give in.”

“Room service is still available, Mr. Cooper. Can I arrange for something to be sent up?”

“Coffee and sandwiches would be nice,” Bolan said.

The woman stared into the warm blue eyes and decided that Mr. Cooper was a nice man. “Well, I hope your evening was successful.”

Mack Bolan nodded briefly. “It was,” he said. “Extremely productive.”

BOLAN PLUGGED the laptop into the room’s electrical outlet, powered it up and watched as the wireless internet connection set up. He opened the program and studied the saved files. They appeared to be in some kind of code that defeated Bolan’s limited IT skills. He used his cell phone to call Stony Man Farm. The call was eventually routed to the Computer Room, and he explained his problem to Akira Tokaido.

“No problem,” the computer hacker said. “Let me download those files and I’ll take a look.”

Bolan’s room service order arrived, so he left Tokaido to his computer code breaking. He had barely finished when his cell phone rang.

“Nothing difficult, Striker. The guy used a simple coding scheme to hide his files. Overseas bank accounts. Usual stuff. Some big amounts of money being handled here. I could quit and live off the interest these guys are making.”

“Anything else?”

“Telephone numbers, contact list, delivery dates.”

“Current details?”

“I can only tell you what I see. I can’t make sense of any of it.”

“Just give me what you have,” Bolan said. “You’re doing fine.”

“Latest information has an upcoming transaction at South Auto Salvage in Newark. Due midnight tomorrow.”

“You got any information on who runs South Auto Salvage?”

“Nicky Costanza. I checked him out. He’s a career criminal who’s into all kinds of rackets. Not a nice dude.”

“If they were all nice dudes, Akira, we’d be out of a job.”

“I guess so. I’ll transfer the information to your laptop. With pictures and GPS coordinates to land you right at South Auto Salvage’s front door.”

“Thanks for this,” Bolan said. “Tell Aaron I said you can have a raise.”

Tokaido laughed. “Do I get that in writing?”

“You wish.”

4

McQueen County, New Mexico

Tony Lorenzo watched Lou Cameron’s eyes. He knew his boss well enough to be wary. Cameron had a mercurial capacity for mood changes. He could lash out in an instant, not giving a damn who he hurt in the process, and bad news was a sure way of incurring the man’s wrath. Lorenzo had seen Cameron kill without hesitation because something had gone off track. He struck out in a simple reflex reaction to setbacks. So bringing Cameron the information about the hit on the Chicago deal was a risky piece of business. Which was why Lorenzo studied the expression in Cameron’s eyes very carefully.

As usual, Cameron was dressed in a well-cut suit and a white shirt open at the collar. Tall, with a lean build, he looked more like a banker on a break than a career criminal who had graduated from petty crime to his position as a premier supplier of illegal arms. With his youthful, handsome good looks and sandy hair, Cameron could have earned a good living as an actor. The letdown was his eyes. They were sharp and cold, the kind that instilled caution in anyone thinking of defying him.

A brief silence followed the report. As Cameron’s hand gripped the whiskey bottle, his knuckles turned white. It was the only indication of his anger. He leaned forward and filled the tumbler, placed the bottle on the glass table, then sat back with the drink in his hand. It was very quiet in the room. Not one of the six men present wanted to be the first to speak.

“Has anyone figured out who made the hit?” Cameron asked. “Cops? Feds? Some local opposition?”

“Bella was the only survivor. He was pretty badly cut up and burned, and had slugs in both legs. He came through with some information when our contact visited, but all we got was a single hitter,” Lorenzo said, “well-armed, dressed in black and knew exactly what he was doing. Like he came out of nowhere. He took out the guard, then went inside the warehouse and blew everything all to hell. Used some kind of phosphorous grenades to burn up the merchandise.”

“Then it doesn’t sound like local cops or the Feds. They go to the fuckin’ john in pairs. And destroying evidence doesn’t fit the rule book.”

“If it was a local hit, why would they wipe out the merchandise?” one of the group asked. “That was a high-price consignment.”

Cameron nodded. “Good point. Let’s check this out. Contact Chicago. Get some muscle to make the rounds—kick down some doors and bruise some asses. Spread some money. Find out who this joker might be and if he does work for somebody. If it turns out to be some home group, they’re dead.” He tossed back the whiskey and waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s go, people.”

“You figure this is the same guy who hit the exchange in Miami?” someone asked. “Can’t be a coincidence coming so close together.”

“We have to consider they might be connected,” Cameron admitted, “which is why we get local people on the streets asking questions and pushing hard.”

The man who had asked about the destruction of the consignment said, “If we get our hands on this guy, do we put him out of his misery? Or do you want to talk to him?”

“Oh, I want to talk to him. Now, I don’t mind if he gets a little bruised on the way, but I want him breathing and able to speak. Let’s get to it, boys.”

Lorenzo waited until the room had cleared. He closed the heavy door and turned to face Cameron.

“Pretty expensive mess, Lou,” he said. “The cargo in Miami and now Chicago. Vehicles. Bella’s BMW, still with the new-leather smell. And seven of our guys.”

Cameron nodded, waiting. When Lorenzo didn’t continue, he said, “Bella ran the Chicago team. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He got sloppy and paid the price. What concerns me more is the way this is going to look. Two hits like this is a loss of face.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to push it too far by mentioning that.”

Cameron slumped back in his leather armchair, drumming his fingers on the padded arms. His eyes wandered around the expensively decorated room.

“Can I have a drink?” Lorenzo asked, a slight hesitation in his tone.

“Go ahead.” Cameron watched his man fill a tumbler and take a swallow. “Hey, you know how much that stuff is a bottle? I’m only asking because the way you’re slopping it down it might as well be tap water.”

“Yeah. I must be nervous,” Lorenzo said. “I get like that when I start adding up cash loss.”

Cameron smiled. “Tony, forget that. We can stand the loss from Miami and Chicago. It’s a pain in the butt, sure, but I’m more concerned about the how and the why. I don’t give a damn about Soames’s spot. He isn’t that important. Just a middleman. But Bella’s warehouse was supposed to be safe. That’s our part of the hood. Like church grounds. Consecrated. Off-limits. No one walks in off the fucking street and takes down one of my places.”

“Looks like this guy didn’t know that.”

“That’s stating the obvious. So this is how we play it. I want you to take charge, Tony. I mean the whole nine yards in Chicago. You’re the new boss. If anybody doesn’t like it, you get them to talk to me. Get things back on track. Make your mark, Tony. You earned this.”

“Thanks, Lou, I won’t let you down.”

“Kick some ass up there. Remind those assholes who they work for, and don’t take any crap. It’s your priority—drop every thing else. Choose a couple of guys to do the running for you, but get me results.”

Lorenzo drained his glass, then cleared his throat. “What about Calvera?”

“I’ll handle him. He won’t be happy when I tell him his order isn’t going to be delivered for a few more days, but he’s going to have to suck it up.”

“Let’s hope he sees it that way.”

Cameron raised his hands. “Shit happens, Tony. He’ll get over it. I took the hit, not him.”

“Okay.”

As Lorenzo headed for the door Cameron said, “One thing needs clearing up soon as. Bella. This mess is down to him, so he’s no longer of any use to me. He screwed up big, and he might start to open his mouth if the cops start coming around. Make it so the only way he leaves the hospital is via the morgue. Understand?”

“Consider it done,” Lorenzo said, and then left the room.

Finally on his own, Cameron stared at the phone. Make the fucking call, he told himself. What the hell is José Calvera going to do? Sue me? He smiled at his own joke, reached out to tap in the number and waited for the call to be picked up.

The moment Calvera picked up and spoke, Cameron knew the bad news had already reached him. His Hispanic temperament always got the better of him, and he launched into a loud rant over the delay in getting his order. Cameron allowed the man to get it out of his system.

“I got a fuckin’ street war in the making,” Calvera concluded. “You know the score here. The federales are hitting us hard. Our rival cartels are bustin’ my cojones trying to take over. I want my boys armed so they don’t get wiped out on the first day. You promised me, Lou. Now you tell me my delivery is delayed because you got some shit happening in Chicago.”

“This thing kind of held me up. I need to calm things down for a day or two. Let me handle it, José, and I’ll have your stuff on the way soon as possible.”

“Don’t let me down. If I get angry over this, we are going to have our own war. Do you understand me, amigo?”

“José, take a breath. You’ll get your stuff soon enough. You know that. I honor my deals. All I ask is a couple more days and you’ll have your consignment. I’ll even throw in a few extra items as compensation for your trouble. Is that fair?”

Slightly mollified, Calvera grunted in agreement.

“So what happened?”

“Some kind of screwup with merchandise. I’ve got my hands full sorting it out. My crew boss in Chicago fucked up, so Tony Lorenzo is on his way there. He’s the new boss. The other guy is out.”

Calvera chuckled. “Hey, this is me you’re talking to, Lou. I already heard about the problem in Chicago. Screwup with merchandise? You got hit, and your weapons were blown to hell. Tell me I’m wrong, amigo.”

“José, nothing gets by you, huh? Yeah, I got hit. Miami, too. So things are a little crazy at the moment.”

“Who is responsible?” Calvera asked.

“As of yet I have no idea. The smoke has hardly had time to settle, but I’m going to find out.”

“Maybe you have a new player trying to move in on your territory,” Calvera said.

“Anything is possible, Jose. What’s certain is the son of a bitch who did this will be more than sorry he screwed with Louis Cameron.”

“Maybe he doesn’t realize who you are.”

“I’m about to change that,” Cameron stated.

“So I hear from you soon? Sí?”

“Muy pronto, mi amigo.”

Cameron cut the call and sat back. He didn’t even look up when the door opened and someone stepped into the room and crossed to his desk. He knew who his visitor was. The familiar drag of one foot against the floor told him it was Nathan, his younger brother.

“I can quote you down to the last dime how much that Chicago mess cost us,” Nathan said. “I’ve just been working it out.”

Cameron had to smile. Only Nathan could do that, work out the potential loss to the final dot.

“Little bro,” he said, “I just knew you’d come up with something like that.”

“Yeah, well, it isn’t like I have a lot else to do.”

Nathan eased himself into one of the chairs by the desk. At twenty-nine he was five years younger than his brother, whip thin, with dark good looks, his hair worn shoulder length. He dressed well and expensively. His left leg was thrust out stiffly, and his lips tightened in reaction to the ache that never seemed to fully go away. The leg had been badly damaged in the aftermath of a horrific auto accident when he was eighteen. Five people had died in the crash, the result of a head-on collision on the local highway. Nathan, a passenger, had been cut from the wreck after three hours. He had been the only survivor. Despite the surgery that saved his leg, he was left disabled and in pain that came and went. No amount of aftercare restored the damaged limb. But Nathan endured because he had no choice. He’d turned to drugs to dull the pain and might have succumbed all the way if his brother had not stepped in. Lou’s intervention kept his younger brother from losing it completely. He brought him into the organization and put him in charge of running the financial side of the business. Nathan had a natural aptitude for money matters, and he had never taken a wrong step when it came to organizing the cash flow.

“Hey, bro, how are we feeling today?”

Nathan massaged his leg. “Kicked off this morning and won’t let up,” he said. “Hey, I know you got problems. I don’t want to make a fuss.”

“You’ll have me crying in a minute,” Lou said, his tone light as he chided his brother.

“You’re a mean mother.”

“That’s me,” Lou said with a big grin. “So, am I going to need to sell off one of my cars to make up the loss?”

“That would make you cry. The money is just a drop in the pool, but what the fuck is going on, Lou? Who did this to us?”

“I have no idea—yet.”

“Story I heard is Bella figured it was one guy.”

“That’s what we’ve got.”

“That’s crazy,” Nathan said. “He has to be good if he took out the whole crew. Hey, what about Newark? Don’t we have a shipment being handled there as we speak? Another order for Poliokof? Is he still pissed because he didn’t get his weapons on time?”

“Poliokof isn’t our only deal. That freakin’ Russian needs to cool down. The world doesn’t spin on his say-so. A few machine guns are late and he blows his top. But Bella didn’t help matters by getting all mouthy with him.”

“What’s this I hear about Bertolli vanishing from his office?”

Cameron shrugged. “Yeah, that’s weird. I have people looking for him.”

“You did make Costanza realize he needs to stay sharp?”

Lou nodded. “He already knows to step up security.”

“It’d be a good move to do the same here. Tighten up. Maybe have a word with Torrance, as well.”

“Our good local sheriff is on his way right now.”

“Make him remember we aren’t paying him just to sit on his bony ass.”

“He already knows that,” Lou said.

“Make him remember even harder.”

Lou smiled. “Okay, just quit playing hardball with me.”

“I have to keep up my tough-guy image,” Nathan said.

“Yeah, yeah, you want to play nice for that lady deputy of Torrance’s. I know. You go all goofy every time you see her.”

“That’s not true, Lou.”

“It is so. Hey, you think she’s soft on you?” Nathan shrugged.

“Not so little bro anymore,” Cameron said.

Changing the subject, Nathan said, “I saw Tony when I came in. He was looking happy.”

“I put him in charge of Chicago. Bella is out permanently.”

“I know what that means.”

“Yeah? So behave when I’m around.”

Nathan smiled. “Hey, what about the thing in Miami? Is it connected?”

“I don’t know. We’re still checking it out.”

“Lou, there’s something weird going on. Some guy comes out of nowhere and takes down Soames’s deal, then Chicago gets bounced. We lost merchandise. People are dead. There’s just too much not to be connected. Listen to me, Lou.”

“Take it easy,” Cameron said. “I got it in hand. You think I’m not going to work this out? We are talking about our livelihood here. Look, Nate, we’re not in the cuddly toy corner of the business community. The people we mix with are not exactly pillars of society. We’ve got to expect things like this. But we deal with it. I’m dealing with it.”

“How did Calvera take it?”

Cameron grinned. “He was slightly pissed, but I told him he would get his shipment. Just a little late.”

“Lou, are you okay? I know how things like this get to you.”

“I’ll be fine. But it’s lucky we don’t have any dogs or cats around the place. If we had they’d be running screaming with their furry butts kicked all to hell.”

“Wait until we get our hands on the joker who did all this. Then you’ll have something to kick.”

“Yeah, you said it, bro.”

5

Newark, New Jersey

Bolan entered Newark, New Jersey, off the turnpike, the GPS unit guiding him through the bustle of the late-afternoon streets to the industrial area where the auto scrap yard was based. He saw the sprawling grounds well before he reached them, a large site surrounded by corrugated iron fencing topped with razor wire. Bolan could see the stacks of wrecked vehicles rising ahead of him, the angled jibs of cranes, the sloping roof of a long workshop.

The sign on the wide-open steel gates identified the yard as South Auto Salvage.

He drove by without stopping and followed the road as it took him by other industrialized units. Bolan made a recon of the district, noting ways in and out, mapping different routes. Twenty minutes later he made the return trip and exited the area.

Okay, he thought, target spotted.

Next, he needed to carry out a recon exercise. That would be after dark. Bolan needed a base to work from. He had spotted a couple of hotels on his way in, so he backtracked and swung into the parking lot of the first one he came to. It was high end, not cheap, but that didn’t worry Bolan. He was still running on his Stony Man card. He queried the man at the desk, and since there was a room available he checked in. Minutes later he was taking a long, hot shower to wash away the dust of his drive from Chicago. Room service provided a steak and salad dinner, plus fresh coffee. After his meal he stretched out on the bed and allowed himself a few hours’ sleep.

Seven p.m.

BOLAN PULLED ON his blacksuit and geared up for what he hoped would be a soft probe. He took the Beretta 93-R, plus a couple of extra magazines in the pockets of his combat vest. A wire garrote, the Cold Steel Tanto knife and supple black leather gloves all went into a black backpack. He pulled on a pair of dark chinos and a roll-neck sweater. The carry-all containing his additional ordnance went to the back of the room’s closet. Bolan slipped on his jacket, making sure his cell phone was there, along with a wad of cash. All for backup and the unexpected.

He left his room and took the elevator to the lobby, the backpack hanging over one shoulder. He dropped off his key card and made his way out, crossing to his car.

It took him longer to make the return journey to South Auto Salvage. Traffic was still surprisingly heavy and he drove into rain that had blown in quickly. His earlier recon had left him with a mental map of the industrial area, and he used that image to guide him to a secondary road so he could approach his target from the rear. The back strip that ran behind the scrap yard was unlit and in a state of disrepair, with dumped metal trash edging the road. Bolan pulled the rental into the shadows and cut the engine. Rain drummed on the roof. He wasn’t entirely happy about leaving the car where it was, but he had little choice. There was nowhere else to park. He would have to leave it to luck that the car would still be there when he returned, or that it not be discovered at all.

Bolan removed his outer clothing. He removed combat boots from the backpack, and put them on, then donned the loaded vest and the shoulder rig for the Beretta. The Tanto was sheathed on his belt. Lastly, Bolan pulled his black baseball cap from the backpack.

He slipped from the car and locked the vehicle, pulled on his gloves and moved swiftly across the deserted strip, pressing against the corrugated iron fence surrounding the scrap yard.

The darkness worked to his advantage, his black-clad form blending in well. And the persistent rain added another plus.

Bolan walked along the rear fence from one end to the other, looking for a weak spot. He found what he was looking for close to the north corner. The corrugated sheets had been pushed into a generous outward bulge, most likely from wrecked autos being collected and pushed into stacks. He found that the overlap between two sheets had been widened, and when he moved in close he saw that the opening was large enough for him to ease through. He took his time, aware that on the other side of the fence tons of mangled steel would be balanced in close proximity to the fence. He didn’t want to bring all that metal debris down on himself.

As he emerged on the far side of the fence, Bolan found himself in a narrow tunnel. Crushed cars surrounded him. On his knees, hunching his shoulders to reduce his body mass, the soldier crawled forward. The ground under him was wet and spongy, while rain worked its way down through the stacked vehicles. A couple of times Bolan was forced onto his stomach, easing his way through the close-knit formation. The soft creak of metal on metal made him pause. He waited until the creaking ceased before continuing his crawl.

Beyond his spot Bolan picked up the sound of a vehicle engine. Peering through the narrow tunnel, he found he was able to look out across the yard, past the hulks of broken vehicles. To his right was the large workshop, doors open wide and some illumination that showed him the interior. He saw figures moving about. The vehicle he had heard was new, a rain-slicked panel truck. Bolan watched as the side door opened. Two men dragged a third from inside the van. The captive had his hands bound in front of him and a hood over his head. He was hustled into the workshop, where three more figures appeared. The prisoner started to struggle until a hard fist was slammed into his face through the hood. The guy slumped and was half-dragged when his legs gave way. Bolan watched until the group vanished from sight inside the building. Voices were competing in a lively argument, but Bolan was unable to make out any words.

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