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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.”
