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The remaining pair, almost reaching the top of the escalator, turned at the sound of the commotion. The looks on their faces told the story. They had made the worst mistake they could have in any battlefield scenario—they had severely underestimated the ingenuity of their enemy.
Bolan ended the surprised looks with another volley, this one more controlled as the Beretta recoiled in the Weaver’s grip had adopted. Both 3-round salvos were true, the first punching through the lungs and stomach of one terrorist who rose and tried to outshoot Bolan. The second terrorist took two of the soldier’s shots in his chest and shoulder. He screamed with pain as his finger curled on the trigger of his AKSU and sent a cluster of 7.62 mm bullets into the ceiling above Bolan’s head.
The falling debris missed the Executioner entirely, as he was already on the move and headed for the exit. The terrorist threat had been neutralized, and he saw no point in standing around and waiting for a slew of security guards to converge on him. He wouldn’t drop the hammer on a cop, whether a sworn peace officer or just a simple security guard. Those men and women had families, and they were simply doing their jobs.
Bolan traded out clips as he left the chaos of the store unmolested. He quickly crossed the street through the logjam of traffic created by the swarm of people reacting to the gun battle. He easily got lost in the crowd. He stopped at a nearby bistro and politely requested use of their bathroom. He splashed cold water onto his face, straightened his clothing and headed for the café where Grano and Ape were supposed to be waiting. Bolan found the coffee shop without much trouble and found the hoods waiting for him, true to Grano’s word.
They rose without a word and led him to a back alley where a midsized luxury sedan was waiting for them, engine running under the watchful eyes of a pair of large bulls. Ape climbed behind the wheel, and Grano ordered Bolan to take shotgun. He could feel Grano staring at the back of his head, and he knew the house boss wanted him up front where he could keep an eye on him. Yeah, “Loyal” or not, they didn’t trust him—at least not completely.
“So?” Grano asked, once Ape had gotten them out of the downtown area and merged with highway traffic leading toward the Boston suburbs. “What happened?”
“Not much, boss,” Bolan replied, trying to immediately settle back into his role. “I don’t know who the guy was, but I managed to lose him.”
“That right?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure you weren’t followed?”
Bolan nodded. “I’m sure, Mr. Grano.”
“Good.” Grano settled back in his seat, and in the reflection of the front windshield Bolan could make out enough of his expression to tell the guy was satisfied. “And you can skip the formalities, Loyal. Call me Serge.”
“I’d like to, boss,” Bolan replied easily, “but it just doesn’t seem natural yet.”
“All right,” Grano said, slapping Bolan’s shoulder. “I guess I can understand that. Let’s just give it some time.” Then he added, “You’re gonna fit right in with us, eh? What do you think, Ape?”
“I think he’s pretty square so far,” Ape mumbled.
Bolan glanced at Ape’s profile a moment, and noticed the guy’s eyes hadn’t shifted from the road and his fingers were tightening on the steering wheel. Obviously, he thought of Bolan as a threat to his own place in the hierarchy. Bolan had met Ape’s kind before. They never went very high in the organization because they were big on brawn, but had little going on upstairs.
These days, mobsters were much more educated than in days gone by; in fact, many of them were college graduates holding a master’s degree and even a doctorate. It was a different kind of organized crime, called by the same name but doing its dirty deeds in a very different fashion. New mobsters came from the halls of places like William and Mary, Yale, Harvard and Stanford. They made their mark in the business world, and after they had amassed enough wealth, or reached positions on corporate boards, they struck like the venomous snakes they really were.
Yeah, the days of public hits in the downtown sandwich shops or dumping bodies into rivers were long gone. Now the Mafia controlled much of their business through legal means such as contracts, hostile takeovers, and mergers and acquisitions. Instead of moving their money through backroom laundering operations, they fronted high-dollar investments through pyramid schemes and paper companies. They were like catfish: bottom feeders. They made their move while the political focus shifted to corporate CEOs running once-legitimate companies before letting greed get the better of them. As political action groups and attorneys battled with Senate hearing committees over the ethics of big business, the syndicate continued its activities right under everyone’s noses.
As Bolan rode with the mobsters, he planned to insure the Lenzini clan didn’t continue operating. They had allied themselves with one of America’s greatest enemies, and the Executioner was going to sever the alliance. First he would amputate the hand of organized crime that had soiled itself by an offer of friendship with the New Islamic Front.
Bolan smiled briefly at the irony of it. In some of the Arab countries, when someone stole something, the punishment was to amputate one of the thief’s hands, thus teaching him a lesson while simultaneously marking him for life. And that’s exactly what Mack Bolan planned to do; the Mafia had stolen from the American people. Once the Executioner had finished marking the Lenzini crime syndicate as thieves, he would turn to their terrorist allies.
Except it wasn’t their hands he’d cut off, but their heads.
Washington, D.C.
COLONEL UMAR ABDALRAHMAN arrived in America without fanfare or celebration.
The former Afghanistani guerrilla whose military rank had been an honorarium bestowed upon him by the former Iraqi regime watched his troops take up a perimeter to protect him as he stepped from the yacht.
The transfer from the submarine to the sixty-five-foot yacht had gone off without a hitch. The crew had had a tense but brief run-in with the U.S. Coast Guard, but they quickly lost interest in inspecting the yacht when a call came through from a plane’s distress beacon. Abdalrahman was pleased with the decoy his men had created, and the fact he’d made it to American shores with relative ease didn’t really surprise him much. Despite the alleged additional precautions taken by the American government to protect themselves from the jihad, it wasn’t enough, and it would never be enough. It was a holy war now, and the New Islamic Front would continue to operate within the United States. They were on the brink of making history, and proclaiming victory against America for all of the blood it had shed. In one sense Abdalrahman felt there was justice in the thought that this country and people, whom he hated with every fiber of his being, had given birth to some of Islam’s greatest martyrs.
As Abdalrahman moved down the gangplank and stepped onto the dock, careful not to lose his balance on the slippery wood, he caught his first sight of Dr. Malcolm Shurish. He wasn’t sure if he was happy to see the man, or if he wished to strangle him. In some ways, he held Shurish personally responsible for the capture of his nephew. In fact, it was Shurish who managed to send word to Abdalrahman and let him know of Sadiq’s imprisonment. Abdalrahman had come to America immediately, bringing a crew of his best and most talented soldiers.
Abdalrahman stopped a few feet shy of Shurish, and when he saw the man bow low to him and then step forward and kiss his shoulder in traditional fashion, he let his anger melt away. There was no way Shurish could have stopped the American, Cooper, from going to Afghanistan and destroying everything Abdalrahman had worked so hard to achieve. Then again, he wondered, since Sadiq had been brought to the United States, how much Shurish had done to try to rescue his nephew from the American infidels. Only time would tell.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Colonel,” Shurish said. “I prayed Allah would bring you safely to us, and he has heard me.”
“It is good to see you, as well,” Abdalrahman lied. “Thank you for sending word so quickly.”
“When I heard of Sadiq’s whereabouts, I knew you would want to know he was alive.”
“Absolutely, and in this you have done right.” Abdalrahman began to walk toward the car he noticed was waiting for him. “What of our plans with Carnivore? How soon can we be ready?”
“I am not certain. Sadiq’s capture has caused serious delays,” Shurish replied, falling into step next to Abdalrahman’s quick strides. “I’m trying to decipher copies of his work, but I’m having trouble.”
“How much do the Americans know?”
“I can’t be sure.”
Abdalrahman stopped suddenly, turned and stared into Shurish’s equally dark eyes. “For a man with a formal education, who has served on this front as long as you have, you don’t seem sure about many things,” he said, barely containing his anger.
“I beg your forgiveness, Colonel,” Shurish said. “Although I don’t believe I have anything to apologize for. As I understand it, even your men fell under the tenacity of this man called Cooper.”
“Your remarks strike me as seditious and insolent,” Abdalrahman said with a warning expression before turning and continuing toward the car.
The silence was heavy until they were seated and riding toward Shurish’s suburban home in Arlington, which would serve as a base of operations for Abdalrahman’s men until he could decide what their course of action would be.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Shurish said quietly, “but I’m sure you can understand my position.”
“I’m sure I cannot, so why not explain it to me.”
“I’ve found Cooper,” Shurish stated.
Abdalrahman felt an immediate twinge of hope—hope for vengeance. “You have my interest. Go on.”
“I had him followed. Somebody in government tried to insert him inside DARPA as a spy. Fortunately, I figured it out and faked an assassination attempt. As it turned out, I believe Dr. Matthew Cooper, who obviously isn’t a real scientist—”
“Obviously,” Abdalrahman said, interjecting.
“—was looking into Tyra MacEwan’s disappearance.”
Abdalrahman shook his head with agitation. “Forget the woman for a moment. You said you know where Cooper is.”
“He’s in Boston. I sent men for him, but as yet I’ve not heard from them. Very soon, he will either be dead or our prisoner.”
“Very good, Shurish. I’m impressed. And what about the woman, MacEwan?” the colonel asked.
“Lenzini has her under surveillance. We must keep her alive.”
“Why?”
“I believe she’s the only other one who has the technical knowledge required to complete the work if we cannot retrieve Sadiq in a timely manner.”
“I’d think it difficult to convince her to help us,” Abdalrahman said.
“She can be troublesome,” Shurish said, nodding.
“Yes, she has already caused us many problems.”
“If there is anyone to blame for Sadiq’s capture, it would be her and not me.”
“I see. Did it escape notice that it was you who was supposed to keep her under control?”
“I tried,” Shurish said in protest. “It never occurred to me that she and Fowler would actually discover our work inside Carnivore. I thought allowing her to go work with Fowler would serve as a distraction.”
“That is the trouble, Shurish. You think too much and act too little. This is not proper for a soldier of the NIF.”
“But as you have succinctly pointed out on numerous occasions, Colonel, I am not a soldier.”
“Do not think yourself so clever as to be indispensable, Shurish,” Abdalrahman said. “Or so help me, I will cut off your head and grind you into meat for lions. Effective immediately, I am in charge of this operation.”
“You have no authority to—”
“I have every authority!” Abdalrahman could feel his face flush. “Weeks have gone by. Weeks! What have you done? Can you tell me that? Are our people in place? Has Lenzini finished his work? Are we ready to commence operations?”
“I need Sadiq’s help.” There was almost a whining tone in Shurish’s voice. “You must free him.”
“How? Can you tell me? Am I to commit my entire force to freeing him? My nephew is locked up in prison somewhere behind meters of barbed wire, concrete and iron. What would you propose I do? Do you think I’m so deluded that I envision myself just walking into this place and taking him from under their noses? He is guarded by well-armed and well-trained personnel, and I am quite certain the government has determined his value to us. They are no doubt subjecting him to horrors I cannot even imagine.”
“Phah!” Shurish countered. “They are civilized in my country.”
“Did I just hear you correctly?” Abdalrahman shouted.
Shurish’s expression revealed he was thinking very carefully before giving an answer. “While I do not agree with my government, I was born here and that makes me an American. This is my country and my people.”
“No, my friend,” Abdalrahman replied, forcing himself to stay calm. “You are mistaken. You chose to sell them out to us and for a very hefty price, as I recall. Because you realized that after our first major victory here you would never have the same chances as before. We are your country and your people, now, and this is something you should never forget. If you ever say anything like that again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”
Abdalrahman watched with satisfaction as Shurish squirmed in the seat of the luxury sedan before swallowing hard and nodding. He dropped his gaze, not choosing to look at the terrorist leader. Yes, Shurish was definitely proving himself to be a liability. He wouldn’t live forever. He was not loyal to the cause of the jihad, and that meant he couldn’t be trusted. But for the moment, Abdalrahman needed Shurish, which meant he’d have to tolerate him.
Once the remainder of his forces had joined him and he’d rescued Sadiq and destroyed Cooper, then he would put an end to Shurish’s life. In the meantime, he had more important worries and challenges ahead of him. There would be plenty of time to kill Shurish later.
“For now, we will await word from your men about Cooper,” Abdalrahman said, “although I am not confident the news will be good. If they fail to destroy Cooper, then I will deal with him personally. And then we will finish our business with the Americans.”
5
Boston, Massachusetts
The home of Nicolas Lenzini was more fortress than residence. Not surprising, considering his enemies.
As he rode up the long, winding drive to the main house, Bolan wondered how they could have gathered so little intelligence on Lenzini over the years. He was both an ominous and infamous figure in the underworld who happened to enjoy quite a bit of time in the public eye, and yet the government had seemed almost inept at bringing him down.
Bolan couldn’t criticize them too much. They had to operate within constraints he didn’t, follow rules put into place by judges and politicians on Lenzini’s payroll, and wade through bureaucratic red tape. They had to have approval for their undercover ops, many times by people who golfed with Lenzini or rubbed elbows in the same social circles. Well, the Executioner didn’t have to do any of that, and it was time to bring the numbers king to his knees.
As Bolan got out of the car, he took a quick count of the guards and their positions. Given the size of the grounds, there was no way his initial numbers could represent the entire complement. The guards that weren’t visible posed the real threat to him, and given his present count, he believed there were probably quite a few who fell into that category.
“Come on inside,” Serge Grano said, motioning for Bolan to follow him. “We’re late for our meeting with Mr. Lenzini.”
Bolan followed Grano inside, ever conscious that Ape was right behind him and watching his every move. At first they had seemed friendly enough, but as they’d approached Lenzini’s estate, he’d noticed a shift in their attitudes toward him. Perhaps they hadn’t completely bought his story about the cop who’d followed him, or maybe they were beginning to feel like he’d brought them some unwanted heat. Either way, something had definitely changed and the Executioner knew he was going to have to keep close tabs on the environment.
They seated him in a large, spacious office, and then Grano held out his hand. “Turn it over.”
“What?” Bolan asked, feigning confusion.
“Your piece. Nobody does one-on-one with the old man armed. Not even me.”
“Oh.” The Executioner looked at Grano for a second, making sure to hesitate and show distrust, but then he finally conceded and handed over the Beretta.
“You carrying backup?”
Bolan shook his head.
“Start,” Grano said simply, and then he left.
Bolan occupied his time by pulling a small rubber ball from his pocket and squeezing it. It would look like a nervous habit to any spectators, and Bolan was pretty sure he was under scrutiny by hidden cameras. What observers wouldn’t know was that it was also therapy for the arm wound he’d sustained while battling the NIF. Those kinds of details had been left out of his role as Frank Lambretta.
A panel in the wall suddenly slid aside and a man in a motorized wheelchair rolled through the opening. His hair was white, and his face wrinkled and marked by all of the signs of age combined with disease. This was definitely not the man Bolan had expected to see.
“Good morning, Frankie,” the man greeted him cheerily, coming to a stop behind a large cherrywood desk.
Bolan nodded. “I’m, uh—I’m supposed to be meeting Nicolas Lenzini.”
“So you are,” the man said.
“Yeah. So who are you?”
“Nicolas Lenzini,” the man replied.
Bolan shook his head. “No way, pal. This is some kind of joke, right? Like a test of some kind.”
The man’s laugh was really a cackle, which seemed witch-like under the circumstances. “Oh, I assure you this is no joke, Frankie.”
“My name’s Frank,” Bolan said.
“Your name’s what I say it is!” the guy replied. “And I can assure you, I am Nicolas Lenzini. You want to know how I can prove I am?”
Bolan nodded, fully playing his dismay at being smacked down.
“Because if I push the button here under my desk, I’ll have twenty guys here in five seconds who will yank your smart ass outta that chair, beat you senseless, carve you up with a chain saw and flush parts of you down every public toilet in Boston. Got it?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”
