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Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Aaron Kurtzman, the head of Stony Man’s cyber team, propelled his wheelchair into the War Room and positioned himself beside Mack Bolan. In addition to the Executioner, Harold Brognola and Barbara Price, SOG’s mission controller, were seated at the conference table.
The cyber wizards had been instructed to dig into Marco Conte’s life and times. His background, the structure of his operations, the people he dealt with, his staff. All details had been entered into the Farm’s supercomputer, logged and pulled into order.
Kurtzman’s team had dug into FBI files, the records from ATF and police records. Even the legal firm Conte used to keep him out of jail had come under their cyber eyes. They had all that, plus the data that had been downloaded from Leo Turrin’s files courtesy of Brognola.
Kurtzman began his presentation.
“The organization run by Marco Conte is ultimately responsible to the crime syndicate headed by Serge Bulova. Conte has complete control of his outfit, but at the end of the day he’s part of the Bulova operation and anything that hurts Conte hurts Bulova. It seems that a recent task force investigation of Conte has made some inroads into his organization. Nothing that could stand up in court yet, but Bulova has been rattled by the interest shown in Conte’s setup. That said, once news reached Bulova that there was a significant problem within Conte’s organization, Justice intel says he sent Vitaly Danichev to monitor the situation.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” Bolan said.
“Danichev keeps people in line for Bulova. He’s got a reputation as a no-nonsense enforcer. He gets results. The hard way, according to intel reports. Never gets his own hands dirty. There’s a team of hit men who clean up any loose ends. They work under Danichev’s control.”
“Guns for hire?” Bolan asked.
Kurtzman nodded. “Unofficially they’re known as the Kill Squad.” He tapped at the slim keyboard on the table in front of him. A grainy image appeared on the large wall monitor, depicting a dark-haired man with an angular face and pale blue eyes. His hard features were clean-shaved and his expression was solemn. “These are the only pictures known to exist of the guy heading the squad and his second in command.”
Bolan studied the face and committed it to memory. He would know the guy if he encountered him.
“Do we have a name?”
“Anatole Killian. That’s all we’ve got. The other guy is Jake Fresco.”
“Not the types you’d want to meet on a dark night,” Price said. “Or even in broad daylight, for that matter.”
“Do we assume Killian was behind the attempt to kill Harry Sherman?” Bolan asked.
“We don’t know. The hit could have been set up by Conte. A sniper made the shot from a rooftop across from the café where Leo was meeting Sherman. You already know what went down. Sherman was on the verge of cooperating with Leo. He was ready to step away from the Conte organization and offer evidence that would give the task force enough to go for Marco Conte. Leo was going to give him protection.”
“But the shooter made a mess of the attempt,” Brognola said. “Hit Turrin instead of Sherman.”
“He tried to clean up by taking more shots as Sherman ran,” Kurtzman said. “He just made things worse, killing civilians, including two children.”
“I haven’t forgotten about the loss of those innocents, especially the kids,” Bolan rasped.
The deaths of the children would be in his thoughts for as long as it took to make things right. And he would. There had to be a reckoning for the indiscriminate slaughter of people who were merely collateral damage for a killer out to make a buck. Bolan would not forget those deaths.
Or the injury to Leo Turrin.
“What have you got on Sherman?” Bolan asked.
“Harry Sherman,” Kurtzman said. Another image flashed onto the monitor. “Thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. Pure and simple? A money man. He ran the accounts for Conte. Kept track of all the cash coming in and never took a wrong step until nine million dollars disappeared. We don’t have all the details, but it looks as if Sherman’s the fall guy for someone snatching the money.
“Sherman has a sister, Gwen Darrow,” Kurtzman went on. “She lives in Des Moines. She’s a lawyer with her own practice in the city. She’s a widow with two kids. Laura is in college. Carl is in the military. He’s on active service right now.”
He brought up a picture of a handsome woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. There were two more images. One of Darrow’s son, Carl, in uniform, and one of her daughter, Laura, who was an attractive, younger version of her mother.
“Good place to start looking for Sherman as any,” Bolan said.
“I’ll make travel arrangements for you,” Price advised, gathering her file and leaving the room.
“Aaron, will you download the intel you’ve gathered to my sat phone?”
“You’ll have it shortly.”
The meeting broke up after another half hour. Bolan made his way to the room he used when he was in residence at Stony Man and packed a bag. Then he dropped by the armory where he chose the weapons he’d need for the mission: a Beretta 93-R and several magazines loaded with 9 mm ammo. He also chose a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, as well as a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife and holsters for both handguns.
He liaised with Price, who set him up with his travel pack. Jack Grimaldi, the Stony Man resident pilot, would fly him to Des Moines.
“Pick up your vehicle at the airfield,” she said. “A Chevy Suburban is being delivered as we speak. Try not to return it to the rental agency full of holes.”
“That’s happened before?” Bolan asked with a grin.
“Take a look at our insurance premiums,” Price quipped and then winked.
“You ready, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.
“Let’s move out.”
As Grimaldi turned and headed for the door, Price leaned forward and kissed Bolan.
“Stay safe, soldier,” she said.
Outside Des Moines, Iowa
GRIMALDI TOUCHED DOWN at a private airstrip a few miles from the main airport. The ace pilot had contacts across the country when it came to safe landing spots. He was friendly with a large number of independent operators and those contacts came in handy when he needed an out-of-the-way place to land. Grimaldi was a sociable man, and when he made friends, those friendships tended to be strong and long-lasting. It was no secret that many of his acquaintances were of the female variety. He was the land-based version of the sailor with a girl in every port.
Bolan took his carry-all and placed it in the rear of the Suburban. He stowed his 93-R and shoulder rig in the glove compartment, within easy reach. He placed the bag holding his other weapons in the trunk.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Grimaldi said as Bolan slid behind the wheel and fired up the Suburban’s engine. “Try not to cause trouble.”
Bolan glanced up from logging Gwen Darrow’s address into the navigation system.
“Do I ever go looking for trouble, Jack?”
Grimaldi grinned. “You said that with a straight face.”
He watched as Bolan drove out of the airstrip and picked up the road for the city.
5 (#ulink_79552e80-528d-54eb-a59d-7bd7dd87eeec)
Cash Cushman was driving. His partner, Billy Riker, was slouched in the passenger seat, his blank stare focused on the scene outside. They were in a stolen van, taken from a parking lot a couple of hours earlier. Once the job was done they would abandon the van and pick up their own car, which they had parked a couple of streets away. The van was dark blue, with no company logo, and they had fixed false plates in place of the originals. Both men wore dark coveralls and ball caps, a simple enough disguise for what they had to do.
The hit had been set up quickly, with little time to make more secure arrangements. It was not the way they liked to do things, but a fast response had been ordered, so they’d had to improvise.
They drove through the city, staying well within the speed limit and locating the target house without difficulty. Des Moines was a city they knew well. For them it was a simple enough contract. Locate the target, get the information they needed and pass it back to the principal. It would net them a tidy fee. In fact it was a nice, easy job despite having to wing it.
The street was quiet. It was midmorning and most residents were at work. Only a couple of cars were parked in driveways as Cushman rolled along, counting off the houses until he spotted the target. A small red Volkswagen Beetle was parked beside the house.
Cushman slowed and made a turn, pulling up behind the Volkswagen. He shut off the engine, got out of the van and went to the rear where he opened the door and slid out a package and a clipboard. He made a show of checking the clipboard before dropping it back inside the van and closing the door. While he did that, Riker slid over to the driver’s seat and sat waiting. Cushman carried the package and walked up the driveway, bypassing the Volkswagen and walking to the back of the house.
He barely glanced at the rear yard, moving directly to the back door and tapping on the glass panel. He waited and tapped again. He heard movement inside then, through the frosted glass, saw a blurred figure approach the door. The door was opened on a security chain and a young woman’s face appeared.
“Delivery for Gwen Darrow,” Cushman said, a friendly smile on his face. He juggled the package and used his left hand to pull a folded sheet from his pocket. “I just need a signature, miss.”
“My mom isn’t at home.”
“You can take the parcel,” Cushman said. He waggled the sheet of paper. “I just need you to sign, is all.”
The young woman hesitated then eased the door closed so she could remove the chain and open it wider.
“Mom didn’t say anything about a delivery.”
Cushman gave a shrug. “I don’t know about that. I just deliver what I’m given.”
He offered the package. The young woman, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, hesitated for a few seconds before taking the package. She moved back into the kitchen to place the package on the work surface and turned to go sign the delivery sheet.
Cushman had already stepped inside and had closed the gap between them. He had pushed the sheet of paper back into his pocket, producing a knife that he held out at the young woman.
“What are you—”
Cushman grabbed her arm and moved her from the kitchen and through open French doors that led to a family room.
“Hey,” she snapped, “I don’t know what you want but—”
“I want you to shut your mouth until I tell you to speak,” Cushman ordered. “I ask a question, you answer. Tell me what I want or I’ll cut your face to ribbons.”
The young woman stood there, silently defiant.
“Okay,” Cushman continued. “Where’s your uncle? Harry Sherman.”
* * *
GWEN DARROW LIVED in a town house in West Des Moines. It was a nice area. Big houses on a pleasant residential street. Mack Bolan cruised by the Darrow residence. It was late morning when the soldier made his pass, noting that the majority of drives were devoid of cars; at this time of day most people were already at work. He circled the area, also noting the absence of vehicles parked on the street. Bolan fixed the address in his mind and drove on.
A quarter mile down the road the residential area gave way to a small shopping mall. Bolan drove the Suburban onto the rooftop level of a parking garage and eased the vehicle into a vacant space. Turning off the engine, he retrieved his weapon from the glove compartment. He donned the shoulder rig and checked the Beretta 93-R, then shrugged on a leather jacket, knowing it would conceal his weapon. After securing the SUV, Bolan made his way out of the mall and retraced the route to the residential area. He moved at a steady pace, observing his surroundings.
The Darrow place was a couple of houses away when he saw the blue van parked in the drive behind a red Volkswagen Beetle. It had not been there when he had passed by earlier. The panel van had no company logo on its sides. Bolan took out his sat phone and called Stony Man. He wasted no time on small talk, simply quoting the van’s plate number and asking for a vehicle check.
He got a call back minutes later.
“The plates are from a stolen vehicle,” Kurtzman told him, “taken six months ago. They’re from an SUV. Not a panel van.”
Bolan put his phone away and increased his pace, his hand sliding inside his jacket and easing the 93-R from shoulder leather. He flicked the selector to single shot.
The Executioner had spotted the silhouette of a man sitting behind the van’s wheel and kept him in mind as he moved up the driveway. The side of the house was on his right, a privacy fence on his left cutting him off from the neighboring house. Bolan was halfway along the side of the house when he picked up the sound of footfalls coming up behind him.
Bolan allowed the guy to get within a few feet before he came to a sudden halt and turned to face him. The move caught the guy by surprise. He wore coveralls and had a pistol in his hand. He made a halfhearted attempt to pull it into firing position. Bolan raised the Beretta and slammed the weapon into the guy’s exposed throat. The impact stunned him, his eyes bugging open in shock. He stumbled back against the house, offering no resistance when Bolan snatched his pistol from his hand. The gunner clutched at his throat, choking as his crushed larynx restricted air flow. Then he slumped to his knees.
Bolan pulled a pair of riot cuffs from his pocket and tightly secured the guy’s wrists and ankles, rolling him off the driveway and into the shrubs lining the fence.
He stuck his acquired pistol into his web belt then continued to the rear of the house, emerging onto a paved patio. The back door, which was open, led into a large kitchen. There was also a set of French doors that gave access to what seemed to be a family room.
Bolan recognized Laura Darrow from the photo Kurtzman had displayed.
A man in a pair of coveralls had his back to Bolan. The guy had a long-bladed knife in his right hand and was using it to make threatening gestures at the young woman. As Bolan quietly entered the kitchen, he picked up the verbal threats, too. Almost as an aside he noted the stubborn expression on Laura Darrow’s face, caught the defiance in her voice as she answered back.
“...haven’t seen my uncle for months. And even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you...”
Bolan crossed the kitchen and moved through to the family room.
The attacker swung the knife back. As his right arm reached the apex of his swing, Bolan grabbed his wrist, yanking him off balance and kicking him behind a knee, taking him to the floor. As the guy went down, Bolan kept a solid grip on the wrist, twisting it hard until he heard bone crack. He raised the Beretta and slammed it across the guy’s skull. There was enough force behind the blow to lay the guy out on the carpet. Blood seeped from the deep gash in his head. Bending over the unconscious man, Bolan secured him with plastic cuffs as he’d done to the first guy—wrists and ankles.
“What the hell is going on?” Laura Darrow shouted.
Bolan held up a warning hand. “Later,” he said. He took out his sat phone and punched in the number for Barbara Price’s direct line. When she answered, he gave her a quick rundown on the situation.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“There are two perps at Gwen Darrow’s home that need to be taken care of as soon as possible. Only Darrow’s daughter was at home.”
“What about Laura?”
“She’s unhurt. I’ll keep her with me for now. I need to locate Gwen. She might be next on the list.”
“I’ll tell Hal and alert the local PD,” Price said. “I assume the men are immobile?”
“I cuffed them both. The one in the house may have a broken wrist, so send medical help, as well.”
“On it.”
Laura Darrow was in his face the moment Bolan ended his call.
“Yes, well...” she said, “I guess I should say thanks for what you did. But what is this all about? Guns. Knives. Why do these guys want my uncle Harry? Has he done something wrong?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Bolan said. “Do you need a coat? Your purse?”
The young woman stared at him for a moment then shook her head, turning to cross the room. She picked up a shoulder bag and a windbreaker.
“Okay? You want me to bring pajamas and a toothbrush, too? Maybe a book to read?”
Bolan almost smiled at her feisty attitude. It was evident Laura Darrow wasn’t the kind to rattle easily.
“We need to move, Laura.”
Bolan led the way out of the house.
