Kill Squad
Kill Squad
Don Pendleton
ALL BETS ARE OFFNine million dollars goes missing from a Vegas casino, and accountant Harry Sherman becomes the mob’s scapegoat. Sherman’s ready to spill everything to the Feds in exchange for his freedom, but his bosses are determined to shut him up—forever. Protecting the money-man proves too much for the Justice Department, leaving only one guy for the job: Mack Bolan.Soon, Bolan’s racing across the country to secure the fugitive Sherman before a team of hired killers catches up to him. Time is tight as every clue to the desperate man’s whereabouts leads to a dead body and puts innocent lives in the line of fire. But when it comes to justice, the Executioner always has another card up his sleeve—and he’ll aim it straight at the enemy.
ALL BETS ARE OFF
Nine million dollars goes missing from a Vegas casino, and accountant Harry Sherman becomes the mob’s scapegoat. Sherman’s ready to spill everything to the Feds in exchange for his freedom, but his bosses are determined to shut him up—forever. Protecting the moneyman proves too much for the Justice Department, leaving only one guy for the job: Mack Bolan.
Soon, Bolan’s racing across the country to secure the fugitive Sherman before a team of hired killers catches up to him. Time is tight as every clue to the desperate man’s whereabouts leads to a dead body and puts innocent lives in the line of fire. But when it comes to justice, the Executioner always has another card up his sleeve—and he’ll aim it straight at the enemy.
Bolan triggered a tri-burst through the door connecting the train cars.
Crouching, they made for the door at the far end of the car. Bolan flung it open and hustled Sherman through. They paused on the swaying, open platform between the two cars, the rattle and rumble of the train loud in their ears.
The ground swept by, a spread of green below the slope that bordered the track.
Bolan glanced back and saw armed figures moving into view. This time he held the Beretta in both hands and fired. Glass shattered. Bolan saw one man fall, and the others pulled aside. The delay would only last for seconds. He holstered the 93R and zipped up his jacket.
“You ever jump from a moving train?”
Sherman stared at Bolan. “Hell, no,” he said.
“First time for everything.”
Kill Squad
Don Pendleton
Honorable actions are ascribed by us to virtue, and dishonorable actions to vice; and only a madman would conclude that these judgments are matters of opinion, and not fixed by nature.
—Marcus Tulius Cicero, 106–43 BC
There is no honor in the Mob, human vultures who prey upon the weak and the innocent, their sole purpose to make money. But there are good people who fight the good fight, and we will stand with them until our last breath.
—Mack Bolan
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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
Cover (#u956e5f44-6a3c-5fbb-bfcd-ad33414e2b50)
Back Cover Text (#ua93472d6-13a0-5be6-91f9-24319681b225)
Introduction (#u759d0a64-340e-5d4b-bae2-52c8e94c84ab)
Title Page (#uf6142427-29ef-52df-bb19-090b77438d7d)
Quote (#u7a6ba696-9bb4-5806-bbf8-71a53b4d7719)
Legend (#u07daf6f6-362f-59e0-ab35-6e57018b7ae2)
PROLOGUE (#u8bf374a9-22a5-5e5b-967f-b5208e4b118b)
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PROLOGUE (#ulink_d28505a4-0d9b-50c5-b2b9-d2dd005a66dd)
Las Vegas, Nevada
Harry Sherman knew there was a problem the moment he stepped inside Marco Conte’s spacious office. The casino boss sat behind his massive desk, his narrowed gaze drilling into him.
His bodyguard, Milo Forte, was seated beside him. Forte was a big man, well muscled beneath his well-cut suit, and Sherman knew he had a fearsome reputation. He was ready to act the moment his boss snapped his fingers. A pair of Conte’s hardmen stood near the desk, flanking Sol Lemke. They kept the man upright because he was unable to stand on his own.
Lemke was one of the accountants who worked under Sherman in the accounting department. It took him a few moments to recognize his subordinate, who had been beaten until his face was a swollen mess. There was excessive blood. His nose was flattened and his pulped mouth hung open, dribbling blood from his lacerated lips and gums down his shirtfront. From the way his left arm hung, it was obvious that it was broken and his left hand was a misshapen, finger-crushed mess.
Marco Conte ran the Vegas casino with a firm hand. He intimidated those who worked under him while presenting a genial face to the customers. No one crossed Conte. He was tough and uncompromising. From the tension in the office and the harsh expression on Conte’s face, Sherman knew that something heavy was going down.
As Sherman moved into the room he heard the solid door click shut behind him. He experienced a frisson of anxiety. He had no idea what this summons was all about.
“Nine million dollars, Harry,” Conte said in his low, gruff voice. “Nine. That’s a shitload of money.”
As the head of the casino’s accounting department, Sherman knew what nine million dollars represented, but he had no idea how it related to him. Even so he was beginning to get nervous. His mouth went dry.
“Mr. Conte?”
The casino boss leaned forward.
“That’s odd, Harry,” he said.
“What?”
“You called me Mr. Conte. Not Marco. We’ve never used anything but first names, Harry. You sound nervous. Is there a reason why you should be nervous?”
“Mr.—Marco...can someone tell me what this is all about? Because I have no idea.”
Sherman knew his voice had cracked. It came out like a croak.
“Why did I expect him to say that?” Conte asked no one in particular. “Maybe it’s because he does know what this is all about. Is that right, Sol?”
Lemke refused to meet Sherman’s gaze. He pawed at his bleeding mouth with his right hand, wincing when he touched torn flesh.
“Yeah, he knows.”
His voice was weak, quavering.
Sherman could feel all eyes on him. He was being accused of something, and he didn’t know what.
“Gone, Harry,” Conte said finally. “All that money gone. Lost.”
“Or stolen,” Forte added.
“He has a point, Harry. Money doesn’t get up and walk away on its own.”
“Marco, none of this makes sense. Where was this money?”
“The backup account,” Conte said. “You remember the backup account? You should, Harry, because you look after it.”
Sherman remained silent. There was a nagging voice in his head telling him he hadn’t looked at the account in some time. Mainly because there was no need. The backup fund was seldom touched. Because the casino was making so much money, there was no need to dip into the reserve.
Forte raised a hamlike fist and jabbed a thick finger in Lemke’s direction.
“Quit screwing ’round, Sherman. We know. Lemke and you took the money. He already told us.”
The words stung. Sherman stared at Lemke. The man held his gaze despite the pain he was in.
“Harry,” Conte said, “there’s no use trying to stall. Sol told us you were in it together. Took the nine million and shifted it to other accounts you set up.”
The words hit like solid punches. Sherman was unable to speak. His mind was wrestling with the situation, trying to make sense of it all. If money was missing, he had been set up by Lemke to draw attention from himself and implicate Sherman.
“Marco, this is crazy. You really believe what he’s saying? That I’d be any part of this? Come on, Marco, it’s too much of a setup to be true.”
“Is it?”
“Why would I even try to screw you over? What the hell would I want with nine million dollars? Don’t I get paid enough to look after your books? Jesus, Marco, I’m no big spender. I don’t even gamble. You’re always joking about that. The only guy in Vegas who doesn’t even play the slot machines. What do you think? That I’ve run up such a big tab I have to steal from the man I work for? Marco, just look at me. I have not done this. I would not do this to you. Ever.”
Conte was studying Sherman closely, searching his face for any hint of deception.
“I always trusted you, Harry. Right now I’m not so sure I should have.”
“Marco, what can I say? This is down to my word against Sol’s. While we’re playing his game, his real partners are moving the money out of reach.”
It had become very quiet. No one spoke. They were all waiting for Conte.
His decision would be final. There would be no challenge to it. If Conte made a decision, it was written in concrete. No going back. Right or wrong, his word was law.
“Okay, this is how we’ll do it. Harry, you have four days to locate the missing money. I give you my word that nothing will happen to you during that time. If you don’t replace the nine million, that’s it. If the money isn’t back where it belongs, the hammer comes down. Don’t fail me, Harry. Until today I never had reason to doubt you. Don’t make a fool out of me. If you’re on the level, make me see that. Lemke here figured he was smart enough to put some of the take in his own account so he could skip town and collect the big prize later. He didn’t know there’s a check we can make on the unexpected movement of casino money. Not even you were told about it, Harry. We’ll be checking your account, as well.”
“Are we going to find some big deposits there?” Forte asked.
“If he’s involved, I don’t think Harry would be stupid enough to do something like that,” Conte said. “It’s your move, Harry. Make my money come back. Four days.”
One of Conte’s men opened the door. As Sherman stepped through and the door began to close behind him, he heard Conte speaking again.
“Not you, Lemke. We have a lot more to discuss...”
Sherman made his way to his office, ignoring the other members of the department. He stepped inside, closed the door, sat at his desk and was suddenly overcome with a feeling of utter loneliness. In a building full of people he was totally on his own, with the clock already starting its slide to zero.
The only thing Sherman knew for certain was that he had not taken Conte’s money. Sol Lemke had fingered him to pull the heat off himself; a seemingly smart move that backfired on the man.
Conte was suspicious, even though he had cut Sherman a break. He was giving him the opportunity to return—or try to return—the missing cash. Sherman knew that even if he succeeded in retrieving the money it was not going to erase what had happened. He was under no illusions as to his eventual fate.
In the end Conte would be considering only one thing: the money. That was the single most important factor in Marco Conte’s life. He didn’t give a damn about anything else.
Once the deadline was reached, successful or not, Harry Sherman would become a target. He was sure the ink was already drying on his death sentence. Conte was not going to risk leaving Sherman alive. That the theft had happened was already a black mark against the man. Conte was going to do all he could to let the east coast mob know that he did not allow such transgressions to go unpunished. Sherman visualized the terrible sight of Sol Lemke—bloody and broken, with more of the same to come.
Sherman would be next. He would be another example of how Marco Conte dealt with anyone who stole from him—because stealing from him meant stealing from the organization, and that was not to be tolerated.
Harry Sherman was walking a tightrope suspended over a drop into Hell.
* * *
FORTE LEANED OVER to hear Conte’s whispered words. The casino boss had made up his mind about Sol Lemke.
“Take him out of town,” Conte said. “Have a couple of the boys work on him until he gives. I don’t give a shit what they do. That turkey knows what this is all about. That’s why he was packed and ready to skip town when the boys picked him up. I want to know who he’s working with.”
Forte nodded. He stood and moved toward one of the hardmen. Lemke picked up on what was being said and jerked upright, staring at Conte.
“I told you how it is, Mr. Conte. It’s Sherman who’s fucking with your money. Not me. That mother has jacked your money. I had nothing to do with it.”
His ranting increased and the accusations poured from his bloody mouth, adding other names to his litany of blame. The shrillness rose as he pleaded for his life.
Conte eventually tired of hearing it. He made a sharp, cutting motion with his hand. Behind Lemke a pistol rose and fell, the solid blow rendering him unconscious.
“Get that piece of trash out of my office,” Conte said. “The back way. Stuff him in the trunk and drive into the desert. You know where. If I didn’t need him able to speak, I’d say cut out his tongue to shut him up. Hell, once he spills what he knows, you can cut it out. Make him eat it before you make him dig his own grave and bury him in it.”
Lemke was dragged from the office through a back door that led directly to the basement garage.
After he had dismissed everyone except Forte, Conte asked for a drink. He sat toying with the thick tumbler.
“Do you believe Harry?” Conte asked.
Forte shrugged. “I can’t decide. He’s always been a straight kind of guy. Boring. But I never would have had him down as a thief. Hell, Marco, how do we know? Working with all that money every day. Moving it around. It would be a hell of a temptation. Even a guy like Harry Sherman could be tempted.”
“I always liked Harry,” Conte said. “He kept the accounts straight. Never caused any problems.” He swallowed the contents of the tumbler and held it out for a refill. “Lemke made a good case against him. But the way Harry reacted... Jesus, Milo... I can’t pin it down one way or the other. And Lemke started to lose it. He was ready to drag in any name he could think of at the end.”
“If Harry’s in on it, he has the chance to make it right,” Forte said. “He must know you don’t mess around. You gave him four days. If it’s not done by then, he knows he’s a dead man. I mean, what’s he going to do? Run and hide?”
That made Conte think. What would Sherman do?
If he was in with Lemke, all he had to do was to keep playing the game until the nine million had been hidden away where it couldn’t be found. Then make a run for it.
If Sherman had been set up by Lemke, he would do his best to get the money back before the deadline. If he succeeded, or failed, he would have realized he was on the edge. He could easily fake the figures to get Conte to back off and then make a run for it.
However the dice rolled, one thing was certain. Marco Conte was going to get a hard time from Serge Bulova. The east coast head honcho would be determined to put the hammer down hard—and Conte, the man on the spot in Vegas, would be the choice to catch the flak. Bulova would see this as Conte having taken his eye off the ball. The Russian wouldn’t give a damn how it turned out. Money back or not, Bulova would make his displeasure known.
“Okay, put someone on Harry,” Conte said. “I need to know his moves. If he steps out of line, he’s finished. And when Harry’s four days are up, I want him dead if he comes through or not. I have to show we don’t let ourselves be played for suckers. We clean up. Make certain we’re covered. Right now I got to call back east and tell Bulova we have a problem.”
“He isn’t going to like it.”
Conte managed a mirthless smile. “You think I do, Milo? There’s no easy way around this. Sooner I call Serge the better. Yeah, he isn’t going to like what I have to tell him. He’ll want to send that prick Danichev to stand watch over us while we sort out this mess. You know, Milo, I hate that smart-ass son of a bitch.”
Conte reached for his phone and hit the speed dial number.
* * *
DESPERATE TO FIND the missing money, Sherman sat at his computer, checking the numbers for the tenth time. He was getting nowhere. As a last hope, he decided to key in a sequence of numbers he had almost forgotten about. Perhaps the money trail could somehow be picked up there.
The commands called up a series of files he had found by accident some months ago. The secret files had come into his possession during a financial data exchange between Sherman and Conte. In his haste, and most likely due to his poor computer skills, the casino boss had unknowingly sent the chief accountant a number of odd files. Sherman had never seen the lines of code before and, more out of curiosity than anything else, had saved them in a folder then deleted Conte’s error.
Immediately following the incident, Sherman had felt a sense of guilt at what he had done. Even so, he’d kept the new files and continued the transfer of accounts to Conte.
Now he opened the saved files and read them one by one. Once his eyes had scanned the first few pages of the lists on his monitor, he was unable to stop. Seeing and recognizing the names, and the payoffs made to those individuals, there was no going back. No erasing the information he had seen. The names and payoffs were in his mind and there was no delete button he could press to wipe them away.
He realized that he was looking at explosive information capable of bringing down powerful people. If this information was made public, a number of influential people were going to fall hard, as would Sherman’s employer and the head of Conte’s organization back east. Sherman had seen the information now. It had the potential to destroy lives, and he would be in the middle of it all.
He decided to save the information on a flash drive. It was all he had; the only insurance policy that might stay Conte’s hand. He only had to figure out what to do with it.
1 (#ulink_cbcdccec-0bbd-5db9-8d27-e91e5011920e)
Washington, DC
Leo Turrin leaned back in his chair, pondering his next move. Once a deep undercover agent for the Justice Department, Turrin had penetrated the closed ranks of the Mafia and become a trusted confederate. Now he was “semiretired” from the mob and worked in Justice’s headquarters in Washington, DC. His current focus was a crime boss named Marco Conte.
A case board covered one wall of the little Fed’s office. The current layout was a montage of information on the Conte organization. Pinned in place were numerous photos of the main players—Conte in a variety of poses, his coterie of lieutenants, lesser men in the group and photos of other criminal figures; some friends, some enemies—as well as images of buildings that included houses and office complexes, and vehicles. The board contained anything and everything relating to Marco Conte’s operation.
Turrin spent a lot of time studying the information, going over what he knew and adding new data whenever it showed up.
He knew that if he got Conte, Justice would have a shot at taking down the head of the organization, Serge Bulova, an east coast crime lord.
All he wanted was the one small sliver of data that might give him his way in.
Finally his patience and dogged persistence had paid off. He’d learned from an inside source that Harry Sherman, Conte’s chief accountant, was in trouble with his boss. Money was missing.
After researching Sherman, Turrin asked his source to ferret out what he could about the missing money. He had no idea if Sherman would play ball but figured he had nothing to lose and a hell of a lot to gain if Sherman turned out to be the chink in the mob’s armor.
He decided to reach out to the man.
Las Vegas, Nevada
INTEL HAD REVEALED that Harry Sherman stopped at the same café every morning on the way to the casino.
The little Fed sat at the table behind him, watching and waiting for his moment. As Sherman briefly glanced away from the table, Turrin rose and, slipping a folded note beside the man’s coffee mug, walked away. He didn’t look back.
He had to wait until Sherman contacted him. If he didn’t, then the Justice man would try another approach.
The next morning Turrin’s cell phone rang.
Sherman got right down to business. “Who are you?”
“Someone who can help,” Turrin replied.
“Help?”
“You’re having problems with Marco Conte. He’s a dangerous man.”
“Who says I’m having problems?”
“Someone I know. Harry, I have good ears and I’m a listener.”
A long pause. Turrin knew Sherman was still on the line because he could hear the background noise.
“Do you have a solution?”
“I do. I’ll pull you out and get you clear,” Turrin said.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“I don’t hear either of us laughing, Harry.”
“Before I end this call, tell me what this is about.”
“Someone is taking a gamble, Harry, and is in the right place to do that for you.”
“Here? In Vegas? Are you trying to get me killed or what? Jesus, if Conte even sniffs I’ve been talking to you, I’m already dead.”
“So stay ahead of the game, Harry. Make that jump before he decides he can’t trust you any longer.”
“This is crazy. You know who you’re talking about? Why the hell am I even still on the line?” Sherman asked.
“Because you know what I’m saying is the truth, Harry. You’re mixed up with a bad crowd. Be honest. You handle the money for Conte. You know the kinds of things he gets involved with using the casino as a front. Do yourself a favor and get out before Conte makes a move.”
Turrin had no doubt that beads of sweat were sliding down the sides of Sherman’s face, that his body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the weather. The voice on the phone was telling him what he already knew. His days with Conte were numbered—and those numbers were already starting to fall.
“I’ll be at the café tomorrow, Harry. We’ll talk.” The little Fed ended the call.
* * *
TURRIN WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED—and relieved—when Sherman crossed the café and took his usual table. After the accountant had ordered, Turrin stood and crossed the floor to join him. The man glanced up, his face registering slight alarm.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” Turrin said as he took the seat across from Sherman. “Good to meet you, Harry. I’m Leo.”
Turrin waited as Sherman’s coffee and roll were delivered.
“If you can’t help me, Leo, this could be one of my last meals.”
“You have a cell phone on you?”
“Don’t they provide you with one?”
“It’s yours I want. Take it out and place it on the table.”
Sherman complied, watching as Turrin opened the back and removed the battery and SIM card. He dropped the items into his pocket.
Sherman stared at him.
“Calls can be traced. You could be tracked.”
“So now what? I make smoke signals?”
Turrin took out a satellite phone and placed it between them on the table.
“Use this one,” he said. “It’s clean and can’t be traced. My people can track you with the GPS that’s installed. And it has my contact number. If we get separated, you can call me.”
Sherman didn’t touch the phone. He had a look on his face that told Turrin he was unsure.
“Okay, so you’re here. What’s going down?”
Sherman laid it all out, about the missing money, Sol Lemke and the deadline Conte had given him.
“He’ll do it,” Sherman said. “Conte has a simple rule. Do it to them before they do it to you. Old school. He believes in bringing the hammer down if he sees a problem. Right now he doesn’t trust me any longer. Even if I found his missing money, the suspicion would still be there. He gave me a few days. I know I’m reaching the end of my rope here.”
“You’re right about Conte. He’s a low-life thug, and he’ll want you dead. No two ways about it. Come on board and I can set things in motion. We relocate you somewhere safe. New identity. New name. You can rebuild your life.”
“It sounds so easy when you say it. I have family. A sister and her kids.”
“We’ll look after them, too. Harry, I won’t lie. This won’t be easy for you. A lot of things will change. Harry Sherman will disappear. You and your loved ones will get new identities. If you have any doubts, think of the alternative.”
Sherman reached out, picked up the sat phone and dropped it into his pocket, knowing that “Leo” was right. He understood a man like Conte, knew the man’s capacity for revenge, retribution. The man had no conscience. His instinct was tuned toward his own survival. Nothing else mattered to him.
“I have information you can use to nail Conte. I recently discovered it.” Sherman told Turrin what he had uncovered. “Do what you’ve promised and I’ll give it to you when I’m safe.”
“Then let’s get out of here,” the little Fed said, pushing back his chair.
Sherman pushed his seat back and stood. He caught his foot on the leg of his chair and stumbled slightly. It was just enough to take him out of the trajectory of the slug that missed him by inches and slammed into Turrin. The impact shoved the Justice man back, his seat toppling and taking him with it. He hit the ground hard, blood spreading across his shirt from the hole high in his chest.
The other customers panicked as realization hit in the wake of the gunshot. They scattered, Harry Sherman among them, and two more people were hit as the shooter attempted to pin Sherman down.
By the time the first police cruisers arrived, it was over.
2 (#ulink_d75b6024-4599-524f-a99e-e31eb91bb654)
In hospital and under guard, Leo Turrin was slowly recovering from surgery to remove a slug from his chest. The bullet had clipped a lung and had lodged in muscle.
Family and friends had visited after hurried cross-country flights. Even Hal Brognola, Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, a secret antiterrorist organization based at Stony Man Farm, had shown up, then quickly departed.
Turrin had given his evidence to the investigating team from Justice. Now, in the silence of his room, staring unseeing at the walls, Turrin tried to make sense of it all. He had been involved in the world of crime and its attendant horrors for so long he imagined nothing could shock him, yet he still found himself drawn into the effects of such pointless violence. He had learned that several innocents had been killed, including two children. What made it worse: there was not a damned thing he could do about it.
He heard the door to his room swish open. The door closed and Turrin became aware of a presence.
Unobtrusive.
Standing silently beside the bed.
Before a word was spoken, Turrin knew who it was.
“We are going to make this right, Leo.”
When he heard those simple words, the little Fed felt a degree of tension drain away.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“It’s never easy,” Mack Bolan said. “But it’s doable.”
“It should have been straightforward, Mack. Sherman was ready to make a deal. A new identity for information on Conte.”
“Why would he do that?”
Turrin took a breath as a surge of pain slashed through his chest.
“The guy was at odds with Conte. My contact in Vegas said the casino boss was getting more and more aggressive with everyone around him—running the organization as if he was some kind of untouchable. A few people vanished after they had committed some minor discretions. Conte was showing there was no place for mistakes in his organization.
“Sherman knew his time had come when he was accused of stealing money from the accounts. He knew Conte would come after him. He’d want Sherman’s head on a plate. So he took the only option he could.” Turrin took another slow breath. “When Sherman found incriminating information in Conte’s files, he saved it on a flash drive. It was his bargaining chip. When we met, he told me he’d give us the data that would give us the go on Conte’s organization. Now I’m not sure the information will be worth what it’s already cost in lives.”
Turrin asked for water and Bolan obliged. Bolan placed the plastic cup in his old friend’s hand and waited as he sipped the water through a straw.
“Leo, if this is too much right now, we can leave it.”
Turrin shook his head.
“We don’t have the luxury of time. Sherman’s out there on his own. The guy is in a bad place, Mack. He’s an accountant, not a street soldier. I contacted him and offered my help. Now he’s on the run. Conte’s kill squads will be hunting him. If they get to him first, it’s over.”
“Then we stop Conte, Leo. Play him at his own game. By the rules he sets down.”
“Read up on him, Mack. This guy runs his organization through violence and intimidation and doesn’t give a damn about anyone. The casino is his legitimate cover for what goes on behind the scenes. From what we’ve learned that’s a hell of a lot.”
“Justice knows but can’t touch him?”
“Conte has the backing of his people out east. The real power is the Russian mob out of Brighton Beach. They have high-priced lawyers and money to burn on payoffs. These people know how to buy their protection, Mack. Justice has been trying to find a way in, but these guys have it sewed up tight. Sherman’s information could go a long way to bringing them all down. But right now I have no idea where he is or what he’s done with the evidence.”
“The thing about sewing things up is the opportunity to pick at the stitches,” Bolan said.
Those few words told Turrin that he could rest a little easier.
Mack Bolan was on board.
The Executioner was ready to roll.
Conte and the Russian mob were in for a rough ride.
3 (#ulink_00c212fd-ebdc-5d2d-83d6-baaf0abcd1c6)
“Marco, it’s a call for you,” Milo Forte said. “I think it’s Harry Sherman.”
Conte took the phone. “Yeah?”
“You double-crossed me, Marco,” Sherman said without preamble. “I valued your word. I should have known better.”
“Harry, it’s business. Nothing personal. I have to go with the percentages and they were telling me I should cut my losses.”
“You think? Marco, I might have had respect for you a while ago, but you just proved what a cheap hood you are—”
“You can’t talk to me like that, you fucking bean counter. You know who I am?”
“I know what you are, Marco. A scared little gofer who has to jump through hoops every time your Russian boss says so. And right now you’re in trouble. Bulova isn’t going to be happy you let nine million slip through your fingers. I would have stuck to my agreement, but you couldn’t even do that.”
The silence was thick enough to cut.
“Where are you, Harry? Tell me so I can come rip your throat out.”
“I would have helped, but now I’m going to do my best to see that you and Bulova go down. I have the goods on you, Marco. I found your hidden files. The ones that have all the names and dates and payoffs. I made a copy and I’m going to give it to the Feds. You just had to send out your guy with his gun to put me down. The trouble is, he screwed up. He missed me but hurt other people. So to hell with you all. You made me angry, Marco, and it takes a lot to do that, you loser.”
“We’ll find you, Harry, and I’ll make it my personal business to cut you into little pieces.”
The phone went dead in Conte’s hand.
“Milo, that piece of garbage is threatening to hand over files to the Feds. Goddamn it, we need to find him fast or we’re done.”
* * *
VITALY DANICHEV SAT in the rear of the SUV, making no move to climb out. His driver sat patiently at the wheel, staring out through the windshield. He knew better than to disturb his employer when he was in such a mood. Tibor Kolchak flanked the driver. Even though he was Danichev’s chief bodyguard, the huge man understood when to remain nothing more than a passive observer.
“All right, Tibor, let’s get this done.”
Kolchak climbed out of the SUV and moved his bulk to Danichev’s door, opening it so that his boss could step out. He headed directly for the casino’s entrance. Despite his powerful size, Kolchak stayed ahead of his boss, yanking open the door for him. Danichev walked inside and along the carpeted floor. Even at this time of day the casino was busy with people moving in and out. A constant stream of potential winners and losers.
“Mr. Conte is waiting for you in the Crater Lounge, sir,” said the floor manager.
He led them through the casino to a closed door at the far side of the opulent gambling floor. They stepped through the door and into the semi-lit area of the lounge. The empty dance floor was surrounded by tables and chairs, and a long, curved bar sat at the rear. The motif of the room was of planets and stars, the ceiling illuminated by simulated lunar craters and subdued light.
Marco Conte sat at the bar on a high stool, two of his hardmen close by. His gaze settled on Danichev and remained there as the Russian approached. Conte had a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. He was putting on an act of nonchalance, a display for Danichev’s benefit. It was a wasted effort. The Russian ignored it.
“Have you found him?” Danichev asked.
Any form of greeting Conte might have been considering faded fast.
“No.”
“And so you sit there doing nothing?”
“I have my people out looking for him,” Conte said.
Danichev’s lips curved into a faint smile a second before he exploded with rage.
“You have people looking for him. What the fuck does that mean? This accountant has run out on you. And you have done nothing to stop him. The Feds want him to give them this evidence he found.”
Danichev began to speak Russian, his rage filling the room as he subjected Conte to an intense verbal rant. His hands lashed out, knocking the cigar and the glass from Conte’s hands.
The casino boss took the verbal assault without protest, his shock at being so intensely attacked rendering him speechless. He might be the head man in Vegas but under Danichev’s intense rebuke he could have been a street soldier with no rank. He had heard about the Russian’s powerful presence, but this was the only time he had been on the receiving end. He was physically trembling, his face bloodless; he realized his position so he remained silent. The last thing he needed to do was to offer some lame excuse.
“Get me a drink,” Danichev said to Kolchak, suddenly reverting to English.
Kolchak stepped behind the bar. He sought out a bottle of expensive vodka and filled a tumbler, handing it to Danichev. The Russian savored the liquor before taking a swallow.
“At least this delivers as it should,” he said after the vodka slid down his throat. “Pour one for Marco. I think he is going to need it.”
Conte took the offered drink without protest. He hated the stuff, preferring a good malt whiskey, but at that moment he wasn’t going to do anything to upset Danichev further.
“Get rid of the monkeys,” Danichev ordered.
Conte dismissed his bodyguards. He was aware of Danichev’s scrutiny, so he took another swallow of the vodka.
“So,” Danichev said in a more conversational tone that did little to make Conte feel any better. “I got angry because you fucked up. You now understand how bad you fucked up. Because of your error the organization is now vulnerable to the Feds. The last thing we need is to be placed in their sights any more than we already are. Do you agree, Marco?”
“Yes. But we will find him.”
“That is not the answer I was hoping for. What I asked was whether you think Sherman has left us in a vulnerable position.”
Conte noticed that his hand holding the glass of vodka was trembling slightly. It angered him that Danichev could have that effect on him. And it annoyed him the way the man talked down to him.
In the seconds following his thoughts, Marco Conte realized his position, his power over events, was only granted by the ultimate heads of the organization. They wielded the big stick from their power base back east. His empire, out here in the sticks, only existed because it generated revenue—that ultimate power being demonstrated to him by the presence of Vitaly Danichev. If Danichev decided to end Conte’s reign, he could do it simply by clicking his fingers and unleashing the hulking figure of Tibor Kolchak. It could happen in an instant and Conte would cease to exist.
“If he manages to hand over that information to the Feds, we could have problems,” Conte conceded.
“Good. With that out of the way we must move to prevent this matter getting any further out of hand.”
Danichev glanced at Kolchak.
The big man took out a cell phone that was dwarfed by his massive hand. He tapped in a speed-dial number and waited until the call was answered. He leaned across the bar and handed it to Danichev.
“Where are you?” the Russian asked. “Excellent. Come straight inside when you arrive.”
* * *
TEN MINUTES and two more glasses of vodka later, Danichev heard the sound of raised voices. The doors to the lounge were pushed open and five men walked in.
“On time, as usual,” he said.
The group was headed by a well-muscled man in his late thirties. His dark hair was close-cut, his angular face tanned, emphasizing the pale color of his eyes.
“Mr. Danichev,” the man said, respect evident in his voice. His gaze passed over Conte before centering on Danichev again. “Ready to go, sir.”
“This is Marco Conte,” Danichev said. “He heads this territory for us. Marco, I want you to meet Anatole Killian. Anatole and his men are here to put right our little problem. I want you to give Anatole all the help he needs. He has my permission to ask any questions. To go through everything there is to know about our absent accountant. He has the full backing of the organization to do whatever is needed to resolve this matter.”
Conte understood exactly what was implied by Danichev’s words. He didn’t need to have it spelled out any clearer. He knew exactly who Anatole Killian was. His team’s reputation within the organization was well known, as was its purpose. He and his men were known as the Kill Squad.
“It appears that Sherman accessed sensitive data from Marco’s computer and saved it to a flash drive,” Danichev said. “That data, if handed over to the Feds, could prove extremely embarrassing to Mr. Bulova.”
Killian considered what had been said. “Is this information that important?”
“Yes. It is Conte’s master list of people, the amount of money paid to them, as well as the reason why it was paid and dates.”
“I can understand why that kind of information is important,” Killian said, “but how did Sherman manage to get hold of it?”
“Because he’s a smart son of a bitch who managed to get into my secure files and access what was on them.”
“Not so secure then,” Killian said.
Conte emptied his drink. “So it fucking well seems.”
“Anatole, don’t upset Marco. He’s not having too good a day.”
“Sorry,” Killian said. “Let me have everything on this Sherman. I need to find a starting point. Contacts this guy might have. Places he might go. Any family he might run to.”
“Sherman has a sister and a niece. They live in Des Moines. A nephew is deployed overseas,” Conte said. “We did a background check when he applied for the job. Apparently, Sherman and his sister don’t really get on. The sister doesn’t approve of his lifestyle. She believes Vegas is not the place to work.”
“You think she is worried we might corrupt him?” Danichev asked.
“Something like that.”
“If Sherman is on the move, he might contact his sister,” Killian said. “Family loyalty.”
“Have a local contact arrange for a home visit,” Danichev said. “The sister might have what we need.”
Killian nodded. “I’ll get on it.”
4 (#ulink_9223f1e2-2365-5ed8-ad84-2f32fb3bdf79)
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.
She glanced at the secured guy on the side path as she stepped around him. “Any others you haven’t mentioned?”
“No.”
She followed Bolan as he retraced his route to the mall.
“Don’t you have a car? Are we going to take a bus?”
“I parked at the mall,” Bolan replied. “I didn’t want to draw attention.”
“Really? You made quite an entrance back there.”
“No choice.”
“Was that man was going to hurt me?” Laura asked, keeping in step.
“He was.”
They might have been a couple out for a stroll, having a casual conversation.
“Let’s start again. You know my name. Who are you?”
“Matt Cooper.”
“Who—what—are you, Matt Cooper? You didn’t want to stay around until the police came. That’s curious, so...?”
“So we need to get to your mother. I didn’t want to stay around and have to answer too many questions.”
She turned to stare at him. “Nice try, but I think there’s more to it, Cooper.”
“You need to call your mother. Get her to meet us somewhere away from her office.”
Bolan took out his sat phone.
“I have my own cell,” she said, producing it from her shoulder bag.
“Give it to me,” Bolan said. “It’s important.”
Laura swapped phones. She watched as Bolan opened the back of her phone and took out the SIM card. He snapped it in two, dropped the pieces in a trash can as they passed and then removed the battery.
“I can’t believe you did that. You think my insurance will cover the damage?”
“Somebody might be listening in or tracking you.”
“Look, Cooper, before we go any further you have to tell me what this is all about. And what it has to do with Uncle Harry.”
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Don Pendleton
ALL BETS ARE OFFNine million dollars goes missing from a Vegas casino, and accountant Harry Sherman becomes the mob’s scapegoat. Sherman’s ready to spill everything to the Feds in exchange for his freedom, but his bosses are determined to shut him up—forever. Protecting the money-man proves too much for the Justice Department, leaving only one guy for the job: Mack Bolan.Soon, Bolan’s racing across the country to secure the fugitive Sherman before a team of hired killers catches up to him. Time is tight as every clue to the desperate man’s whereabouts leads to a dead body and puts innocent lives in the line of fire. But when it comes to justice, the Executioner always has another card up his sleeve—and he’ll aim it straight at the enemy.
ALL BETS ARE OFF
Nine million dollars goes missing from a Vegas casino, and accountant Harry Sherman becomes the mob’s scapegoat. Sherman’s ready to spill everything to the Feds in exchange for his freedom, but his bosses are determined to shut him up—forever. Protecting the moneyman proves too much for the Justice Department, leaving only one guy for the job: Mack Bolan.
Soon, Bolan’s racing across the country to secure the fugitive Sherman before a team of hired killers catches up to him. Time is tight as every clue to the desperate man’s whereabouts leads to a dead body and puts innocent lives in the line of fire. But when it comes to justice, the Executioner always has another card up his sleeve—and he’ll aim it straight at the enemy.
Bolan triggered a tri-burst through the door connecting the train cars.
Crouching, they made for the door at the far end of the car. Bolan flung it open and hustled Sherman through. They paused on the swaying, open platform between the two cars, the rattle and rumble of the train loud in their ears.
The ground swept by, a spread of green below the slope that bordered the track.
Bolan glanced back and saw armed figures moving into view. This time he held the Beretta in both hands and fired. Glass shattered. Bolan saw one man fall, and the others pulled aside. The delay would only last for seconds. He holstered the 93R and zipped up his jacket.
“You ever jump from a moving train?”
Sherman stared at Bolan. “Hell, no,” he said.
“First time for everything.”
Kill Squad
Don Pendleton
Honorable actions are ascribed by us to virtue, and dishonorable actions to vice; and only a madman would conclude that these judgments are matters of opinion, and not fixed by nature.
—Marcus Tulius Cicero, 106–43 BC
There is no honor in the Mob, human vultures who prey upon the weak and the innocent, their sole purpose to make money. But there are good people who fight the good fight, and we will stand with them until our last breath.
—Mack Bolan
(#ulink_f2d26f75-04e1-5cb7-9c46-866ea42eb320)
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
Cover (#u956e5f44-6a3c-5fbb-bfcd-ad33414e2b50)
Back Cover Text (#ua93472d6-13a0-5be6-91f9-24319681b225)
Introduction (#u759d0a64-340e-5d4b-bae2-52c8e94c84ab)
Title Page (#uf6142427-29ef-52df-bb19-090b77438d7d)
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Legend (#u07daf6f6-362f-59e0-ab35-6e57018b7ae2)
PROLOGUE (#u8bf374a9-22a5-5e5b-967f-b5208e4b118b)
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PROLOGUE (#ulink_d28505a4-0d9b-50c5-b2b9-d2dd005a66dd)
Las Vegas, Nevada
Harry Sherman knew there was a problem the moment he stepped inside Marco Conte’s spacious office. The casino boss sat behind his massive desk, his narrowed gaze drilling into him.
His bodyguard, Milo Forte, was seated beside him. Forte was a big man, well muscled beneath his well-cut suit, and Sherman knew he had a fearsome reputation. He was ready to act the moment his boss snapped his fingers. A pair of Conte’s hardmen stood near the desk, flanking Sol Lemke. They kept the man upright because he was unable to stand on his own.
Lemke was one of the accountants who worked under Sherman in the accounting department. It took him a few moments to recognize his subordinate, who had been beaten until his face was a swollen mess. There was excessive blood. His nose was flattened and his pulped mouth hung open, dribbling blood from his lacerated lips and gums down his shirtfront. From the way his left arm hung, it was obvious that it was broken and his left hand was a misshapen, finger-crushed mess.
Marco Conte ran the Vegas casino with a firm hand. He intimidated those who worked under him while presenting a genial face to the customers. No one crossed Conte. He was tough and uncompromising. From the tension in the office and the harsh expression on Conte’s face, Sherman knew that something heavy was going down.
As Sherman moved into the room he heard the solid door click shut behind him. He experienced a frisson of anxiety. He had no idea what this summons was all about.
“Nine million dollars, Harry,” Conte said in his low, gruff voice. “Nine. That’s a shitload of money.”
As the head of the casino’s accounting department, Sherman knew what nine million dollars represented, but he had no idea how it related to him. Even so he was beginning to get nervous. His mouth went dry.
“Mr. Conte?”
The casino boss leaned forward.
“That’s odd, Harry,” he said.
“What?”
“You called me Mr. Conte. Not Marco. We’ve never used anything but first names, Harry. You sound nervous. Is there a reason why you should be nervous?”
“Mr.—Marco...can someone tell me what this is all about? Because I have no idea.”
Sherman knew his voice had cracked. It came out like a croak.
“Why did I expect him to say that?” Conte asked no one in particular. “Maybe it’s because he does know what this is all about. Is that right, Sol?”
Lemke refused to meet Sherman’s gaze. He pawed at his bleeding mouth with his right hand, wincing when he touched torn flesh.
“Yeah, he knows.”
His voice was weak, quavering.
Sherman could feel all eyes on him. He was being accused of something, and he didn’t know what.
“Gone, Harry,” Conte said finally. “All that money gone. Lost.”
“Or stolen,” Forte added.
“He has a point, Harry. Money doesn’t get up and walk away on its own.”
“Marco, none of this makes sense. Where was this money?”
“The backup account,” Conte said. “You remember the backup account? You should, Harry, because you look after it.”
Sherman remained silent. There was a nagging voice in his head telling him he hadn’t looked at the account in some time. Mainly because there was no need. The backup fund was seldom touched. Because the casino was making so much money, there was no need to dip into the reserve.
Forte raised a hamlike fist and jabbed a thick finger in Lemke’s direction.
“Quit screwing ’round, Sherman. We know. Lemke and you took the money. He already told us.”
The words stung. Sherman stared at Lemke. The man held his gaze despite the pain he was in.
“Harry,” Conte said, “there’s no use trying to stall. Sol told us you were in it together. Took the nine million and shifted it to other accounts you set up.”
The words hit like solid punches. Sherman was unable to speak. His mind was wrestling with the situation, trying to make sense of it all. If money was missing, he had been set up by Lemke to draw attention from himself and implicate Sherman.
“Marco, this is crazy. You really believe what he’s saying? That I’d be any part of this? Come on, Marco, it’s too much of a setup to be true.”
“Is it?”
“Why would I even try to screw you over? What the hell would I want with nine million dollars? Don’t I get paid enough to look after your books? Jesus, Marco, I’m no big spender. I don’t even gamble. You’re always joking about that. The only guy in Vegas who doesn’t even play the slot machines. What do you think? That I’ve run up such a big tab I have to steal from the man I work for? Marco, just look at me. I have not done this. I would not do this to you. Ever.”
Conte was studying Sherman closely, searching his face for any hint of deception.
“I always trusted you, Harry. Right now I’m not so sure I should have.”
“Marco, what can I say? This is down to my word against Sol’s. While we’re playing his game, his real partners are moving the money out of reach.”
It had become very quiet. No one spoke. They were all waiting for Conte.
His decision would be final. There would be no challenge to it. If Conte made a decision, it was written in concrete. No going back. Right or wrong, his word was law.
“Okay, this is how we’ll do it. Harry, you have four days to locate the missing money. I give you my word that nothing will happen to you during that time. If you don’t replace the nine million, that’s it. If the money isn’t back where it belongs, the hammer comes down. Don’t fail me, Harry. Until today I never had reason to doubt you. Don’t make a fool out of me. If you’re on the level, make me see that. Lemke here figured he was smart enough to put some of the take in his own account so he could skip town and collect the big prize later. He didn’t know there’s a check we can make on the unexpected movement of casino money. Not even you were told about it, Harry. We’ll be checking your account, as well.”
“Are we going to find some big deposits there?” Forte asked.
“If he’s involved, I don’t think Harry would be stupid enough to do something like that,” Conte said. “It’s your move, Harry. Make my money come back. Four days.”
One of Conte’s men opened the door. As Sherman stepped through and the door began to close behind him, he heard Conte speaking again.
“Not you, Lemke. We have a lot more to discuss...”
Sherman made his way to his office, ignoring the other members of the department. He stepped inside, closed the door, sat at his desk and was suddenly overcome with a feeling of utter loneliness. In a building full of people he was totally on his own, with the clock already starting its slide to zero.
The only thing Sherman knew for certain was that he had not taken Conte’s money. Sol Lemke had fingered him to pull the heat off himself; a seemingly smart move that backfired on the man.
Conte was suspicious, even though he had cut Sherman a break. He was giving him the opportunity to return—or try to return—the missing cash. Sherman knew that even if he succeeded in retrieving the money it was not going to erase what had happened. He was under no illusions as to his eventual fate.
In the end Conte would be considering only one thing: the money. That was the single most important factor in Marco Conte’s life. He didn’t give a damn about anything else.
Once the deadline was reached, successful or not, Harry Sherman would become a target. He was sure the ink was already drying on his death sentence. Conte was not going to risk leaving Sherman alive. That the theft had happened was already a black mark against the man. Conte was going to do all he could to let the east coast mob know that he did not allow such transgressions to go unpunished. Sherman visualized the terrible sight of Sol Lemke—bloody and broken, with more of the same to come.
Sherman would be next. He would be another example of how Marco Conte dealt with anyone who stole from him—because stealing from him meant stealing from the organization, and that was not to be tolerated.
Harry Sherman was walking a tightrope suspended over a drop into Hell.
* * *
FORTE LEANED OVER to hear Conte’s whispered words. The casino boss had made up his mind about Sol Lemke.
“Take him out of town,” Conte said. “Have a couple of the boys work on him until he gives. I don’t give a shit what they do. That turkey knows what this is all about. That’s why he was packed and ready to skip town when the boys picked him up. I want to know who he’s working with.”
Forte nodded. He stood and moved toward one of the hardmen. Lemke picked up on what was being said and jerked upright, staring at Conte.
“I told you how it is, Mr. Conte. It’s Sherman who’s fucking with your money. Not me. That mother has jacked your money. I had nothing to do with it.”
His ranting increased and the accusations poured from his bloody mouth, adding other names to his litany of blame. The shrillness rose as he pleaded for his life.
Conte eventually tired of hearing it. He made a sharp, cutting motion with his hand. Behind Lemke a pistol rose and fell, the solid blow rendering him unconscious.
“Get that piece of trash out of my office,” Conte said. “The back way. Stuff him in the trunk and drive into the desert. You know where. If I didn’t need him able to speak, I’d say cut out his tongue to shut him up. Hell, once he spills what he knows, you can cut it out. Make him eat it before you make him dig his own grave and bury him in it.”
Lemke was dragged from the office through a back door that led directly to the basement garage.
After he had dismissed everyone except Forte, Conte asked for a drink. He sat toying with the thick tumbler.
“Do you believe Harry?” Conte asked.
Forte shrugged. “I can’t decide. He’s always been a straight kind of guy. Boring. But I never would have had him down as a thief. Hell, Marco, how do we know? Working with all that money every day. Moving it around. It would be a hell of a temptation. Even a guy like Harry Sherman could be tempted.”
“I always liked Harry,” Conte said. “He kept the accounts straight. Never caused any problems.” He swallowed the contents of the tumbler and held it out for a refill. “Lemke made a good case against him. But the way Harry reacted... Jesus, Milo... I can’t pin it down one way or the other. And Lemke started to lose it. He was ready to drag in any name he could think of at the end.”
“If Harry’s in on it, he has the chance to make it right,” Forte said. “He must know you don’t mess around. You gave him four days. If it’s not done by then, he knows he’s a dead man. I mean, what’s he going to do? Run and hide?”
That made Conte think. What would Sherman do?
If he was in with Lemke, all he had to do was to keep playing the game until the nine million had been hidden away where it couldn’t be found. Then make a run for it.
If Sherman had been set up by Lemke, he would do his best to get the money back before the deadline. If he succeeded, or failed, he would have realized he was on the edge. He could easily fake the figures to get Conte to back off and then make a run for it.
However the dice rolled, one thing was certain. Marco Conte was going to get a hard time from Serge Bulova. The east coast head honcho would be determined to put the hammer down hard—and Conte, the man on the spot in Vegas, would be the choice to catch the flak. Bulova would see this as Conte having taken his eye off the ball. The Russian wouldn’t give a damn how it turned out. Money back or not, Bulova would make his displeasure known.
“Okay, put someone on Harry,” Conte said. “I need to know his moves. If he steps out of line, he’s finished. And when Harry’s four days are up, I want him dead if he comes through or not. I have to show we don’t let ourselves be played for suckers. We clean up. Make certain we’re covered. Right now I got to call back east and tell Bulova we have a problem.”
“He isn’t going to like it.”
Conte managed a mirthless smile. “You think I do, Milo? There’s no easy way around this. Sooner I call Serge the better. Yeah, he isn’t going to like what I have to tell him. He’ll want to send that prick Danichev to stand watch over us while we sort out this mess. You know, Milo, I hate that smart-ass son of a bitch.”
Conte reached for his phone and hit the speed dial number.
* * *
DESPERATE TO FIND the missing money, Sherman sat at his computer, checking the numbers for the tenth time. He was getting nowhere. As a last hope, he decided to key in a sequence of numbers he had almost forgotten about. Perhaps the money trail could somehow be picked up there.
The commands called up a series of files he had found by accident some months ago. The secret files had come into his possession during a financial data exchange between Sherman and Conte. In his haste, and most likely due to his poor computer skills, the casino boss had unknowingly sent the chief accountant a number of odd files. Sherman had never seen the lines of code before and, more out of curiosity than anything else, had saved them in a folder then deleted Conte’s error.
Immediately following the incident, Sherman had felt a sense of guilt at what he had done. Even so, he’d kept the new files and continued the transfer of accounts to Conte.
Now he opened the saved files and read them one by one. Once his eyes had scanned the first few pages of the lists on his monitor, he was unable to stop. Seeing and recognizing the names, and the payoffs made to those individuals, there was no going back. No erasing the information he had seen. The names and payoffs were in his mind and there was no delete button he could press to wipe them away.
He realized that he was looking at explosive information capable of bringing down powerful people. If this information was made public, a number of influential people were going to fall hard, as would Sherman’s employer and the head of Conte’s organization back east. Sherman had seen the information now. It had the potential to destroy lives, and he would be in the middle of it all.
He decided to save the information on a flash drive. It was all he had; the only insurance policy that might stay Conte’s hand. He only had to figure out what to do with it.
1 (#ulink_cbcdccec-0bbd-5db9-8d27-e91e5011920e)
Washington, DC
Leo Turrin leaned back in his chair, pondering his next move. Once a deep undercover agent for the Justice Department, Turrin had penetrated the closed ranks of the Mafia and become a trusted confederate. Now he was “semiretired” from the mob and worked in Justice’s headquarters in Washington, DC. His current focus was a crime boss named Marco Conte.
A case board covered one wall of the little Fed’s office. The current layout was a montage of information on the Conte organization. Pinned in place were numerous photos of the main players—Conte in a variety of poses, his coterie of lieutenants, lesser men in the group and photos of other criminal figures; some friends, some enemies—as well as images of buildings that included houses and office complexes, and vehicles. The board contained anything and everything relating to Marco Conte’s operation.
Turrin spent a lot of time studying the information, going over what he knew and adding new data whenever it showed up.
He knew that if he got Conte, Justice would have a shot at taking down the head of the organization, Serge Bulova, an east coast crime lord.
All he wanted was the one small sliver of data that might give him his way in.
Finally his patience and dogged persistence had paid off. He’d learned from an inside source that Harry Sherman, Conte’s chief accountant, was in trouble with his boss. Money was missing.
After researching Sherman, Turrin asked his source to ferret out what he could about the missing money. He had no idea if Sherman would play ball but figured he had nothing to lose and a hell of a lot to gain if Sherman turned out to be the chink in the mob’s armor.
He decided to reach out to the man.
Las Vegas, Nevada
INTEL HAD REVEALED that Harry Sherman stopped at the same café every morning on the way to the casino.
The little Fed sat at the table behind him, watching and waiting for his moment. As Sherman briefly glanced away from the table, Turrin rose and, slipping a folded note beside the man’s coffee mug, walked away. He didn’t look back.
He had to wait until Sherman contacted him. If he didn’t, then the Justice man would try another approach.
The next morning Turrin’s cell phone rang.
Sherman got right down to business. “Who are you?”
“Someone who can help,” Turrin replied.
“Help?”
“You’re having problems with Marco Conte. He’s a dangerous man.”
“Who says I’m having problems?”
“Someone I know. Harry, I have good ears and I’m a listener.”
A long pause. Turrin knew Sherman was still on the line because he could hear the background noise.
“Do you have a solution?”
“I do. I’ll pull you out and get you clear,” Turrin said.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“I don’t hear either of us laughing, Harry.”
“Before I end this call, tell me what this is about.”
“Someone is taking a gamble, Harry, and is in the right place to do that for you.”
“Here? In Vegas? Are you trying to get me killed or what? Jesus, if Conte even sniffs I’ve been talking to you, I’m already dead.”
“So stay ahead of the game, Harry. Make that jump before he decides he can’t trust you any longer.”
“This is crazy. You know who you’re talking about? Why the hell am I even still on the line?” Sherman asked.
“Because you know what I’m saying is the truth, Harry. You’re mixed up with a bad crowd. Be honest. You handle the money for Conte. You know the kinds of things he gets involved with using the casino as a front. Do yourself a favor and get out before Conte makes a move.”
Turrin had no doubt that beads of sweat were sliding down the sides of Sherman’s face, that his body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the weather. The voice on the phone was telling him what he already knew. His days with Conte were numbered—and those numbers were already starting to fall.
“I’ll be at the café tomorrow, Harry. We’ll talk.” The little Fed ended the call.
* * *
TURRIN WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED—and relieved—when Sherman crossed the café and took his usual table. After the accountant had ordered, Turrin stood and crossed the floor to join him. The man glanced up, his face registering slight alarm.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” Turrin said as he took the seat across from Sherman. “Good to meet you, Harry. I’m Leo.”
Turrin waited as Sherman’s coffee and roll were delivered.
“If you can’t help me, Leo, this could be one of my last meals.”
“You have a cell phone on you?”
“Don’t they provide you with one?”
“It’s yours I want. Take it out and place it on the table.”
Sherman complied, watching as Turrin opened the back and removed the battery and SIM card. He dropped the items into his pocket.
Sherman stared at him.
“Calls can be traced. You could be tracked.”
“So now what? I make smoke signals?”
Turrin took out a satellite phone and placed it between them on the table.
“Use this one,” he said. “It’s clean and can’t be traced. My people can track you with the GPS that’s installed. And it has my contact number. If we get separated, you can call me.”
Sherman didn’t touch the phone. He had a look on his face that told Turrin he was unsure.
“Okay, so you’re here. What’s going down?”
Sherman laid it all out, about the missing money, Sol Lemke and the deadline Conte had given him.
“He’ll do it,” Sherman said. “Conte has a simple rule. Do it to them before they do it to you. Old school. He believes in bringing the hammer down if he sees a problem. Right now he doesn’t trust me any longer. Even if I found his missing money, the suspicion would still be there. He gave me a few days. I know I’m reaching the end of my rope here.”
“You’re right about Conte. He’s a low-life thug, and he’ll want you dead. No two ways about it. Come on board and I can set things in motion. We relocate you somewhere safe. New identity. New name. You can rebuild your life.”
“It sounds so easy when you say it. I have family. A sister and her kids.”
“We’ll look after them, too. Harry, I won’t lie. This won’t be easy for you. A lot of things will change. Harry Sherman will disappear. You and your loved ones will get new identities. If you have any doubts, think of the alternative.”
Sherman reached out, picked up the sat phone and dropped it into his pocket, knowing that “Leo” was right. He understood a man like Conte, knew the man’s capacity for revenge, retribution. The man had no conscience. His instinct was tuned toward his own survival. Nothing else mattered to him.
“I have information you can use to nail Conte. I recently discovered it.” Sherman told Turrin what he had uncovered. “Do what you’ve promised and I’ll give it to you when I’m safe.”
“Then let’s get out of here,” the little Fed said, pushing back his chair.
Sherman pushed his seat back and stood. He caught his foot on the leg of his chair and stumbled slightly. It was just enough to take him out of the trajectory of the slug that missed him by inches and slammed into Turrin. The impact shoved the Justice man back, his seat toppling and taking him with it. He hit the ground hard, blood spreading across his shirt from the hole high in his chest.
The other customers panicked as realization hit in the wake of the gunshot. They scattered, Harry Sherman among them, and two more people were hit as the shooter attempted to pin Sherman down.
By the time the first police cruisers arrived, it was over.
2 (#ulink_d75b6024-4599-524f-a99e-e31eb91bb654)
In hospital and under guard, Leo Turrin was slowly recovering from surgery to remove a slug from his chest. The bullet had clipped a lung and had lodged in muscle.
Family and friends had visited after hurried cross-country flights. Even Hal Brognola, Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, a secret antiterrorist organization based at Stony Man Farm, had shown up, then quickly departed.
Turrin had given his evidence to the investigating team from Justice. Now, in the silence of his room, staring unseeing at the walls, Turrin tried to make sense of it all. He had been involved in the world of crime and its attendant horrors for so long he imagined nothing could shock him, yet he still found himself drawn into the effects of such pointless violence. He had learned that several innocents had been killed, including two children. What made it worse: there was not a damned thing he could do about it.
He heard the door to his room swish open. The door closed and Turrin became aware of a presence.
Unobtrusive.
Standing silently beside the bed.
Before a word was spoken, Turrin knew who it was.
“We are going to make this right, Leo.”
When he heard those simple words, the little Fed felt a degree of tension drain away.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“It’s never easy,” Mack Bolan said. “But it’s doable.”
“It should have been straightforward, Mack. Sherman was ready to make a deal. A new identity for information on Conte.”
“Why would he do that?”
Turrin took a breath as a surge of pain slashed through his chest.
“The guy was at odds with Conte. My contact in Vegas said the casino boss was getting more and more aggressive with everyone around him—running the organization as if he was some kind of untouchable. A few people vanished after they had committed some minor discretions. Conte was showing there was no place for mistakes in his organization.
“Sherman knew his time had come when he was accused of stealing money from the accounts. He knew Conte would come after him. He’d want Sherman’s head on a plate. So he took the only option he could.” Turrin took another slow breath. “When Sherman found incriminating information in Conte’s files, he saved it on a flash drive. It was his bargaining chip. When we met, he told me he’d give us the data that would give us the go on Conte’s organization. Now I’m not sure the information will be worth what it’s already cost in lives.”
Turrin asked for water and Bolan obliged. Bolan placed the plastic cup in his old friend’s hand and waited as he sipped the water through a straw.
“Leo, if this is too much right now, we can leave it.”
Turrin shook his head.
“We don’t have the luxury of time. Sherman’s out there on his own. The guy is in a bad place, Mack. He’s an accountant, not a street soldier. I contacted him and offered my help. Now he’s on the run. Conte’s kill squads will be hunting him. If they get to him first, it’s over.”
“Then we stop Conte, Leo. Play him at his own game. By the rules he sets down.”
“Read up on him, Mack. This guy runs his organization through violence and intimidation and doesn’t give a damn about anyone. The casino is his legitimate cover for what goes on behind the scenes. From what we’ve learned that’s a hell of a lot.”
“Justice knows but can’t touch him?”
“Conte has the backing of his people out east. The real power is the Russian mob out of Brighton Beach. They have high-priced lawyers and money to burn on payoffs. These people know how to buy their protection, Mack. Justice has been trying to find a way in, but these guys have it sewed up tight. Sherman’s information could go a long way to bringing them all down. But right now I have no idea where he is or what he’s done with the evidence.”
“The thing about sewing things up is the opportunity to pick at the stitches,” Bolan said.
Those few words told Turrin that he could rest a little easier.
Mack Bolan was on board.
The Executioner was ready to roll.
Conte and the Russian mob were in for a rough ride.
3 (#ulink_00c212fd-ebdc-5d2d-83d6-baaf0abcd1c6)
“Marco, it’s a call for you,” Milo Forte said. “I think it’s Harry Sherman.”
Conte took the phone. “Yeah?”
“You double-crossed me, Marco,” Sherman said without preamble. “I valued your word. I should have known better.”
“Harry, it’s business. Nothing personal. I have to go with the percentages and they were telling me I should cut my losses.”
“You think? Marco, I might have had respect for you a while ago, but you just proved what a cheap hood you are—”
“You can’t talk to me like that, you fucking bean counter. You know who I am?”
“I know what you are, Marco. A scared little gofer who has to jump through hoops every time your Russian boss says so. And right now you’re in trouble. Bulova isn’t going to be happy you let nine million slip through your fingers. I would have stuck to my agreement, but you couldn’t even do that.”
The silence was thick enough to cut.
“Where are you, Harry? Tell me so I can come rip your throat out.”
“I would have helped, but now I’m going to do my best to see that you and Bulova go down. I have the goods on you, Marco. I found your hidden files. The ones that have all the names and dates and payoffs. I made a copy and I’m going to give it to the Feds. You just had to send out your guy with his gun to put me down. The trouble is, he screwed up. He missed me but hurt other people. So to hell with you all. You made me angry, Marco, and it takes a lot to do that, you loser.”
“We’ll find you, Harry, and I’ll make it my personal business to cut you into little pieces.”
The phone went dead in Conte’s hand.
“Milo, that piece of garbage is threatening to hand over files to the Feds. Goddamn it, we need to find him fast or we’re done.”
* * *
VITALY DANICHEV SAT in the rear of the SUV, making no move to climb out. His driver sat patiently at the wheel, staring out through the windshield. He knew better than to disturb his employer when he was in such a mood. Tibor Kolchak flanked the driver. Even though he was Danichev’s chief bodyguard, the huge man understood when to remain nothing more than a passive observer.
“All right, Tibor, let’s get this done.”
Kolchak climbed out of the SUV and moved his bulk to Danichev’s door, opening it so that his boss could step out. He headed directly for the casino’s entrance. Despite his powerful size, Kolchak stayed ahead of his boss, yanking open the door for him. Danichev walked inside and along the carpeted floor. Even at this time of day the casino was busy with people moving in and out. A constant stream of potential winners and losers.
“Mr. Conte is waiting for you in the Crater Lounge, sir,” said the floor manager.
He led them through the casino to a closed door at the far side of the opulent gambling floor. They stepped through the door and into the semi-lit area of the lounge. The empty dance floor was surrounded by tables and chairs, and a long, curved bar sat at the rear. The motif of the room was of planets and stars, the ceiling illuminated by simulated lunar craters and subdued light.
Marco Conte sat at the bar on a high stool, two of his hardmen close by. His gaze settled on Danichev and remained there as the Russian approached. Conte had a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. He was putting on an act of nonchalance, a display for Danichev’s benefit. It was a wasted effort. The Russian ignored it.
“Have you found him?” Danichev asked.
Any form of greeting Conte might have been considering faded fast.
“No.”
“And so you sit there doing nothing?”
“I have my people out looking for him,” Conte said.
Danichev’s lips curved into a faint smile a second before he exploded with rage.
“You have people looking for him. What the fuck does that mean? This accountant has run out on you. And you have done nothing to stop him. The Feds want him to give them this evidence he found.”
Danichev began to speak Russian, his rage filling the room as he subjected Conte to an intense verbal rant. His hands lashed out, knocking the cigar and the glass from Conte’s hands.
The casino boss took the verbal assault without protest, his shock at being so intensely attacked rendering him speechless. He might be the head man in Vegas but under Danichev’s intense rebuke he could have been a street soldier with no rank. He had heard about the Russian’s powerful presence, but this was the only time he had been on the receiving end. He was physically trembling, his face bloodless; he realized his position so he remained silent. The last thing he needed to do was to offer some lame excuse.
“Get me a drink,” Danichev said to Kolchak, suddenly reverting to English.
Kolchak stepped behind the bar. He sought out a bottle of expensive vodka and filled a tumbler, handing it to Danichev. The Russian savored the liquor before taking a swallow.
“At least this delivers as it should,” he said after the vodka slid down his throat. “Pour one for Marco. I think he is going to need it.”
Conte took the offered drink without protest. He hated the stuff, preferring a good malt whiskey, but at that moment he wasn’t going to do anything to upset Danichev further.
“Get rid of the monkeys,” Danichev ordered.
Conte dismissed his bodyguards. He was aware of Danichev’s scrutiny, so he took another swallow of the vodka.
“So,” Danichev said in a more conversational tone that did little to make Conte feel any better. “I got angry because you fucked up. You now understand how bad you fucked up. Because of your error the organization is now vulnerable to the Feds. The last thing we need is to be placed in their sights any more than we already are. Do you agree, Marco?”
“Yes. But we will find him.”
“That is not the answer I was hoping for. What I asked was whether you think Sherman has left us in a vulnerable position.”
Conte noticed that his hand holding the glass of vodka was trembling slightly. It angered him that Danichev could have that effect on him. And it annoyed him the way the man talked down to him.
In the seconds following his thoughts, Marco Conte realized his position, his power over events, was only granted by the ultimate heads of the organization. They wielded the big stick from their power base back east. His empire, out here in the sticks, only existed because it generated revenue—that ultimate power being demonstrated to him by the presence of Vitaly Danichev. If Danichev decided to end Conte’s reign, he could do it simply by clicking his fingers and unleashing the hulking figure of Tibor Kolchak. It could happen in an instant and Conte would cease to exist.
“If he manages to hand over that information to the Feds, we could have problems,” Conte conceded.
“Good. With that out of the way we must move to prevent this matter getting any further out of hand.”
Danichev glanced at Kolchak.
The big man took out a cell phone that was dwarfed by his massive hand. He tapped in a speed-dial number and waited until the call was answered. He leaned across the bar and handed it to Danichev.
“Where are you?” the Russian asked. “Excellent. Come straight inside when you arrive.”
* * *
TEN MINUTES and two more glasses of vodka later, Danichev heard the sound of raised voices. The doors to the lounge were pushed open and five men walked in.
“On time, as usual,” he said.
The group was headed by a well-muscled man in his late thirties. His dark hair was close-cut, his angular face tanned, emphasizing the pale color of his eyes.
“Mr. Danichev,” the man said, respect evident in his voice. His gaze passed over Conte before centering on Danichev again. “Ready to go, sir.”
“This is Marco Conte,” Danichev said. “He heads this territory for us. Marco, I want you to meet Anatole Killian. Anatole and his men are here to put right our little problem. I want you to give Anatole all the help he needs. He has my permission to ask any questions. To go through everything there is to know about our absent accountant. He has the full backing of the organization to do whatever is needed to resolve this matter.”
Conte understood exactly what was implied by Danichev’s words. He didn’t need to have it spelled out any clearer. He knew exactly who Anatole Killian was. His team’s reputation within the organization was well known, as was its purpose. He and his men were known as the Kill Squad.
“It appears that Sherman accessed sensitive data from Marco’s computer and saved it to a flash drive,” Danichev said. “That data, if handed over to the Feds, could prove extremely embarrassing to Mr. Bulova.”
Killian considered what had been said. “Is this information that important?”
“Yes. It is Conte’s master list of people, the amount of money paid to them, as well as the reason why it was paid and dates.”
“I can understand why that kind of information is important,” Killian said, “but how did Sherman manage to get hold of it?”
“Because he’s a smart son of a bitch who managed to get into my secure files and access what was on them.”
“Not so secure then,” Killian said.
Conte emptied his drink. “So it fucking well seems.”
“Anatole, don’t upset Marco. He’s not having too good a day.”
“Sorry,” Killian said. “Let me have everything on this Sherman. I need to find a starting point. Contacts this guy might have. Places he might go. Any family he might run to.”
“Sherman has a sister and a niece. They live in Des Moines. A nephew is deployed overseas,” Conte said. “We did a background check when he applied for the job. Apparently, Sherman and his sister don’t really get on. The sister doesn’t approve of his lifestyle. She believes Vegas is not the place to work.”
“You think she is worried we might corrupt him?” Danichev asked.
“Something like that.”
“If Sherman is on the move, he might contact his sister,” Killian said. “Family loyalty.”
“Have a local contact arrange for a home visit,” Danichev said. “The sister might have what we need.”
Killian nodded. “I’ll get on it.”
4 (#ulink_9223f1e2-2365-5ed8-ad84-2f32fb3bdf79)
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.
She glanced at the secured guy on the side path as she stepped around him. “Any others you haven’t mentioned?”
“No.”
She followed Bolan as he retraced his route to the mall.
“Don’t you have a car? Are we going to take a bus?”
“I parked at the mall,” Bolan replied. “I didn’t want to draw attention.”
“Really? You made quite an entrance back there.”
“No choice.”
“Was that man was going to hurt me?” Laura asked, keeping in step.
“He was.”
They might have been a couple out for a stroll, having a casual conversation.
“Let’s start again. You know my name. Who are you?”
“Matt Cooper.”
“Who—what—are you, Matt Cooper? You didn’t want to stay around until the police came. That’s curious, so...?”
“So we need to get to your mother. I didn’t want to stay around and have to answer too many questions.”
She turned to stare at him. “Nice try, but I think there’s more to it, Cooper.”
“You need to call your mother. Get her to meet us somewhere away from her office.”
Bolan took out his sat phone.
“I have my own cell,” she said, producing it from her shoulder bag.
“Give it to me,” Bolan said. “It’s important.”
Laura swapped phones. She watched as Bolan opened the back of her phone and took out the SIM card. He snapped it in two, dropped the pieces in a trash can as they passed and then removed the battery.
“I can’t believe you did that. You think my insurance will cover the damage?”
“Somebody might be listening in or tracking you.”
“Look, Cooper, before we go any further you have to tell me what this is all about. And what it has to do with Uncle Harry.”
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Don Pendleton
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Шпионские детективы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: ALL BETS ARE OFFNine million dollars goes missing from a Vegas casino, and accountant Harry Sherman becomes the mob’s scapegoat. Sherman’s ready to spill everything to the Feds in exchange for his freedom, but his bosses are determined to shut him up—forever. Protecting the money-man proves too much for the Justice Department, leaving only one guy for the job: Mack Bolan.Soon, Bolan’s racing across the country to secure the fugitive Sherman before a team of hired killers catches up to him. Time is tight as every clue to the desperate man’s whereabouts leads to a dead body and puts innocent lives in the line of fire. But when it comes to justice, the Executioner always has another card up his sleeve—and he’ll aim it straight at the enemy.