The Killing Urge

by Don Pendleton

  Rocco grinned. "That's enough then," he said, but kept his grip on D'matto's shirt.

  "Let me go, Roc." D'matto was beginning to see the handwriting on the wall.

  "I've got a problem with that," Rocco said. "You see, Vic, you told all your secrets. You can't be trusted anymore."

  D'matto stared at him, recognizing the moment that he had always known would come, ever since the beginning thirty years ago.

  "Tony," Rocco said, "do me a favor."

  "Sure, boss," Tony replied.

  "Shoot this son of a bitch for me. Then let's go up and get Old Sam and Joey."

  Tony leaned over the seat, looking hard at D'matto. D'matto nearly laughed at the thought of stupid Tony being stupid Rocco's right-hand man. He'd just as soon be dead as have to live with something like that.

  Tony looked him in the eye. "Nothin' personal," he said matter-of-factly. "I'll tell your sister goodbye."

  With that, he brought the MAC-10 up and stuck it in D'matto's face, pulling the trigger. D'matto knew a second of bright red, then quickly ebbing blackness.

  * * *

  Angela Giancarlo had dumped out Joan Meredith's purse on the floor and was sifting through the contents when they heard the gunshot, everyone starting to attention. Bolan pulled his arm away from his head long enough to check his watch.

  "Right on time, Joey," he said.

  "Maybe it was a car backfire." Angela picked up a pair of handcuffs from the scattered contents of the purse. "Look what I found."

  "I wonder how many men Rocco brought with him?" Bolan said idly. "They could surround this place pretty quickly, wouldn't you say so, Joan?"

  "Absolutely," Meredith replied, getting into the swing of Bolan's needling. "A couple of guns won't do much good."

  Joey was looking around, nervous, as Old Sam continued to sit quietly. "Angie," he said, "come here and keep an eye on them. I'm going to take a look outside."

  Angela moved over and took the shotgun from her brother, her face hard as she aimed high. Joey ran to the front door.

  "You're good with the baloney," Bolan said to her. "I wonder if you've got the stomach for the killing."

  "I shot him" she said proudly, pointing the gun barrel at the unconscious Chasen, who was tossing restlessly.

  "Yeah," Bolan said, "but how about when you're looking down the barrel of somebody else's gun? You got the guts for that?"

  She chewed on her lower lip, then looked at her father. "Will you help us out?" she asked.

  He stared at her for a second, then went back to watching television.

  Joey charged back into the room, agitated. "There's at least two of them," he said, "and they're on both sides of the street."

  "What do we do?" Angela asked.

  "Yvette!" Chasen called from the couch. "Yvette, where are you?"

  "Why don't you make a deal with them?" Bolan said. "What do you think, Sam? Think they can cut a deal?"

  "Let's lock these two up first." Joey grabbed Joan's handcuffs.

  "Why don't we just kill them?" Angela asked.

  "Because," Bolan said, "if you just tie us up, you can use the guns of Rocco and his friend to shoot us with, and take yourselves completely off the hook. Joey's scenario is coming true — if you can stay alive long enough."

  "Shut up!" Joey yelled, getting behind Bolan to push him. "Get in the kitchen."

  "Sure, Joey," Bolan said. "Whatever you say. You're the boss, right, Sam?"

  They all walked into the kitchen. Joey opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink and bent to look at the water pipes. "Down on the floor," he said.

  "Looks pretty dirty down there," Bolan needled him.

  "Down on the fucking floor!"

  Bolan and Meredith lay down on the floor, Joey making them stretch their hands up to the plumbing.

  "Angie," Joey said, taking the shotgun from her. "Get down there and chain 'em around the pipe."

  Angela knelt on the floor close to them, reaching under the sink.

  "We've got to stop meeting like this," Bolan said. "I'm ready to make love now if you want."

  "Stop it!" she screamed. "Would you just stop it!"

  "What's wrong?" Bolan asked in concern, working as hard as he could to rattle her. He wanted both of them nervous and as off balance as possible. Confusion was his friend right now. It would cause them to make mistakes.

  The woman cuffed Bolan's left arm to Meredith's right, the pipes between them. She stood. "Got it."

  "Okay," Joey said. "Grab a gun. They're comin' in." He ran out of the kitchen, Angela behind him.

  As soon as they were gone, Bolan looked at Meredith. "Let's see what we can do about getting the hell out of here."

  He slid up closer to the sink, getting up to a crouch, listening to Joey and Angela screaming at each other in the distance.

  "You see anything?"

  "No... no! Where are they?"

  "Try upstairs... upstairs!"

  Bolan looked into the cabinet, then pulled out a bottle of dishwashing detergent. "Just what the doctor ordered," he said, then reached around the pipes to squirt the liquid soap all over Joan's hand and wrist.

  "I washed after dinner," she said.

  "Pull for all you're worth," he said, then yelled to the others, "See anything yet? Maybe they're in the back!"

  Meredith began working her wrist against the cuffs, pulling, twisting, always exerting pressure.

  "I see something!" Angela screamed shrilly from upstairs. Then came the sound of breaking glass and machine gun fire as she opened up with Bolan's AutoMag, blasting out most of the clip on the first burst. She had just effectively taken herself out of the fighting.

  "Damn! Damn!" Joey screamed. He opened the front door to push the shotgun through the crack and fire, then pulled it back in.

  Return fire began beating against the side of the house. More glass broke and Angela screamed from upstairs.

  "It's coming," Meredith whispered. "I'm starting to slide out."

  "Quickly," Bolan urged. "We're running out of time."

  "You are a cool one,"

  "Just hurry," he said.

  "Yvette!" Chasen called from the next room.

  The shotgun went off several more times, fire concentrating on the area of the front door.

  "There!" Meredith slipped her wrist free.

  "Good girl." Bolan pulled his arm around the pipes and stood, the empty cuff dangling from his wrist. They ran back into the den, where the Beretta and Joan's .45 lay on the couch next to Old Sam. He was still watching television.

  There was a groan from the doorway. Joey Giancarlo, blood covering his chest and running freely from his mouth, stumbled into the den without his gun and staggered toward his father.

  "I... I..." He was reaching out to Old Sam, his eyelids fluttering. "I..."

  The old man wouldn't even look at him. Joey stumbled with a strangled cry and fell dead at his father's feet.

  Hearing more noise at the door, both Bolan and Meredith crouched, as two very stupid men charged into their withering cross fire. The first one through was a young, lean man, whom Bolan took high and Meredith took low, the blistering sting of their automatics chopping him up in pieces. Blood squirted from his falling body to cover the walnut-paneled walls.

  Rocco Villani was right behind, looking mean. His eyes opened wide in surprise when a burst from the Beretta diced him across the chest, destroying those marvelous pectorals that did nothing to stop the relentless drive of 9 mm death. He went down with a loud shout, his legs sliding out from under him as he crashed against the coffee table in front of Old Sam, then landed beside the body of Joey Giancarlo.

  "Check outside!" Bolan said, as he moved up to Rocco to make sure he was dead.

  "What about Angela?" Meredith called as she moved out to the hall.

  "She didn't take any extra magazines. She probably ran out of ammo in the first minute."

  As Meredith moved cautiously to the front door, Bolan stood staring down at Rocco Vill
ani. Old Sam had torn himself away from his TV program and he too, was looking, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

  Rocco still drew raspy breath and opened his eyes to look up. "B-Belasko?" he said in confusion.

  "The name's Bolan," the Executioner said. "Goodbye." He raised the Beretta and put a round through the man's brain.

  "Look what I found," Meredith announced from the hallway. She came in, pushing Angela Giancarlo in front of her. "Nobody else outside."

  "S-stop," came Ken Chasen's shaky voice. They all turned to see him holding the Ingram that had dropped from Rocco's hands when he fell. He was awake now, eyes wide, as he pointed the gun at Joan Meredith.

  "Ken," Angela said, smiling.

  "Let's go... Yvette," Chasen said. He was having trouble holding the gun steady.

  "Let me get this gun first." She reached for Meredith's .45.

  "No!" Chasen said. "No m-more guns. The last time you... you..."

  "Then you kill them," she told him. "Shoot them for me, darling."

  His eyes filled with fear, his hands shaking. "L-let's just g-go. N-no killing. I c-can't."

  She walked toward him. "Then give me the gun. We've got to take care of..."

  "No," he said. "Come... with me."

  "Give me the goddamn gun," she shouted, "you slimy wimp! God, how did I ever let you put your sleazy hands on me. I had to go throw up whenever we finished making love. Why can't you be a man?"

  "That's n-not true," he said. "You l-love me."

  "Coward," she spit, moving closer. "You're nothing but a stinking mama's boy."

  He began breathing heavily, terror filling his eyes as she walked up and tried to grab the gun away from him. It went off then, its pop loud, obscene. Angela fell to her knees, blood welling up between the fingers she held over her stomach.

  Old Sam watched her, expressionless. She turned to her father, pleading with her eyes, then fell backward to stare, unseeing, at the ceiling.

  Bolan took a step toward Chasen, but it was too late. When the man saw Angela on the floor, he began to wail, then brought the MAC-10 up to his temple and pulled the trigger on full auto, splattering himself over the whole room.

  Bolan and Meredith exchanged glances. She finally understood what it was about these people that Bolan had known and felt so deeply and for such a long time. As one, they both turned to look at Old Sam.

  The man had picked up the phone and was punching up a number. Bolan walked up to stare at him as he waited for his call to go through.

  "Yeah," the old man said. "This is Sam Giancarlo. I want to talk with Ben Villani. Yeah..." He looked up coldly at Bolan for a second, then returned to the call. "Hello, Ben... this is Sam. I just want you to know that I got your boy, he's laying dead at my feet. He's all blasted away, you bastard. I hope you choke on it. I'm gonna fix you good for all this, you see."

  He hung up the phone then and looked at Bolan. "You better get your boss on the phone," he said. "It looks like I'm gonna hafta move again."

  "That's all you have to say after all this?" Joan asked from across the room.

  The man turned and spit on the floor. "Sure. I can tell you to go to hell."

  "You're a mad dog who fathered mad dogs," Bolan said. "Only an animal could be so unaffected by the treachery and death of its children."

  "So, I'm an animal." Old Sam smiled grimly. "You think you're so high-and-mighty, Mr. Killer, but you couldn't put down Sam Giancarlo. I'm still here, still free and on the streets because your government made a deal with me. Your government tells me, 'Old Sam, you talk for us and we forget everything you do.'" He laughed then. "I'm still kickin', bastard."

  Bolan turned from him without a word and collected his weapons. He and Joan left all the rest behind, letting Old Sam take whatever measures he wished to dispose of the bodies all over his den.

  They got in the Cougar and rode off down the street, passing a black Lincoln half a block farther on. Bolan was silent, remembering everything Old Sam had said to him, remembering the road that had brought him to this confrontation with the old man. "Still on the streets," he had said, "still kicking."

  Bolan stopped the car in the lot of the convenience store where he'd bought the aspirin earlier that evening.

  "What's up?" Meredith asked.

  "Gotta make a call." Bolan strode toward the nearby pay phone.

  A quarter got him a dial tone, and a quick call to information elicited the number he wanted. Then he dialed again and listened to ten rings at the other end before a voice answered, "Oklahoma City Police Department."

  "Yeah," Bolan said. "Theft: auto."

  Another line rang, a woman answering this time. "Don't say anything," Bolan told her, "just write this down. The auto theft ring is operating out of a chain of body shops called Lucky Sam's. The chain is owned by a man you know as Robert Pressman, but who is actually known as Old Sam Giancarlo, a Chicago mobster."

  "What's your..."

  "Never mind that." Bolan hung up and returned to the car feeling a lot better.

  Bolan headed the Cougar toward the airport, all the while thinking about blood and heredity, about upbringing and conditioning. Laws were the rules of civilization, rules that helped us walk out of the jungle and learn to live together in peace. If man was ever to survive on this planet, the rule of law had to prevail over the rule of instinct, the killing urge.

  The urge to kill.

  The urge that kills.

  Old Sam would live to testify against Ben Villani and his contacts, but at least now he'd be doing it from a cage, a place where animals are kept for the safety of others. To Mack Bolan, the Executioner, that made a big difference. For to him, crime wasn't a job or a gentleman's game run by situation ethics. It was a war, a nasty war for the highest stakes, a war in which there could be no mercy and no quarter.