Arizona Ambush

by Don Pendleton

  Bonelli nodded his satisfaction with the answer, allowing his eyes to sweep the room again. His gaze settled on a large weapon which sat atop a dusty tripod in one corner of the room. Two short tubes made of plastic or cardboard or something were propped against the big gun, completing the sinister little tableau. The mafioso gestured toward the pile of weaponry with one hand as he turned toward Hinshaw.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. A .50-caliber machine gun and a couple of LAW rocket tubes.” Hinshaw’s tone was brisk, matter-of-fact.

  “What’s that LAW?”

  “Light anti-tank weapon,” Hinshaw explained to the “civilian.” “Think of it as a throw-away bazooka. We found them on a rise overlooking the compound, about a hundred yards out. He did this with the fifty,” Hinshaw’s hand swept the room, indicating the hundreds of bullet holes. “It has an automatic trigger lock, set for continuous fire. That left his hands free to handle the LAWs.”

  “The chopper shoots by itself?” Paul Bonelli was skeptical.

  Hinshaw nodded. “It’s a relatively simple mechanism. He probably—”

  “Simple?” Bonelli interrupted, scarcely able to believe his ears. “It was simple for one man to kick hell out of your entire force? What were your boys doing, Jimmy?”

  “Dying,” Hinshaw answered flatly. “Or trying like hell not to.”

  Bonelli was boiling. “It looks bad, Jimmy. One guy dumping all over—how many men is it now?” The Tucson sub-capo knew very well how many men had been lost before Hinshaw answered “twenty-three” in a tired voice.

  Bonelli nodded solemnly as he repeated the number aloud. Then his tone softened and he took a different tack with the beleaguered field commander. “Okay, I can see what you’ve been up against here. I understand. But my papa, now …” Paul left the sentence hanging, letting Hinshaw know that Don Niccolo Bonelli was not apt to share his son’s understanding of the situation.

  He let Hinshaw think about that for a moment, then added, “I hate to bring home news like this so soon after your other troubles.” Another pause, then, “Maybe I don’t have to tell him right now, I guess we can wait until after we have this thing in the bag.” Bonelli smiled at the scowling soldier. “We are going to bag it, aren’t we?”

  The telephone rang, breaking the tension building there. Hinshaw seemed frozen for a long moment, then reluctantly scooped up the receiver.

  “Hello? Yes, hang on.” He held out the instrument to Bonelli. “For you.”

  Paul accepted the receiver and growled into the mouthpiece. “Yeah?”

  The voice at the other end of that connection was taut, breathless. “Paul? Jake Lucania here.”

  “Yeah, Jake.”

  Lucania’s words came in a breathless rush. “We been hit! You never saw such—it’s—I mean—”

  Bonelli shushed the excited flow. “Jake! Relax now and take it from the top one time.”

  Lucania was still breathing heavily, but more slowly now as he answered. “Okay, right. I’m sorry. We been hit. The house is mostly gone, and we lost more’n a dozen boys.”

  “How is he?” Bonelli asked, knowing it was unnecessary to speak his father’s name.

  “Oh, he’s okay. Shook up some, mad as hell. He told me to call you right away.”

  “Who hit you?”

  “It was Bolan for damn sure.”

  Bonelli’s eyes floated toward Hinshaw. “For sure, eh?”

  “As sure as can be. Half a dozen boys got a look at him. A big stud, all in black, guns and shit hangin’ all over him. It was Bolan all right, or else he’s got a twin.”

  “There’s no twins,” Bonelli said grimly.

  “Yeah, well.…”

  “When was this, again?” Bonelli asked worriedly, still looking at Hinshaw.

  “It was exactly, uh, twenty-five minutes ago.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “Listen. He wants you back here. Right now.”

  “Tell him I said he should button up tight. We got a situation here, too. I’ll get back as soon as I can. But I gotta … I’ll call you back, Jake.” Bonelli broke the connection and turned to face Hinshaw with a hard look.

  “When did you say you got hit?” he asked quietly.

  “Hell, I told you. It was just before you arrived.”

  “I been here about ten minutes.”

  “Yeah. Well …” Hinshaw stretched to his toes and gripped the back of his neck. “So I’m surprised you didn’t run into the guy on your way in. The attack lasted, uh, say three to four minutes. It was hit and run. Time we got unglued and started a reaction, the guy was gone. Go put a hand on that M2. It’s probably still hot.”

  “You got hit about half an hour ago, then.”

  “Give or take a minute or two, yeah.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The soldier’s eyes flared. “Huh?”

  “Bolan was hitting our ranch about half an hour ago, give or take a minute.”

  “That’s impossible,” Hinshaw replied softly.

  “Tell papa it’s impossible. The guy leveled the place.”

  “Then Bolan didn’t do it. He was—”

  “I said bullshit,” Bonelli cut in coolly. “They saw the guy. It was him. He was 200 miles from here at the time you say you got hit.”

  Hinshaw’s face darkened. “What d’you mean I say I got hit!” His hand made a dramatic pass of the room. “What the hell do you call this?”

  “I can see what it looks like,” Bonelli said curtly. “Now I’m asking you what really happened.”

  The scowling Hinshaw quickly replied, “Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Bonelli?”

  The Tucson underboss did not miss the sudden formality. “Simmer down,” he said. “Nobody’s calling names. I’m just saying you got it wrong. You read it wrong. Now, I’m saying, you need to read it again.”

  The military chief lit a cigarette and turned toward a shattered window. Presently he turned a musing gaze toward Bonelli and said, “Okay. I’m reading it again. I told you the M2 was rigged for autofire. Even had a sweeper on it. I think we been had by some fancy footwork. I think the guy was in both places at the same time.”

  Bonelli shook his head. “Try again, Jimmy.”

  “It could be done, I don’t know how those LAWs could have been programmed for … but—well hell, come to think of it, how do we know he even used LAWs. He could have …”

  “You’re trying too hard,” Bonelli said coldly.

  “The guy got inside somehow. He came in here and set it up.”

  “Save it!” Bonelli snarled.

  “I don’t like your insinuation!” the soldier yelled.

  “Fuck what you don’t like,” Bonelli growled. “Your problem now is to give me something that I might like!”

  “Dammit, it’s a Bolan hit,” Hinshaw fumed. “It has his signature all over it. The guy came in here and set us up. Then he zipped down to Tucson and timed it for a simultaneous one-two. He’s trying to drive a wedge between us, trying to fragment us. We used that tactic all the time in—”

  “I said save it!” Bonelli cried angrily. “Don’t serve me that kind of shit!”

  A seemingly genuine expression of new revelation crossed the soldier’s eyes. “The phone man,” he said, sighing.

  “What phone man? Make it better than last time, Jimmy.” That was a threat, directly stated.

  Hinshaw either did not hear or he let it pass. “The son of a bitch,” he said, the voice awed. “He waltzed right in here, drank our beer and …”

  “What, what?”

  “You wouldn’t like this, Mr. Bonelli,” the guy said, very quietly. “It would scare the shit out of you. Let me handle it—just forget it and let me handle it.”

  “You’re getting paid to handle it,” Bonelli said coldly. “Try cute games with us, though.…” It was another threat, this time received and understood.

  The soldier’s eyes flashed angrily, but there was no further reaction. Bonelli t
ook a final look around, squared his shoulders, and walked quickly out of there.

  That soldier could lose more than his face this time. He could, yeah, lose his whole damn head.

  Hinshaw watched Paul Bonelli go with mixed feelings of anger and apprehension. Tension coiled within him like a cold fist clutched around his heart. For the first time, he feared that he was really losing control in the Phoenix game, and he didn’t like that feeling. Not even a little bit.

  Hinshaw had not been happy with the news that Bonelli junior was leading the reinforcements to Phoenix. Except for two things, he would have opposed the move. Number one, by the time he had learned about it, the troops were already on the road with Paul in command. And number two, it was distinctly unhealthy to buck Nick Bonelli when his mind was made up, even on small matters. On a matter as all-important as this one, such opposition would undoubtedly be fatal.

  Well, Paul Bonelli was there now, and Hinshaw did not for one moment buy that business about the guy just being there to “keep an eye on the boys.” Bonelli was there to keep an eye—and a tight rein—on Hinshaw. From the minute he stepped out of that shiny Detroit tank, Paul Bonelli was in command of the Phoenix game, and everybody concerned knew it. Whatever sugar coating Paulie or his father tried to put on it, Hinshaw was being relieved of his command in all but name, and the idea rankled him. And yet, if that had been all there was to it, Hinshaw might have been content to roll with the punch, biding his time.

  But there was more, much more going on in Phoenix than a Mafia warlord expressing dissatisfaction with a field commander. Hinshaw didn’t know for sure yet just what it was, or even who was pulling the strings, but he could feel his hackles rising as they had in ’Nam, when some sixth sense had warned him of impending ambush by the Cong.

  Jim Hinshaw was being set up. But for what? And by whom?

  If Mack Bolan was pulling the strings, there was nothing Hinshaw could do except try to anticipate the next blow and brace himself for it when it fell.

  Things might be different, though, if the setup was a Bonelli operation. There just might be something that Hinshaw could do to prepare for that eventuality. Something decisive, maybe.

  Hinshaw picked up the phone, which had done so much to derail his schemes of late, and quickly dialed a local number. He recognized the answering voice and got down to business without wasting time on preliminaries.

  “Get the men together on the double. I’ll expect them to be ready to move within twenty minutes. Can do?” He acknowledged the affirmative reply with a terse grunt and broke the connection.

  Hinshaw was calling up his reserves. He had not been green or foolish enough to enter the Phoenix campaign with only thirty men at his disposal, nor had he been inclined to place himself at the mercy of replacements from the south. Like any field commander worthy of the name, he had trained and positioned a secondary force in anticipation of unforeseen setbacks … from any faction. The “hole card,” as Angel called it.

  Jim Hinshaw did not intend to lose face—or anything else—from this operation. It had been recognized from the start as his golden opportunity to establish himself as a man for the world to reckon with.

  He would not, dammit, return to the obscurity that had held his manhood captive through all those drab years.

  He was going to bag himself a bonus baby, all the damn Bonellis to hell. And he’d walk over anybody to get Mack Bolan’s head in a sack.

  He’d have it, dammit.

  The cute bastard. New face, eh?

  All faces looked the same inside a paper sack.

  CHAPTER 14

  LINKS

  “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you!” Moe Kaufman’s voice was angry, betraying signs of the inner strain which had dogged him throughout that day. “I need protection. Now!”

  He sat in a richly panelled conference room upstairs in the Phoenix City Hall. Facing him across the broad table were two command-rank officers from the city police department and a captain from the county sheriff’s office. The lawmen looked unhappy, their faces wearing almost identical expressions of grim displeasure and embarrassment. Their eyes alternated between the tabletop and Kaufman’s face as the mobster continued his harangue.

  “I put you guys where you are today, don’t forget. And I expect some return for my investment. I made you and I can unmake you just as easy.”

  Frank Anderson of the Phoenix PD spread his big hands in a placating gesture. “C’mon, Mr. Kaufman. There’s no reason for these threats. We’re doing everything we can to—”

  “Bullshit!” Kaufman snapped, watching the officer redden. “You haven’t done a goddamned thing except haul a few stiffs to the cooler and stake out the places the guy’s already been!”

  “It’s standard procedure, sir,” the sheriff’s captain interjected.

  Kaufman turned to him with a glare. “This is not a standard situation, Joe. You’re not running some punk gamblers out of town to make the department look good at election time. This guy is after my ass! He could shake the whole damned thing apart!”

  The officers were silent, waiting for the out burst to run its course. Kaufman slumped back in his padded chair and took several deep breaths, regaining his composure before speaking again. “I want some men with me day and night. Fix it.”

  “Policemen?” Frank Anderson sounded uncomfortable.

  “Why not? I’m an upstanding citizen whose life has been threatened by a known maniac. What better cause do you need? Log it as a Bolan stakeout.”

  Anderson nodded slowly, clearly unhappy about the situation. Kaufman didn’t give him time to brood about it. “I want men on Weiss, too,” the mobster said.

  Again the desultory nod.

  “Okay.” Kaufman was partially placated. “Now fill me in on what you’ve accomplished toward bagging this psycho Bolan.”

  “First off,” the sheriff’s captain said heavily, “we don’t read the guy as being a psycho. He—”

  “Save it for the eulogy,” Kaufman snapped. “What are you doing to stop him?”

  The police spokesman took over. “We have SWAT teams on standby alert around the clock. Roving patrols everywhere we feel he’s likely to surface—that is, around your places.” A glare from Kaufman killed the guy’s grin as it began. “Okay, uh, the chopper is up and in full communication with the ground patrols. On the federal level, we have liaison with the local FBI, and a planeload of U.S. Marshals in due in any time. Some kind of special Bolan strike force.”

  Kaufman said, “Okay. Maybe it’s finally getting off the ground.” He paused, then continued, “I want all of you to remember above everything else that this guy is bad for business. My operations are at a standstill, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that your monthly take depends upon mine. The longer Bolan runs loose in this town, the worse it is for all of us. And if he gets me, you can all kiss those nice fat envelopes goodbye.”

  Anderson sighed and said, “I can detail a pair of plainclothes officers to you, and a couple for Weiss. Any more would bring the headhunters down on me from Internal Affairs.”

  “How soon can I have them?”

  “They’ll be waiting when you get downstairs.”

  “Good.” Kaufman rose to leave, pausing as he turned from the table to reinforce his earlier message to the three men. “I want this Bolan, you understand? I want him dead! Pass the word that there’s a bounty of five G’s on the bum’s head. Maybe that’ll sharpen somebody’s shooting eye.”

  The three officers rose to usher Kaufman out. Anderson offered his hand, but the mobster brushed past him, eating up the corridor with brisk, energetic strides.

  Yeah, five grand should buy a little unaccustomed alertness from the boys in blue. Kaufman almost smiled as he felt the old familiar stirrings of power which had always exhilarated him. It made him feel good to have men indebted to him here, in the halls of goverment. Also, Bolan wouldn’t shoot back at cops—that much was well known—and if they could manage to corner the
guy, he would be a sitting duck, as good as dead. And if they couldn’t trap him? Well, the guy never stayed long in one place, and the extra heat would surely hasten his departure. He’d blow town before long, maybe heading south to mop up Bonelli and the Tucson crowd. So much the better. All Kaufman had to do was go underground, stay safely hidden behind his cops, and ride out the storm. Later, when all the clouds had blown away, he could surface again and resume business as usual. There might even be thoughts of a punitive excursion southward, if any foes remained alive there.

  Kaufman was almost chuckling to himself as he reached the elevator—not that there was anything in particular to laugh about, but things sure looked a lot better than a few hours ago. Sharon was in good hands, now—safe and sound. A grin did tug the heavy features a bit as he thought again of that walloping at Echo Canyon. He had to give credit to that young man—psycho or not, he carried a hell of a punch.

  The Phoenix boss reached the elevator station and extended a hand toward the call button. Another appeared from nowhere to cover the button—a big, muscular hand with powerful fingers and a heavy wrist.

  The man who had materialized behind him said quietly, “Not yet, Kaufman. You owe me a parley.”

  God, it couldn’t be! Not right here in the damn police station of all places!

  But it was, obviously, Mack Bolan. Psycho, no—indeed not. Those eyes were hard and full of ice, but they were the eyes of a man who knew himself.

  “What a hell of a nerve,” Kaufman muttered. “One snap of the fingers and you’re up to your neck in bluesuits, mister.”

  “I’m ready to die if you are,” the guy said in that curious warm-cold voice. “Snap away. But I’d rather parley.”

  And parley they did. Right there in the damned police station.

  Bolan was playing it straight, clad in a light-weight denim suit and soft shoes, unarmed, entirely vulnerable, gambling more on the happy fates than on any good faith on the part of Morris Kaufman. He steered the guy to an empty office, closed the door, and told him, “It’s out of hand now. Paul Bonelli and forty Tucson torpedoes hit town awhile ago. They came for blood and they’ll damn sure get it. So our deal is off. I wanted you to know. Figure I owe you that much, though I’m damned if I can say why.”