Ice Wolf

by Don Pendleton

  The door opened into a lavishly furnished anteroom rather than the bedroom Bolan had expected. Expensive curtains covered ornate windows, falling to Persian carpet, draping hand-tooled furniture done in rich golden brown wood. The lighting was soft and left scattered shadows in the room. It was a room built to contain whispers and illicit business transactions.

  Patrizio Madrano sat in a wheelchair near the center of the room, looking like an old and bald lizard draped in a monogrammed maroon robe. A gray blanket covered the thin legs that had been useless since a sniper's bullet had paralyzed the old man ten years ago. The wheelchair was motorized, and hummed as Madrano powered it backward so that he wouldn't have to lift his head as high to look at Bolan.

  The warrior surveyed the room while Tallin locked the door behind him.

  "You got a name, wise guy?" Madrano asked. His head bobbed uncertainly on the skinny stalk of a neck.

  "Omega," Bolan replied. It was a name that had served him before when passing through inner sanctums of the Mafia on intelligence-gathering forays.

  "What kind of name is that?" Madrano demanded.

  "It's not a name," Tallin said from behind Bolan. "It's a letter from the Greek alphabet. It translates loosely as 'the end. "

  Madrano grinned at Bolan. "How about that, Mr. High and Mighty Black Ace? I ain't just your run-of-the-mill dago wop who figures a Thompson is the sure way to the top of the heap. I surround myself with guys like Johnny there to make sure I get a well-rounded view of the world."

  "A smart guy like you should know better than to screw around with Family business, then," Bolan said in an icy voice.

  The old man's face reddened. "You don't have any class at all. Omega. Anybody ever tell you that before?"

  "I don't have any time, Madrano. This fuck-up you made in D.C. is blowing the lid off something that's leading right back to you and to a lot of other people."

  Madrano gripped the wheels of the chair angrily, rolling himself forward. "Who the hell are you to come into my house and give me this kind of crap?"

  "You got my card right there in your lap. You tell me who I am."

  "One word from me, and Johnny will take the back of your head off."

  Bolan could feel the tension in the room. For a moment he read his death in the withered features of the old man.

  Then the fury dropped away from Madrano, and he rolled the chair backward again. "It wasn't my fuck-up in the beginning."

  Bolan nodded. "I know that, but the Feds are going to track this thing directly to you. Kirby Howell escaped the hit team you hired, and one of their wounded spilled your name. Chances are there's a federal warrant being issued right now with your name on it."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "I need to know who you hired to make the hit on Howell."

  Using his arms, Madrano shifted in the wheelchair. "Would it surprise you to know that I don't know who I hired?"

  Bolan didn't reply, letting his silence push Madrano into an avenue of explanation.

  "There was a guy who got in touch with me through my lawyer," the old man said. "Told my mouthpiece he knew where this black guy was hiding out and could do him. If the price was right. Of course, I didn't believe him. Told him to take a flying fuck at the moon. I figured it was some kind of Fed trick, some kind of entrapment thing. I been putting up with this shit ever since Adelio got put in the slammer. There must be twenty of those yuppie twits in the IRS office going over every return I ever filed." The old man looked away from Bolan. "They figure now that they got Adelio where they want him, that I'll roll over on some of the Family to save my son. I've got these little mystery calls from people I don't know who tell me my son's enjoying his new black boyfriend, that he's getting to be a real hit in the shower. I can't even leave my house to go see Adelio because some young hot-blooded turks want to make a name for themselves by trying to take me out. So I sit here in this goddamn house, thinking about my boy and the hell he must be going through, wanting to do something but not knowing what." The burning eyes centered on Bolan again, red-rimmed with barely contained emotion. "Then I got you, Mr. Black Ace, coming up here to put me on some kind of trial for wanting to make things a little more even for my boy."

  Bolan let the silence hang uncertainly for a moment, knowing it was a father's love he confronted, backed by Mafia power. Maybe, if he hadn't read the files on Patrizio Madrano's "boy," the old man's passion and sense of loss would have touched him. But he had spent too many years fighting men like them, men who knew no compassion unless it touched their own ranks. "What about the guy you hired?"

  Madrano glared at him. "Is it true, Mr. Black Ace, that when they recruit you guys they pour ice water in your veins and make you eat your own heart?"

  Bolan made himself smirk. "They don't make us do the heart thing anymore."

  "Fuck you, wise guy. Fuck you and the guys who sent you." Madrano powered the chair in a one-eighty and rolled forward to come to rest by the window.

  "Madrano," Bolan said forcefully, "I didn't come here tonight to take your head back in a basket. I was told to get information."

  "I don't have any information. Haven't you been listening? These guys, they sent me some pictures of Howell, pictures of him since the court days. I could tell they were real from the background, from the way this black looked, but I couldn't tell where he was. Otherwise I would have had my own guys do it, and there wouldn't have been any fuck-ups. Just one dead, bigmouthed black bastard. My mouthpiece arranged a meet."

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  "This guy trusted you that much?"

  "I didn't give him a choice. If he wanted to work for me, then he would meet me here, on my ground."

  Bolan wondered about that briefly. Why would anyone from the team take a chance on being identified later if they went to the lengths they did to remain unknown on the Howell operation? "Then what happened?"

  "I hired him to hit Howell."

  "This guy leave a name or an address where you could send the money?"

  "No. I paid him up front."

  "The whole amount?"

  "Yeah, yeah, so you can go back to whoever you report to and tell them Patrizio Madrano is going senile as well as soft. But this guy left you with that impression, you know, of being able to do what he said. He had pictures of this guy, who I couldn't even find in the years I had people looking. And other guys I talked to, the ones this guy suggested I contact before making any decisions, they said these hitters could make good on their delivery."

  "Who else besides Scorscini used them?" Bolan asked.

  When the chair creaked back around again, there was a sad half smile on Madrano's face. "What you want I should do, Mr. Black Ace, start rolling over on people now so you guys know you're right? No. You're so fucking smart, you find out those names yourself. And if that ain't good enough, you can shoot me here and take your chances with Johnny."

  "You never got a name from this man who met with you?"

  "No. He was a salesman hawking a bill of goods. He didn't need no name, not even a Halloween one like Omega or whatever the hell you're calling yourself."

  "You didn't try to trace him?"

  "Why? For the money? I got more money than I need. My son is what I need. Revenge is what I need."

  "What did this man look like?"

  "You figure on bumping into him?"

  "Maybe. He needs to be told not to poke his nose into Family business."

  "Maybe if the Families took care of each other, there wouldn't be nobody buttin' in."

  Bolan remained silent, staring at the man through the dark sunglasses.

  Abruptly Madrano broke the eye contact. "He was redheaded, a big guy like you, fair skin, so I know he was no paisan. The limo that brought him was rented, and the name and address he left with the company dead-ended. That's all I know. The guy came here, showed his pictures and left. If you want any more information, you'll have to ask somebody else."

  Nodding, Bolan said,
"Someone will be in touch with you."

  Madrano gave him a tight grin. "I won't hold my breath." He lifted a finger to indicate the door. "Johnny, show the man out. Make sure no one takes his disrespect toward me personally."

  Bolan followed Tallin out. A man with an automatic rifle faded into another room at the security man's wave.

  "How much trouble is the old man in?" Tallin asked as they went down the stairs.

  "It's not up to me," Bolan replied truthfully, thinking of the Mafia Commission and the Justice people, as well. They'd be in touch with Madrano by morning, after everything Turrin knew hit the intelligence circuit.

  "He tried to help you," Tallin pointed out. "He told you everything he knew."

  "How do you know?"

  "I checked these guys out for him. There was nothing."

  "You advised him to go ahead with this?"

  Tallin shook his head. "I advised against it, but he didn't listen. Adelio wasn't much, and I know how much trouble I could be in for telling you that if it gets back to Mr. Madrano, but he was all the old man had in the way of passing on his business."

  "Where do you figure in this?" Bolan asked as they stepped through the front doors.

  "I like the old man. At least the part of him that he shows to me when we're alone. He treats me right. And I have other reasons."

  Bolan looked at the security chief, sensing more depth behind Tallin's words, knowing at the same time that now wasn't the time to press the issue. He started to turn away, then felt his combat senses flare to sudden life. Something. A bright flickering at the top of the tree line on the other side of the estate walls. He reacted instinctively, twisting to one side as he pushed Tallin down with an outstretched arm. Bullets scattered brick dust from the wall where they had been standing.

  Then he was rolling away from the lights, moving toward the sheltered darkness around the parking area. The Beretta was in his hands as he flipped over onto his back the second time, its 9 mm slugs shattering the porch lights. He gathered his legs under him as he scanned the tree line again.

  "Tallin?"

  "I'm okay. Thanks."

  Bolan glanced over his shoulder and saw that the younger man was already on his feet, tucked out of sight behind the low brick wall that led to the garage area.

  Startled shouts came from the gate house, and return fire raked the treetops.

  Orange muzzle-flashes winked in three different areas of the trees, and the front of the house became a hotbed of flying lead. Keeping low behind the brick wall, Bolan duck-walked toward the Ferrari, keeping the 93-R fisted in his hand in case any of the attackers had penetrated the estate's security. His mind rejected the possibility of Mob activity. As old as Madrano was, the dons of the other Families would wait for the man's death by natural causes, then split the territory however they had already decided. No, this scanned as something else entirely.

  "Who the hell is it?" Tallin asked.

  "I'm guessing it's part of the group Madrano hired to hit Howell."

  "But why?"

  "That I don't know," Bolan replied. How much manpower did the group have? What kind of connections did they have that allowed them to come and go so easily? Why were they so willing to expend that manpower in an effort to keep Patrizio Madrano from telling him anything when the man had nothing to tell? Bolan came to a stop at the end of the wall, looking back at the darkened trees and wondering if the snipers were still there, wondering if he could make it to the sports car before a withering burst of autofire cut him down.

  "You going after those guys?" Tallin asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Make sure the passenger door is unlocked when you get inside then," Tallin said, "because you aren't going alone."

  "These guys aren't amateurs, Johnny. They've walked the hellgrounds, not the concrete sidewalks where most of the Family tough guys make their bones."

  Tallin grinned. "I'm not reacting out of some threatened macho ego, Omega, and I'm not trying to put on some dog-and-pony show for you. I spent three years in the Green Berets before I took my college degree. I'm not going to be a liability, and I'm damn good in the dark. Now, are we going to continue this debate, or are we going after those guys?"

  "We're going," Bolan said grimly, wondering at the whims of fate that sided him with this likable Mafia security chief. He threw himself into an all-out sprint for the sports car, diving across the hood as if he were sliding into second base. Pulling the door open, he slid behind the wheel, keyed the ignition and thumbed up the electric lock on the passenger door. A breathless Tallin was beside him seconds later.

  Bolan threw the sports car in reverse and, leaving the lights off, heeled the car across the parking area to take advantage of the darker gloom of the lawn. Bullets spit flame from the driveway, chewing up a limousine parked beside his last position. He watched Tallin dial a number on the car phone as he cut the wheel hard and found first gear. The back tires slipped and chewed clumps from the expensively manicured lawn as they sought traction. The rear end of the car spun free, then settled down into a low-set trajectory for the front gate.

  "Blackmon, it's Johnny," Tallin said as he struggled to keep himself in the seat. "Open the goddamn gate and alert the security teams." Then he threw the receiver onto the floor.

  Bolan blew through the gate without pausing, hearing the rasp of metal against metal as the gate gouged the side of the sports car. He raked the sunglasses from his face, and they joined the receiver. He held the Beretta in his left hand, muzzle resting lightly on the side mirror.

  "If possible, I want one of these guys in one piece to answer some questions."

  "No promise," Tallin replied.

  Bolan nodded. He overcontrolled the car, sending it into a sideways spin that tracked him back onto the side road he had come up earlier. A figure darted from the thick woods ahead of the vehicle, beelining to the center of the road. The M-16 in the man's hands drilled a series of holes through the passenger side of the windshield, showering Tallin with fragments of glass.

  The Executioner bore down on the assassin before the man had another chance to aim his weapon. Bolan felt the anger in the man's eyes burning into his face seconds before the sports car slammed into him. The assassin flipped over the hood, shattering his face against Bolan's windshield before sliding off the car and onto the road.

  Seconds later a dark van equipped with four-wheel drive shot out of the wooded area behind him, locking onto the rear of the Ferrari. Realizing he had been outflanked, the Executioner jammed his foot hard on the accelerator.

  "Sucker play," Tallin said.

  "Classic," Bolan agreed.

  "I don't read this as an attempt on Madrano anymore."

  "Neither do I," Bolan replied without elaborating. He had enough questions of his own without resolving any that Tallin had. How had these guys tracked him and why? What did they think he knew about them? He pushed the questions away, striving to remember the lay of the road as they raced through the darkness. The Delta Elite Johnny Tallin wielded with grim efficiency popped occasionally in his ear, numbing his hearing. There was no doubt the sports car could easily outdistance the assassins, but that wouldn't put him any closer to discovering who they were. He had been on the fringes of the operation when he had linked up with Turrin. The attack on him now put him smack in the middle. With no understanding of why. By rights the group should have been pursuing Leo. But since Turrin was out of reach at Stony Man Farm, it was possible that Bolan had been their only option. Maybe they hadn't followed him at all. Maybe they had put the Madrano estate under observation after the bungled Howell hit in order to see who crawled out of the woodwork. Someone could have recognized him, or he matched the description of the other surviving assassins.

  Bolan yanked the steering wheel hard left, and the vehicle swerved in a sudden, tire-eating turn. He glanced in the rearview mirror, easing up on the accelerator to allow the van to gain on them momentarily. When the first handful of shots cracked into the rear of the
sports car, he tromped on the accelerator, pulling away from the van easily.

  "Get ready," Bolan told Tallin as he checked the rearview mirror again. "We're going to be EVA in a couple of minutes."

  "Going to sacrifice the car?" the security chief asked.

  "Yeah." Losing sight of the van's headlights over the last hill he passed, Bolan braked hard and heard rubber scream in agony. He cut the wheel, pushing the car into a sideways slide that covered most of the road. Then he was out of the vehicle, moving for the side of the road. He watched Tallin take up position on the opposite side, melding into the darkness.

  The van topped the rise, and the high-intensity fog lights picked up the car at once. For a moment it looked as if the driver might maintain enough control over the van to miss the car by going off the road on Bolan's side. Then the right side of the van glanced off the front end of the car, and they spun in a death embrace of tortured metal. The van flipped over onto its side, rolling only yards from the Executioner's position.

  Bolan was in motion before the vehicle came to rest. The back doors squeaked open, and an assassin stepped out, holding his M-16 at shoulder level. Autofire lanced through the brush to the Executioner's left. The Beretta coughed out a silenced 3-round burst that blew the gunner back inside the vehicle.

  Holding the Beretta at the ready and moving in a semicrouch, the Executioner made his way carefully to the front of the overturned vehicle.

  A body lay half in and half out of the shattered windshield. The unnatural angle of the man's neck told Bolan that he wouldn't be getting up again. There was no one else in the cab of the van.

  Bolan walked to the rear of the vehicle and hauled out the body of the gunner he'd shot. Tallin reached the vehicle at a dead run.

  "You okay?" the security chief asked.

  Bolan nodded as he started to empty the dead man's pockets.

  "Damn, you move fast."

  "Too fast," Bolan said. "I should have left this guy intact."

  "From where I was, I didn't see that he left you any choice."

  "Maybe not," Bolan agreed. There was nothing in the man's pockets except spare clips for the M-16. The warrior moved up front again with Tallin in tow, seeking the vehicle's registration. There was a name on the papers that Bolan didn't recognize. He guessed Kurtzman's computers would encounter the same thing unless someone had elaborated on a false identity that would require man-hours to check out. He slipped the registration inside his jacket pocket just the same. If the false trails kept adding up, maybe there would be something in them that would help triangulate the enemy's real location. "Do you recognize any of these guys?"