Vegas Vendetta

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan grinned and said, “Okay. You lay here and snooze while I go play cop.”

  “Take a friend’s advice and stay out of it, Mack. The feds are waltzing this thing along with a very delicate touch. I told you what Brognola said. That will go double, here in Vegas. They’ll take no interference, buddy.”

  “I’m not competing with the feds,” Bolan replied. “But I’m not playing tiddley-winks, either, and I need every handle I can get. I’m going to bust this town, Lyons.”

  “Don’t. You’ve done enough already. Just pick up your chips and get out while you can.”

  “Too late for that now,” Bolan told his friend. “From what I overheard on Vito’s pipeline, my only chance is a sweep through the middle.” He grinned. “Did you know, that guy’s got his own casino bugged, ears everywhere.”

  Lyons smiled faintly. “In this town, nobody trusts anybody. And, I’ve learned, with damn good reason.”

  “Well, I’m going to flavor their pots a bit.”

  “Some Bolan spice, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Be careful, dammit,” the cop said fiercely.

  “My heart even beats careful,” Bolan told him, and that was his parting line.

  He went back along the corridor, thanked the nurse, and re-invaded the night. There was not much of it left—it was nearly dawn and almost time for the next maneuver.

  The Executioner had a plane to meet.

  9: A DASH OF BOLAN

  Bolan was not only an expert marksman, he was also a highly skilled armorer—or gunsmith, to use the civilian term. His expertise with destructive weapons extended into areas of military ordnance, munitions and various types of explosive devices. He was a weapons specialist and his warwagon reflected this facet of the Bolan threat. It was a rolling arsenal, featuring the most advanced and versatile selection of arms available in the secret marketplaces.

  Of all the weapons in the collection, however, his most cherished possession was a non-military piece, a sportsman’s big-game rifle which could be purchased almost anywhere—though this particular one had been highly refined and “worked-in”—a Weatherby Mark V. He had acquired it during the London adventure, and he’d gone to great trouble and expense to have the weapon forwarded to him upon his return to this country.

  The bolt-action piece handled .460 calibre Magnums with a point-blank range of 400 yards, maximum range 1,000 yards, and the big sniperscope that came with it would resolve the head of a pimple a half-mile away. The muzzle energy was 4,000 pounds; the Magnums carried more than 300 grains of push behind the expanding, high-shock projectiles which could tear a man’s head off at 500 yards.

  The range on the present mission would be much less than that. The only problem Bolan was sweating was the question of light. The scope would be useless in the dark. If that plane should beat the sun into the target area, Bolan would have to scrub and withdraw. He could not “work close” on this type of hit. The odds would be too great, the route of retreat too shaky.

  There were no doubts regarding the target area. The private jet would almost certainly not use the facilities of the airline terminal, but would taxi to a convenient spot for transferring her passengers directly to waiting automobiles. This was SOP for Mafia war parties. And there had been no problem locating the line-up of crew wagons, the big eight-passenger jobs the mob preferred for their headhunters. The limousines were waiting on a service apron, a hundred yards or so from the flying service building and about two hundred yards from the blast fence which was presently shielding Bolan’s van, at the end of the primary runway.

  He counted nine vehicles and ran his war party projection from there—sixty to seventy people were arriving. Figure the plane crew at about four, each of them a hardman, from the chief pilot on down. Say then, possibly, seventy-five guns out there, plus the nine wheelmen and maybe a couple of ranking greeters—round it off at even figures and call it ninety guns.

  Yeah, those were some odds. Impossible? Scary as hell, sure—but no, not impossible. He would not be trying for a wipe-out … a bit of jarring, maybe—spice for the Vegas pot—a pinch of fear and stir well.

  And then a new thought occured to him, and a smile played briefly upon the Executioner’s face. If the conditions were just right … if he could be assured of a clean target and a well-defined safety zone for non-combatants … if the sun and the airport traffic would play ball … then just maybe he could come up with an alternate target area and an extra pinch for the pot. Yes, and maybe he could show the Talifero brothers just how he felt about their damn warparty.

  Part of the Talifero legend was that the brothers had attended law school at one of the big prestige universities of the east. One story said Yale, another Harvard; still another, probably pure fantasy, claimed that both had attended under a single tuition and alternated at classes.

  It was true that the brothers were practically identical in appearance, that they sounded alike, walked alike, and seemed to think alike.

  It was also true that they ran a bodyshop to put Murder, Incorporated to shame. They enjoyed equal rank with other members of La Commissione and their cadre was an elite corps said to be as secretive and effective as the Gestapo of the early Nazis. The Talifero cadre was, in every respect, the invisible secret police force of the organized underworld.

  A Taliferi, it was rumored, could hit a Capo—without a contract and without fear of reprisal from other bosses. This story could be an exaggeration, but in several instances the brothers had done so, of their own initiative and without prior consultation with the council of bosses. The Taliferi were the most feared and respected force within the Mafia.

  One would not receive such an impression, upon a casual encounter with the brothers. They dressed conservatively and impeccably, their speech could be flawless and impressively articulated, their manner urbane, and they smiled a lot—particularly at each other, as though forever sharing some secret joke.

  Neither of the brothers was smiling however, as the big jet began the descent to McCarran Field, just outside Las Vegas. They sat in the forward cabin, the “business suite,” staring stonily out the windows at the gray-dawn landscapes below. Perhaps they were thinking of Miami, and of the terrible time they’d had there with Bolan.

  Maybe Pat was thinking of the near-fatal wounds he’d acquired in that meeting. Mike, perhaps, was still smarting over the indignities of being arrested, fingerprinted and booked on a dozen charges by the Dade County police, and of the continuing fight for freedom in a court the clouters just couldn’t seem to get a handle on.

  Each of the brothers had a lot to be thoughtful about and their thoughts, at such times, inevitably traveled back to the source of all their troubles, that Bolan bastard.

  They had sworn the oath of vendetta. They must wash their hands in the bastard’s blood—and then perhaps they could look at each other without smiling at their secret “joke” which the bastard had left them with.

  The warning lights came on and the pilot’s voice came through the PA to announce, “We’re cleared for straight-in. Land in a few minutes.”

  The brothers exchanged glances. One of them got to his feet and walked toward the rear to give last minute instructions to “the boys.” The other stepped into the cockpit and touched the pilot on the shoulder.

  “Are they waiting?” he asked.

  “Yes sir. No traffic. We’re going straight in, runway two-five. I’ll just bounce over to the cut-off and wheel right up to the cars.”

  “That’s fine, Johnny.”

  The co-pilot looked up with a grin and asked, “We going to be here long enough for a little table action, Mr. Talifero?”

  “You won’t even have time to get laid, Ed,” the boss replied.

  Both crewmen chuckled. The pilot asked, “Figure he’ll be that easy?”

  “I believe so.” Talifero eased into the jump seat and strapped himself in. “Unless Joe Stanno ran wild and screwed up everything.”

  The
pilot grimaced and declared, “That guy Stanno gives me the shivers. He’s a psychopath, you know.”

  “A very, very valuable one,” Talifero said quietly.

  The pilots became very busy then, lining the big craft into the approach lane, adjusting air speed, trim and attitude; threading a precise needle in the air to bring the metal bird to earth. The flaps rumbled into position, the landing gear extended and locked, and the terrain began whizzing past the windows at incredible speed.

  Mike Talifero always rode the cockpit during takeoff and landing. It was his way of fighting an unreasonable fear of flying. These were the most dangerous times, or so the experts said, and it was a hell of a lot more frightening up here where the action was. Mike liked to meet fear where it was at—not on any psychiatrist’s couch, not praying in a corner somewhere, but right up … it was like that with this Bolan deal, he supposed. A man—especially a man like Mike Talifero—had to stand up and meet the action right where it was at.

  He was gripping his knees in clenched fists when the wheels touched, squealed, then got in step with the plane’s momentum and finally began rolling smoothly along the cement strip. On they rolled, with no noticeable decrease in speed—things flashing by out there in that weird kaleidoscope of objects briefly seen and immediately gone forever.

  Then the pilot moved a control and the tons of plunging metal shivered momentarily as the reversethrust took hold and the forward momentum began dropping away. Talifero sighed with relief and gripped his safety belt.

  “Beautiful, Johnny,” he complimented the pilot, in an entirely composed voice.

  And then something went terribly wrong. With the ground speed still holding at above sixty, the plane seemed to wobble and keel toward one side. The copilot yelled, “Starboard blowout!”

  The pilot, his face suddenly ashen, was fighting the controls and trying to stabilize the track as the big bird crabbed inexorably into a sideways skid.

  The cockpit went into a crazy tilt, a chilling popping and buckling sound groaned up from somewhere below, and the aircraft shuddered and collapsed onto the runway.

  And then there was nothing to be heard but the thudding of Mike Talifero’s heart and that screeching doomsday sound of the fuselage grinding along on concrete, the kaleidoscope at the windows replaced by a dizzying merry-go-round running out of control.

  This was where it was at, man. And out of the peaking chaos of the moment, another certain knowledge shrieked into Talifero’s head.

  This was also where Bolan was at!

  The Executioner had set up his fire base on a small mound of desert earth at the western end of the main runway, positioning himself slightly to one side of the blast fence. He had greeted the arrival of daylight with pleasure, even realizing that in another few minutes the sun would be looming over those distant mountains and that he would be looking directly into it.

  In a few minutes, though, the position of the sun in the sky would have no relevance to this mission. He had located his target, verified the identification, and calculated the precise moment of touchdown. The airport was quiet and absolutely devoid of any traffic which might place innocent civilians in jeopardy.

  The hands that had rolled destiny’s dice had also dealt Bolan a perfect hand for this play at McCarran. The rest would be up to him, and he felt ready for the betting to commence.

  The nine wheelmen over by the mob vehicles had unclumped and gone to their cars. A big man whom Bolan could not recognize through his binoculars was arm-waving them around and getting the reception party ready.

  And then there was the big bird, swooping in over the approach lighting system and settling onto the far end of the runway.

  Bolan lay into the Weatherby and acquired the target in the high-resolution vision field of the scope, then tracked it into the range he wanted. He heard the powerful engines whining into the reverse-thrust as the plane reached the runway intersection, signaling the beginning of the braking action.

  A fat rubber wheel rolled into the cross-hairs; Bolan acquired and held, tracking along for a few seconds to get a feel of the rate of closure, then he found his adjustment and sighted into the pull.

  The Weatherby roared and bucked and sent an official greeting sizzling toward the war party. He rode the recoil and sent another, then another, before lifting off the eyepiece.

  The plane staggered and went into a crab. A wing whipped around and the big bird was sliding sideways momentarily, then the landing gear collapsed and down she went in a pancake on the runway, spinning with a terrible screeching and groaning, and continuing on toward Bolan.

  Pandemonium erupted in the vehicle area, the wheelmen leaping from their cars in a frenzy of helpless observation of the staggering event.

  The big guy was leaping around and pointing toward Bolan’s fire base. Even at this distance it was obvious that he was yelling his head off. Three of the wheelmen began running uncertainly toward Bolan’s end of the runway.

  He swung the Weatherby into the secondary target area, acquired a darkly frightened face in the crosshairs, and squeezed off. The face abruptly disintegrated and disappeared from the vision field. Bolan looked up from the eyepiece to evaluate, and saw that the message had been received and understood. The other two were showing the Executioner their backsides and hastily returning to the security of the group.

  The group itself had disappeared, and an ineffectual crackle of handguns was emanating from behind the line of vehicles.

  Meanwhile the aircraft was spinning on down the pike and beginning to disintegrate, leaving a trail of debris behind. A wing fell off, then the tail section collapsed and the wreckage spun off the runway settling in a cloud of dust a few hundred feet from Bolan’s fire base.

  Flames were licking up through a pall of dust and smoke, and Bolan could hear the shrieks and yells of panicky humanity trying to fight their way clear of the death trap. Then reeling figures began to emerge from the clouded wreckage.

  Bolan again leaned into the Weatherby, then changed his mind and lifted off. It was enough, for the moment. The wailing alarms of emergency vehicles were being heard now and Bolan was crowding his time factor. It was okay; they’d gotten the message.

  He sent a couple more sizzling rounds into the crew wagons, simply to sound a final discouraging note, then he quickly withdrew.

  Welcome to the war—that was the message. A hot welcome—coldly sent, jarringly received.

  And, at that very moment, another aircraft was landing at Nellis Air Force Base, just a few miles away. It bore decals of the United States’ government and it carried a contingent of U.S. marshals and FBI agents. It carried, also, a very grimfaced justice department official and an executive order to end that very war.

  The Executioner was crowding his time factor a bit more than he realized.

  10: THE PROBLEM

  Guys were lying all over the ground. Some were sitting up and feeling around to see if anything was missing, and a few were standing around and dazedly watching the crash trucks trying to smother the fire in the demolished airplane.

  Joe Stanno found the Talifero brothers in a quiet consultation with the crash chief. He had a hard time recognizing them and for once they did not look exactly alike. They looked like hell, is what they looked like, and Stanno was surprised that they looked that good.

  The monster pushed the crash chief out of the way and growled, “Go talk to th’ pilot, he’s laying over there by the ambulance.”

  The guy looked at Stanno, started to protest and changed his mind, but stubbornly stayed where he was.

  Stanno showed his bosses a woebegone face and told them, “This is the awfullest thing I ever saw.”

  One of the Taliferi, Joe never could tell which, replied, “It’s a miracle that any of us got out alive, Joe.”

  The other was dabbing at a congealed cut on his forehead with a handkerchief. He said, “The chief here was just asking us about gunshots. He says some people here on the ground thought they heard something
that sounded like gunshots just before the accident. What did you hear, Joe?”

  Stanno took the cue line and replied, “Yeah, it sounded like gunshots. But it was just those tires blowing.”

  “That’s what I was just suggesting when you came up.”

  The crash chief said, “The towermen thought they heard shots after the crash … or during it.”

  Stanno growled, “What the hell does anybody know at a time like that, with so much happening? Just what’re you trying to make here?”

  The guy replied, “I’m just trying to ascertain the facts, that’s all.”

  “The facts,” Stanno snarled, “are that your goddam lousy runway tore up our airplane. Now get outta here!”

  The chief calmly replied, “Well, we’ll see,” but he got out of there.

  The Tailferi watched the official walk away, then the one with the cut head asked, “Okay, what’s the straight on those shots?”

  “Straight as hell, sir,” Stanno replied wearily. “It was Bolan, with a big rifle. He shot your wheels off.”

  Someone sighed loudly and someont else said, “Well, what about Bolan?”

  “I sent some boys down to roust ’im. He cut down Bingy Bigelow on about the third step I guess. The other boys come running back, and I can’t blame them. There’s no cover out there, and that guy is murder with a big rifle. By this time that airplane is asshole over appetite and that’s about all I could think about.”

  “How’d the guy know we were coming in?”

  “Damned if I know,” Stanno growled.

  “He’s been in contact with some fink.”

  “Well, I—yeah, by God you’re right, he’s been in contact. I come over here straight from th’ Duster. The guy had busted in there and I—”

  “What the hell do you mean? He busted into our own place?”

  “Yessir, he went in there and rumbled Vito and—”

  “I somehow find that impossible to understand, Joe.”

  “Yessir, me too, and anyway—”