Sherman had screwed Conte over. He had taken off before Conte could deal with him, stealing information the Feds would drool over. And then along had come Danichev, flaunting his power and determined to impress Conte with his elite killing squad. But right now he had egg on his face. Sherman had given his hotshot enforcers the slip and left them with their dicks in their hands.
Danichev straightened and turned slowly to stare at Conte. Being in the gambling business meant Marco Conte had learned long ago how to maintain a neutral expression. He presented Danichev with a blank look.
“I imagine you’re enjoying this, Marco. Your runaway accountant making my boys look stupid.”
“Don’t forget what he did to me,” Conte returned. “You think I want him to get away with it?”
Danichev only grunted. He passed his phone to Kolchak, who began to speak to the caller, moving away from his chief. Danichev crossed to the wet bar and poured himself another large glass of vodka.
“You have fucking lousy luck with your employees,” he said, “but you stock good liquor.”
“So when you fire me I can get a job as a bartender,” Conte said.
Danichev offered a wide, mirthless smile. “Don’t you need working hands for that?”
Without a word Conte walked out of the room and made his way into the main casino area. It was not quite midday, but the place was reasonably busy. Conte stood and watched the milling players. He listened to the noise, saw the lights and, despite his current problems, allowed himself to be drawn into the ambience.
If he was going to lose all of this, he might as well enjoy it while he could.
One of the hostesses paused in front of him—a beautiful young woman in a skimpy costume.
“Would you like your usual, Mr. Conte?”
“Why not, Janice?” he said. Conte prided himself on knowing every one of the girls by name. “Thank you.”
He watched her walk away and could not help smiling. If nothing else, he was a professional, keeping up appearances despite feeling sick to his stomach.
“Almost as good as the condemned man’s last meal,” Danichev said. He was standing at Conte’s side.
“Whatever is going to happen, I can’t avoid it,” Conte conceded. “So do your worst, Vitaly, and stop playing Mr. Big. It’s becoming tedious. I know I’m on a rocky road, so you making crap remarks isn’t going to make me feel any worse.”
Conte moved to meet Janice as she returned with his drink. It was a glass of his favorite whiskey. Rich and mellow, it came from his private stock. He held it up and toasted Danichev.
“To your health,” Conte said as he walked away.
“Are you going to let him get away with that?” Kolchak asked.
“His time is coming, Tibor,” Danichev said. “Allow him his moment of fun. Now, where are we with that little prick Sherman?”
Kolchak took a moment to reply. His thought processes were slower than most. He knew it, so he used the time to review what he was going to say before he did speak.
“There is no change,” he said. “Killian has his people following Sherman. He is still a good distance away, but his friend Justin was persuaded to give up what he knew. They will find him.”
“The rest, Tibor,” Danichev said. “I can tell when you’re holding something back.”
“It could be nothing. Killian said they could not make contact with the men he left at the Justin house. Perhaps there has been trouble there.”
“Like the trouble at Sherman’s sister’s house?” Danichev asked. “Tibor, I don’t like unexpected problems. Things that happen without apparent reason unsettle me.”
Kolchak showed one of his infrequent smiles; it was an awkward gesture and his broad face took on a chilling expression.
“I know how to cure that,” he said.
He walked away and went to the bar, returning with a thick tumbler filled with vodka. The tumbler was almost lost in his large hand.
“It is like having my mother following me around,” Danichev said as he took the drink.
“I do not think your mother would give you vodka.”
The cell phone in Kolchak’s hand rang. He took the call, listening intently before he handed the phone to his boss, silently mouthing the word “home.”
Danichev took the phone and raised it to his ear. When he spoke after a minute, he used Russian.
The man on the other end of the phone spoke in his Mother tongue. Despite having lived in America for many years, his English was poor. He was old style Mafiya, a man who refused to change his ways.
“I hear things are not progressing as quickly as expected.”
“The situation here already existed,” Danichev said. “It takes time to catch up with everything. The man, Sherman, had already fled when we arrived.”
“Have you found out where he is?”
“We have learned that Canada might be his destination. Killian and his crew are on his trail. He has a good head start, which leaves us at a disadvantage. But we have people all across the area. We will find him.”
“I am only interested in positive results.”
“And I am not making excuses. Simply stating the facts,” Danichev said sharply.
There was a pause on the line.
“Very well, Vitaly. Do whatever is necessary to conclude this business. Use whatever assets you need. There are people you can call on?”
“Yes. Killian is pulling in local assets.”
“Expense is no problem. Remember that if this Sherman hands the information he stole to the Feds, the consequences could prove extremely embarrassing...for all of us.”
“Understood.”
“Keep me informed.”
The call ended. Danichev stared at the cell phone for a moment then quickly drained his glass, feeling the vodka burn its way down his throat.
“He was not happy?” Kolchak asked.
“He was not happy. And unless we end this chase very soon, he will become even unhappier. Tibor, another drink.”
The boss had not been pleased and Danichev’s slightly irreverent comeback would not have endeared him to the man. There was a momentary regret then Danichev passed over that. It was all very well to be the old man sitting in comparative comfort back in Little Odessa. He expected everyone to obey his commands to the letter, allowed no setbacks, as if by simply snapping his fingers all problems would be easily solved. As much as he honored the old man, there were times when Danichev wished he would hurry up and pass on.
Serge Bulova was ancient, yet stubborn enough to hang on and rule as he always had, with an iron fist. He refused to acknowledge it was a different time. That ruling by sheer force and by the old ways was a thing of the past. Yet he was still revered, most likely feared, by those around him. His presence was enough to silence any dissent. He surrounded himself with his trusted coterie of bodyguards, men who had great loyalty and who would step into the path of a bullet for Bulova.
Damn you, old man, Danichev thought, why don’t you die and let the new generation take over?
He took the glass Kolchak handed him, tasted the vodka and let it calm him. His thoughts about Bulova’s longevity could wait for anther day. Right now he needed to concentrate on the matter at hand. Finding Sherman and dealing with him before he presented the Feds with his package of evidence. They would go to town if they did get their hands on it.
Danichev managed a bitter smile; the material Sherman had stolen could bring them all down in one mass. If that happened, getting rid of the old man wouldn’t matter because once the dominos started to fall, they would all tumble.
“Tibor, make some calls. We need to recruit more local labor. Backup for Killian. And make sure Sherman’s picture is sent to everyone’s phone.”
“Killian won’t like that,” Kolc
hak said. “He likes to play his own game.”
“I’ll handle Killian if he makes noises. I’ll remind him who is paying the bills.”
Danichev hoped Killian did voice his protest. It would allow Danichev to hit back, by venting his own anger on the man.
Expecting results, as the old man did, did not change the facts. Sherman was in the wind, and there was no miracle that would allow them to simply reach out and take him down. It had to be done by the numbers. Like it or not, they had to go through the motions, no matter how long it took.
Danichev drained his glass. He held it up, longing for more vodka. He resisted. This was not the time for weakness. He handed the empty glass to Kolchak.
“Coffee, Tibor. Strong and black.”
11
Bolan swung off the narrow ribbon of road and onto the parking area beside the lone store and gas pumps. He turned off the engine, scanning the area as he climbed out of the SUV. He took a moment to ease the kinks out of his frame and examine his surroundings. Not that there was much to see: a small gas station on an empty stretch of rural highway. Flat terrain all around. No outstanding features.
In the far distance he could see an isolated farmhouse, a slowly turning windmill moved by the soft wind, and an expanse of fields, the sparse crops wilting under the hot sun. There was no movement out there. The road in both directions was empty, as it had been for the past few miles.
He heard the creak of a screen door and glanced over his shoulder in time to see a lean figure emerge. Wearing bib overalls, a plain blue denim shirt and a ball cap with a frayed bill, the man looked to be in his late sixties. Deep-set eyes in a weathered face roved back and forth, almost as if the guy wasn’t comfortable in his own familiar surroundings.
Bolan sensed the first flicker of unease as the man approached.
The guy’s eyes settled on Bolan and the expression on his face confirmed something was wrong.
Over the bony shoulder, behind the screen door, Bolan caught a shadow of movement.
The shadow pulled back out of sight, waiting for Bolan to step out from the cover of the SUV.
The Executioner caught the old man’s gaze and held it. He moved so that he was directly in front of the man, hiding himself from anyone who might be watching from inside the building.
“How many?” Bolan asked quietly.
“Three.”
“Armed?”
“Uh-huh. Like they’re out to start a goddamn war.”
“Get down. Get under the car. Now!”
The old guy moved fast for his age, his lean body dropping to the ground. He scrabbled forward, squirming beneath the bulk of the vehicle, and in the same moment Bolan moved quickly along the length of the SUV, skirting the rear, the Beretta 93-R slipping easily from the shoulder rig into his hand.
The screen door was kicked open. A gunman came out, subgun clutched in his hands. He raced toward the rear of the SUV, his finger curled around the trigger as he sought his target.
But he saw nothing.
The guy scowled. “Show yourself, asshole,” he said. He took another step forward, dropping the muzzle of the subgun to the underside of Bolan’s SUV. “Maybe I’ll shoot the old bastard instead. I think he talks too much.”
Bolan had dropped to a crouch, moving out of sight long enough to grip the 93-R in both hands and lean out from the back corner of the SUV. He tracked in and triggered a 3-round burst that punched into his target’s body. The guy grunted as the 9 mm slugs hammered his midsection. He slipped to his knees, already forgetting about the weapon he was holding. His reflex action made him pull back on the trigger, the subgun drilling a burst into the ground.
Before the first guy had hit the earth, his two partners burst outside, the screen door swinging wide to slam against the outer wall.
The pair separated, one moving left, the other to the right. They both carried subguns and the closest guy started to fire as he angled in Bolan’s direction. His shots were uncoordinated. A couple of 9 mm slugs creased the SUV’s rear quarter panel. The guy was obviously not concentrating his fire. He’d assumed Bolan was still behind the vehicle even though he had yet to lay eyes on the man.
Still low, Bolan swung the Beretta and delivered another 3-round burst that blew the guy’s right knee apart and dropped him. Screaming, the gunner slammed to the ground, the impact stunning him. He failed to see the Executioner as he leveled the 93-R and put a triburst into his skull, spreading a bloody mess across the hard-packed earth. He died not having seen his target.
Bolan moved instantly, knowing that the third guy, the one who had moved to the right, would be circling the SUV, coming around the front to take him on from the rear. A creative move but not smart enough to confound someone like Mack Bolan. The moment he had triggered the 3-round burst, the Executioner swiveled and pushed to his feet, moving to face the third would-be shooter. Bolan already had the Beretta on line as he slid around the rear of the vehicle. He picked up on the advancing gunner, who had chosen to move the length of the SUV, lowering his body to reduce his target area. It also forced him to lower his shooting stance so his subgun would have to be raised before he could fire.
Bolan had no such problem.
The second he stepped into view and confronted his adversary, Bolan acquired his target and triggered his pistol. Two 3-round bursts were fired into the gunner’s head, the slugs blowing apart his skull in a flash of bloody flesh and bone. He went down without a sound.
Bolan kicked the weapons away from each body then checked the corpses for ID and other weapons. He found one handgun. None of the men carried identification. No wallets. Just cell phones. He noted they were all well dressed. The style of clothing told Bolan they were not locals. He snapped a photo of one of them to send to the Farm.
The old guy wriggled out from under the SUV.
Bolan went over and helped him to his feet. “Thanks for the warning,” he said.
The man adjusted his ball cap. “Likewise,” he replied. “I guess they weren’t friends of yours?”
“No way. When did they show up?”
“An hour ago maybe. Just walked in and took over the place. Said if I wanted to see the sun rise tomorrow, I had to do what they told me.”
“You took a chance coming out to warn me.”
“Hell, boy, I didn’t fight for my country to be scared by the likes of them.” The old man grinned. “Hell, we screwed them, son. You handled that pistol pretty good so I figure you done it before.”
“Some,” Bolan admitted.
“You a cop?”
“Not in the way you might expect.”
“Fed? Undercover?”
“Close enough.”
“So who were they?” the old-timer asked.
“Not cops,” Bolan told him.
“I worked that out, as well, son.”
“They were hunting for someone.”
“I guess that would be the feller in the old Jeep that belongs to Ben Justin. He lives a ways back down the road. Right?”
Bolan took out his phone, brought up the image of Harry Sherman and showed it to the man.
“That’s him. Nice feller. He filled up with gas.”
“Did he tell you where he was headed?”
“Kelly’s Junction. He was asking about train schedules.”
“How far is it?”
“No more’n a couple of hours in that fancy gas guzzler of yours. That young feller in trouble?”
“Some. I’m trying to prevent it from getting worse.”
“I figured that. So what next?”
“I call this in. Get help out here to take these guys away.”
The old-timer shook his head. “And there I was thinking it was going to be just another quiet day.” He rubbed his chin. “Hey, you still want ga
s?”
“Yeah, fill it up with the best you’ve got.”
Bolan moved away and took out his sat phone. He gave Price the breakdown on what had just happened.
“These people sure are determined,” Price said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. By the way, what about Leo? How’s he doing?”
“He’s coming along.”
“Glad to hear that. Now, can you pinpoint my location?”
“Yes.”
“Put out a call for the local law to come out and deal with this. Ask for Detective Reynolds. He was at Ben Justin’s place. He understands the situation. It’ll be interesting to find out who these people work for. I’ll send you the photo.”
“I though you said there were three of them. Should we expect multiple images?”
“Just the one,” Bolan said, pressing a key on his sat phone.
“Why...?” Price paused. “Oh, I get it.” She didn’t ask further questions. There was no need.
When the transmitted image came through, Price immediately forwarded it to Kurtzman’s team to run against their facial recognition program. The result was quick and Price was not surprised to find herself looking at a detailed and expansive rap sheet belonging to the now-late Vincent LaRusso. His career had been brought to an abrupt end the day he’d confronted Mack Bolan.
“Mack, you still there? I have confirmation on your photo. Vincent LaRusso.”
The Executioner knew the man. His only jail time had occurred in his early twenties. He’d spent three years behind bars, suffered the expected indignities and come out the other side older but not necessarily wiser, although he’d obviously stepped into a job with Marco Conte’s organization as an enforcer.
“You know him. He was a young Turk working his way up through the ranks—” Price began.
“Well, he isn’t going to become an old Turk,” Bolan said.
“You know, we have to work on your comebacks,” Price said.
Kill Squad Page 7
