Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  Kirov took a sideways glance at his former buddies. All down. All dead. No help there. His bosses were miles away protecting their own asses. He was caught in the middle. Self-preservation geared up and he knew his options were extremely limited.

  “They’re down in Florida,” he said. “Bulova’s backup place.”

  “Tell me exactly where.”

  Kirov laid it out for Bolan: the location, the number of shooters he had with him.

  “He must have concerns if he’s taken to hiding in the boonies.”

  “No kidding,” Kirov said. “You have them both running scared. Conte wouldn’t ever admit it, but taking off for Florida is a last resort.”

  “You can call your boss after I leave,” Bolan said. “Make a wrong move, Karl, and you’ll be out of the picture for good.”

  He wasn’t concerned about the enemy being warned. It would let the mob higher-ups know that time was running out.

  Bolan turned and left the office, exiting the way he’d entered. He holstered the 93-R as he headed for the door to the street. Nothing had changed in the casino. The constant, heavy noise had drowned any sound that might have leaked from the rear area.

  Bolan walked out of the air-conditioned casino and paused on the sidewalk. He took out his sat phone and called Grimaldi.

  “Hey, Sarge, what’s the plan for today?”

  “How are you fixed for a flight to Florida? I hear the climate can be pleasant this time of year. I have a location for Conte and Serge Bulova. It’s a chance to clean out the rat’s nest.”

  “The sunshine state? How soon do we leave?”

  “Soon as possible, Jack. Just one thing. By the time we get there, they’ll know we’re on our way.”

  “Then we wouldn’t want to disappoint them,” Grimaldi said.

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  * * *

  KIROV WAITED A quarter of an hour before he made the call. It was answered by one of Bulova’s crew.

  “I need to speak with Mr. Conte,” Kirov said. “Now.”

  Kirov heard voices in the background before Marco Conte took the call.

  “What is it?”

  “He was at the casino. Cooper,” Kirov said. “I was the only one who didn’t get iced. The others are dead.”

  “And?”

  “He’s coming after you and Bulova.”

  Conte was silent for a moment.

  “Does he know where I am?”

  “Yeah,” Kirov replied.

  “You told him?”

  “If I hadn’t, he would have killed me, as well, Mr. Conte. I’m not ready to die even for you. Not like that. Money or no.”

  “A sensible answer,” Conte said. “I admire a man with courage. Even if it is misplaced. It will not go unpaid.”

  The phone went dead in Kirov’s hand. He sat for a while, unsure what lay ahead. The only thing he could be sure of—his fate couldn’t be any worse than what lay ahead for Conte and Serge Bulova.

  * * *

  MARCO CONTE HELD the silent phone in his hand, aware it was trembling.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  “Who?”

  Bulova had come into the room and was standing behind Conte.

  “That guy. Cooper. He paid a visit to the casino and took out the crew I left waiting. That was Kirov on the phone. Cooper left him alive so he could deliver a message.”

  “He coming for us?”

  “Yeah. Kirov gave us up to save his own miserable skin.”

  “He’s not as dumb as he looks,” Bulova said. “I must remember to tell him that when I have his throat ripped out.”

  “Serge, what do we do?”

  Bulova laughed out loud. “Do? We make sure that guy receives a Florida welcome,” he said. “Jesus, Marco, don’t go all soft on me. I don’t want you to forget it’s because of your fucked-up handling of this mess that we’re here. This Cooper asshole is coming all the way down here to play hero. Let’s not disappoint him.”

  Bulova called for Danichev. When the man appeared, the mob leader informed him what was about to happen.

  “That makes it easier for us,” Danichev said. “I’ll have the guys make ready to receive visitors. The way things have been happening they’ll be pleased to get a chance at this bastard. They want major payback on the Feds for Killian and the others being taken out.”

  “No screwing around, Vitaly,” Bulova instructed. “This Cooper is no weekend warrior. The guy knows his stuff, so don’t get careless. I want him dead so we can feed him to the fishes.”

  “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll be waiting for him.”

  “Go set things up.”

  Conte was at the main window, staring out across the grounds. He knew the house and the area was well protected by the combined strength of his and Bulova’s crews. They were well armed and there were enough of them to take on and defeat Cooper. Despite all that, he was still nervous. The guy seemed to have a knack for walking into danger and coming out the other side unscathed. Conte had to keep reminding himself that Cooper was still only one man.

  One against many this time.

  Those odds had to count for something, Conte told himself. So why wasn’t he fully convinced?

  21

  They landed at a small Florida airstrip run by one of Jack Grimaldi’s legion of flying acquaintances. Bernie Schindler was tall, lean and as tanned as cured leather. He greeted Grimaldi as if he was a long-lost brother, and when Bolan was introduced, Schindler shook his hand enthusiastically.

  “A friend of Jack’s is more than welcome,” he said. “You got time for coffee?”

  “After a flight with flyboy, here, I need something to calm my nerves,” Bolan said.

  “Still that bad, huh?”

  Grimaldi was grinning as he stood behind Schindler. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cooper.”

  “Always a pleasure,” Bolan said.

  They trooped into the wooden shack that served as Schindler’s charter office. He ran a couple of single prop aircraft as well as a Bell helicopter. From what Grimaldi had told Bolan, the guy made a reasonable living from his business, which sometimes ran close to the edge. Schindler ran the place with the help of a mechanic.

  “Here you go, guys,” Schindler said, handing over mugs of steaming black coffee. “The best you’ll find in the state.”

  “Hate to drink and run, Bernie,” Grimaldi said. “We’re on a tight schedule today.”

  “No sweat, brother. I’ve got the wheels waiting around back. Now, she isn’t the latest model but she’s running hot and she’ll get you where you need to go.” Schindler handed over the key. “All gassed up and ready to roll.”

  Bolan took the key. “I’ll go and load up,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee, Bernie.”

  Leaving Grimaldi to keep Schindler talking, Bolan located the 4x4 and drove around to park beside the helicopter. He hefted two big gear bags and dropped them on the rear seat of the well-used vehicle. By the time he had the load settled, Grimaldi and Schindler were walking his way.

  “Take it easy, guys,” Schindler stated.

  “See you later, bro,” Grimaldi said as he took his place behind the wheel.

  Schindler nodded. “Your chopper will be juiced up and ready to go when you get back.” He sauntered away with a lazy wave.

  Grimaldi drove the SUV out of the field and onto the road.

  “Which way, boss?”

  Bolan had his sat phone out, connecting to Stony Man where his signal was picked up, showing their position. Kurtzman, having already locked them onto the built-in satellite navigation system, had their route displayed.

  “Follow the boun
cing ball,” Bolan said, showing Grimaldi the phone.

  “On our way.”

  Their route took them around the outskirts of Miami, the city profile standing out against the late-afternoon sky. Grimaldi drove steadily, observing speed limits and making no maneuvers that might attract the attention of law enforcement.

  This wasn’t the first time Bolan had visited the area. Other missions had brought him to Florida on a number of occasions. He had encountered local cops previously and had come away with friendships intact. But he understood his position in relation to the on-site LEOs. If he could avoid any contact, he would do so, because where the Mafiya was concerned there might be cops on the payroll. As much as Bolan admired professional police officers, he was also well aware that there could be individuals on the take.

  Cops taking bribes was far from being a fanciful myth. For whatever reasons, sometimes beyond their control, some lawmen decided to take the crooked track. Bolan’s self-imposed refusal to ever strike out against peace officers was often sorely tried when he came up against the less-than-honest variety. He refused to drop the hammer on cops. Plain and simple, it was a point of honor as far as the Executioner was concerned. He had enough to handle with the real bad guys, so going for rogue cops was placed in a no-go zone.

  Their line of travel took them through well-appointed residential areas: expensive homes that were built along the shore, gated communities where money bought lush lifestyles and reclusive anonymity.

  “What do you reckon, Sarge? You fancy one of these places for your retirement?”

  Bolan smiled at the suggestion.

  Retirement didn’t figure very often in his thoughts. He wasn’t in some nine-to-five job where he clocked off each evening and drove home. Home and family seemed as far out reach as it ever had. Mack Bolan seldom considered those things. His life was what he was doing right now: traveling to yet another encounter with the Animal Man, the violators, the killers, the criminals who saw no problem when it came to indulging in wanton acts. They took what they wanted with little regard to the suffering they caused. Civilized existence with the rest of society was not on their agenda. It was Bolan’s battles with evil that dictated the way his own life ran; a stable, ordered life was not part of the plan.

  He surveyed the lines of houses, the gleaming vehicles parked in the driveways. He had no particular desire for any of those things.

  He was content with his lot in life. Not for the first time Bolan understood the constraints his missions put on him. No matter how many times he faced death, no matter the way things came out, he would always be faced with yet another dire situation. There was no way he was going to bring an end to global or even home-front threats. He was one man who had taken up arms to confront evil in its many forms. The Executioner would take on each battle as it came, hoping that he made life just a little better with the defeat of each enemy.

  “Not for me, Jack. Too quiet a life.”

  Grimaldi chuckled. He understood Bolan only too well. Not for him a sedentary life.

  A few miles on, the moneyed homes slipped behind them. The road curved around the coastline. Vegetation grew thicker now, trees and foliage pushing in against the man-made strip of asphalt.

  Bolan checked the phone display.

  “Close, Jack,” he said. “We need to go EVA while we have distance between us and Bulova’s place. Find somewhere to park off the road. We can camouflage the vehicle and go in on foot.”

  Grimaldi chose a spot and eased off the road, taking the SUV into the shadowed confines of lush growth. When he turned off the engine, they picked up the soft rush of the surf brushing up to the nearby beach.

  Out of the car Bolan opened a rear door and unzipped the gear bags. He stripped off his outer clothing to expose the blacksuit he was already wearing. He took off his shoes and replaced them with lace-up combat boots. Bolan donned a web harness and clipped on an assortment of ancillary weaponry that included a coiled garrote with hardwood grips, flash-bang grenades, military-spec grenades and thermite canisters. The razor-edged Tanto combat knife was housed in the sheath on his belt. He pocketed a few plastic riot cuffs and a compact transceiver that matched the one Grimaldi took.

  His massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle was holstered on his hip while the Beretta 93-R hung in shoulder leather. Bolan’s rapid-fire weapon, which hung by its sling, was the Israeli-made 9 mm Uzi. With his weapons in place, checked and loaded, Bolan reached into the bag for extra magazines for his weapons, which he secured in pouches on his web harness.

  Grimaldi, already clad in light tan combat pants and shirt, outfitted himself with ordnance. He had his Beretta 92-FS pistol and a similar model Uzi. The Stony Man pilot also carried a sheathed combat knife on his belt. He completed his change by pulling on a black ball cap that he snugged down comfortably.

  They checked to ensure the transceivers were working, making sure the receiver-transmit settings were identical.

  Bolan checked the light.

  “We should have twilight in about an hour,” he said. “That should allow us to move in close and get into position. If we come across any roving sentries, we need to take them down once we have full dark.”

  Grimaldi nodded.

  “Smooth and quiet is the order of the day.”

  * * *

  THEY MOVED AWAY from the SUV, swallowed by the overgrowth of trees and lush foliage. Underfoot the ground was soft and allowed them to move with barely a sound. Bolan took the lead with Grimaldi watching their back trail. Neither man spoke, aware of how well sound travels in silent terrain. They had worked together on many similar missions so there was little need for conversation.

  They closed in on their target, and forty minutes in they were able to crouch in cover and observe Serge Bulova’s Florida retreat.

  The sprawling house was set well back from the road behind a four-foot wall that ran around three sides. The fourth side looked out across the shoreline, with a wide strip of empty beach and a jetty that reached beyond the breakwater. A thirty-foot boat was moored at the timber jetty. The house itself, on two levels, was constructed of timber and stone. A triple-car garage was attached to one side of the main structure.

  Bolan and Grimaldi, concealed in the early evening, were able to spot the armed sentries moving around the house. They made a count of two covering the front, each carrying squat subguns and wearing shoulder rigs holding pistols.

  “I think our mob honchos are feeling a little unappreciated right now,” Grimaldi said.

  “It’s tough being at the top.”

  “So maybe we need to relieve them of some of that responsibility. This is your party, Sarge. Do you want to take the front entrance and let me go around back?”

  Bolan nodded. He watched Grimaldi slip away into the fading light then concentrated his attention on the sentries roving the front of the property.

  He studied their movements for long minutes, checking to see if the guards had any kind of regular pattern. It didn’t take him long to establish that there was no pattern at all. He could understand why. The sentries were mob soldiers with no idea about strictly policing their areas. They were simply men with guns, most likely town, or city, inhabitants. Out here in the sticks, they stood out as having little cohesive experience for what they were doing.

  Bolan eased his Uzi across his back. He slid the Tanto combat knife from its sheath and crept toward the house. He had noticed lights coming on in some of the rooms and paused when he reached the edge of the shrubbery. Ahead of him now was the open area fronting the house. He counted four parked SUVs in front of the building. They were top-of-the-range models, big, powerful vehicles that expressed the ostentatious lifestyles of their owners. Bolan decided the vehicles wouldn’t be needed after his visit was over.

  Bolan saw one of the guards moving his way. The guy was dressed in a gaudy floral shirt and pal
e slacks, lightweight loafers on his feet. Though he was covering his area, the expression on the sentry’s face indicated he was less than enamored with the duty. His subgun hung loosely from one hand. The guy had an enormous cigar clenched between his teeth from which he blew thick clouds of smoke into the air.

  Bolan checked on the guard closest to him, then saw the distant man turn and move out of sight behind the parked SUVs. Bolan’s sentry came to within a couple of feet of the greenery shielding the Executioner. It was the best opportunity Bolan was going to get. He waited as the guy stopped, peered into the greenery, then turned to make his way back the way he had come. Bolan rose and stepped forward, reaching out with his left hand, the Tanto in his right.

  The sentry, whether by instinct or dumb luck, suddenly came to a stop, tensing. He started to turn. Bolan struck, easing his hand around the guy’s head and clamping it over his mouth, knocking the cigar clear. In the same instant of motion Bolan thrust the blade of his combat knife into yielding flesh, searching for and finding the jugular. One quick slash and it was over. He held the guard upright until his life drained away. Then he eased the man to the ground.

  Sheathing the knife, Bolan grabbed the dead man’s collar and slid him into the cover of the undergrowth. He picked up the dropped subgun and tossed it out of sight.

  22

  Jack Grimaldi edged along the side of the house to where it opened onto the back lawn and swimming pool. Sunlight danced across the smooth water in the blue-tiled pool.

  Two men were in sight, dressed in casual clothing, sporting dark glasses and wearing holstered handguns. They stood at the edge of the pool in some kind of discussion.

  Grimaldi keyed his transceiver and gave Bolan an update.

  “I’m set to put these guys down, Sarge. Just give me the word.”

  “The word is go,” Bolan said in response. “One is out of the picture here.”

  Grimaldi took his suppressor from a pocket and screwed it on to the threaded end of the Beretta’s barrel. He pressed against the wall of the house and sighted down on the closer man, the 92-FS spitting out a single 9 mm slug. It impacted against the side of the target’s skull, raising a mist of blood as it cored in and dropped the guy in a heap on the tiled edge of the pool.