Exit Code

by Don Pendleton

  The first order of business would be to separate the escort units from the transport vehicle, and the explosives rigged to the bridge would deal quite nicely with that. Then they would sweep and clear any resistance, and if Allah was with them—and Abdalrahman believed this to be true—then Sadiq would be there and he would be safe.

  The Humvee rolled into view over a rise and Abdalrahman was careful not to move. Undoubtedly, the enemy wasn’t stupid, and the escorts would be watching the roads and the overhead areas. They knew the bridge was vulnerable, as much as the NIF assault team did, but in their minds there was probably little risk since nobody was even supposed to know about the transfer.

  The convoy slowed considerably as the lead vehicle passed under Abdalrahman’s position. The transport vehicle stopped just shy of the bridge entrance, as he’d planned. The sedan would probably do the same, but his men would take care of that. The Humvee contained the heaviest opposition, so it was the most natural target for what followed.

  There was a moment that seemed frozen in time as the first charges being detonated resounded through the valleylike surroundings. As the repetitive booming noises fell silent, there was a creaking sound, followed by crackling noises, and suddenly the covered bridge dropped away and into the thirty-foot ravine it had spanned only moments before.

  Abdalrahman took his cue and dropped from the tree, landing hard on the hood of the Bronco where the metal caved under his feet. The colonel maintained his balance, and then waited for a response from the interior. The sedan screeched to a halt and several men jumped from the vehicle, drawing their guns, but since they were focused on Abdalrahman and the carnage ahead of them, they weren’t prepared for an attack on their rear flank.

  Abdalrahman didn’t flinch as his men jumped from the trees and began to fire on the sedan’s occupants. One man fell immediately under the onslaught of bullets, the force of the rounds slamming him into the door window he’d intended to use as cover and shattering the glass. He slid to the ground and pools of blood immediately began to form in the dust.

  One of the others in the sedan turned and managed to get a shot off before the high-velocity rounds split his chest and skull wide open. The man’s body crumpled, his tender flesh no match for that kind of destructive force. The remaining two guards were dispatched in much the same way, and even as the escorting guards poured from the Bronco to render assistance, a grenade tossed into the sedan by one of the NIF soldiers eliminated any chance of survivors.

  Abdalrahman immediately opened up on the guards as they tried to evacuate the Bronco and seek cover. He shot two clean through the head, and a third managed to get about four steps before being caught in a cross fire by Abdalrahman and several of his men. Abdalrahman jumped from the roof of the Bronco and landed next to the rear door. He nodded to his men, who stepped forward and yanked the door open.

  A man in uniform jumped from the seat, an M-16 A-2 automatic rifle in his hands, and began to fire on Abdalrahman’s team. Two of his men fell under the vicious counterattack before they were able to bring the enemy down with a hail of gunfire from the AK-47s. Dust settled and an eerie quiet ensued following the eradication of the last of the resistance.

  Abdalrahman stepped forward cautiously and looked into the darkened interior. There sat Sadiq Rhatib, tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t look any worse for the wear, and—although Abdalrahman suspected he’d had quite an ordeal—it did not appear he had been beaten or starved in any way. Abdalrahman signaled for his men’s assistance and they gently removed Rhatib from the Bronco and detached him from the chains using the dead guard’s keys.

  Abdalrahman then stepped forward and held his nephew’s face before planting a kiss on either shoulder.

  “I am thankful you are still alive,” he told Rhatib.

  “I am thankful that you found me when you did, Uncle,” Rhatib replied. “When I heard I was being moved, I was certain you would never be able to find me.”

  “I almost did not,” Abdalrahman replied. He decided not to mention that it was actually Shurish they had to thank. He didn’t want to make it harder for Rhatib when the time came for them to eliminate Shurish. “I am glad you are now safe. This will never happen again, Sadiq. I promise you that.”

  “And I believe you.” He looked around and added, “I am sure they will send reinforcements quickly once it is discovered they did not arrive at the airfield.”

  “Yes, come,” his uncle replied. “You have very important work to finish. Within a few days, we will bring America to its knees.”

  9

  San Francisco, California

  Mack Bolan managed to intercept Gino Pescia in an alley on the back side of his club, just as the rogue gangster was climbing into his car.

  Bolan stepped from the shadows, Beretta 93-R in hand, and said, “Hi, Gino.”

  “Ah!” Pescia jumped and shook his fist at Bolan. “Damn it, Frankie, you scared the shit outta me!”

  “Really,” Bolan deadpanned. “Why are you so nervous? Your color is terrible. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Now, is that because you know Lenzini’s going to put a price on your head so large that every contract hitter around will be flocking to San Francisco in the next forty-eight hours? Oh, no, it couldn’t be that. Maybe it’s because you were supposed to meet me and you didn’t, because you sent your goons to kill me instead.”

  “Look, Frankie, I had nothing to do with that,” Pescia said, raising his hands. “I didn’t order the hit on you.”

  “But you know who did?”

  The mobster nodded.

  Bolan aimed the pistol and said, “Get in the car. We’re taking a ride.”

  “To where?”

  “I’ll tell you once we’re moving,” Bolan said. He waved the pistol slightly as a reminder and then climbed into the passenger side of the sports car while Pescia got behind the wheel.

  The Executioner knew he’d have to watch this guy. Pescia was slippery for sure, but Bolan had to believe he wasn’t the one who’d ordered the hit. The guy didn’t have that kind of clout, and it didn’t make sense for Pescia to have Bolan eliminated when he’d just cut the guy a break. No, somebody else had pushed the button on that one, and Bolan planned to find out who it was.

  “So where are we going?” Pescia asked once they were away from the club and moving.

  “City of Angels,” Bolan replied casually.

  Pescia looked at him. “I’m not packed yet.”

  “You can buy some new stuff when you get there.”

  “I got a club to run, Frankie,” he pressed. “I can’t just—”

  “You want to stay alive?” Bolan asked him, fixing Pescia with a harsh gaze. “Then you’ll do as I say. Otherwise, you can take your chances with Lenzini. Now, who ordered the hit on me?”

  “Well, I can’t be sure about this now, but as I understand—”

  “Don’t be mealymouthed, Gino,” Bolan said interrupting. “I don’t have time for it.”

  Pescia’s expression turned meek. “Sorry. Listen, word has it that Serge ordered the job.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Grano send me out here and then order me whacked?”

  “I guess he figured once you found me, you didn’t really matter anymore.”

  “I’m not buying that. Where did you get the information?”

  “Hey, look, I don’t care if you are toting a piece, there’s no way I’m telling you who my sources are. Okay?” Pescia was animated now, throwing up his hands and talking rapidly. “You don’t think I’d ask you who whispers in your ears at night, so why would you do me that way? We’re supposed to be on the same team, Frankie.”

  “Yeah, all right,” Bolan said and he made a show of holstering his Beretta. “It’s obvious some broad told you, so I shouldn’t be nosy. Fair enough.”

  Pescia was silent for a time, and Bolan let him stew. He could tell, looking at the guy’s profile, the shadows occasionally lit by streetlights or oncoming cars, that the guy
was giving serious thought to his present situation. He was either looking for a way out, or he was concerned about the upcoming skirmish with the NIF. In either case, Bolan sensed there was still something the guy wasn’t telling him, but he figured there was another time to worry about it. This was the moment to dangle the bait.

  “You know where Lenzini’s operation for the Arabs is in L.A., right?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you also said your guys are ready for this fight?”

  “I don’t really have anybody up in Los Angeles,” Pescia admitted. “Most of the crew I have is down here, hiding.”

  “Well, let’s go round them up,” Bolan replied.

  Bolan wanted Pescia to see firsthand what had happened to his crew. That would give him the leverage he needed to bring the small-time hood around, and better control any conflict against Lenzini’s people and the NIF. He could work the angles on this end, and now that Stony Man intended to solicit Tyra MacEwan’s involvement, so much the better. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about what was happening on the other side of the country—Brognola could handle that in his sleep.

  Pescia drove them straight to the motel on the edge of town, but he wasn’t prepared for what he found. The place shrouded in smoke, some areas still in flames, while other parts consisted of little more than charred wood and smoldering ruins. Bolan could see Pescia was surprised by the carnage, and he meant to play that hand as long as he could.

  “Don’t stop,” Bolan ordered him as they hugged the shoulder to get around the emergency vehicles.

  “Wh-what the fuck happened, man?” Pescia stammered.

  “I don’t know,” Bolan said, “but I bet I can guess. Who else knew about this place besides you and me?”

  “Just some of my guys,” Pescia replied. “You know, the boys at the club. And I’ve got a contact up in Seattle.”

  “Nobody on Lenzini’s end?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?” Bolan pressed. “You sure you didn’t tell anybody there on the East Coast? Not even maybe Grano or Ape?”

  “No, no,” Pescia said. “I swear, I haven’t told anyone. Maybe a handful of people knew.”

  “Well, obviously, that was one too many,” Bolan said, jerking his thumb at the destruction as they drove past. “Either that, or the NIF did this.”

  “But how?”

  “Somebody screwed you,” Bolan replied, seeing his opportunity to nail the coffin shut. “Somebody who knew about this and is loyal to the NIF ratted you out. Isn’t it obvious, Gino? They saw you as a threat and they figured there was only one way to eliminate that threat. They did a number on you.”

  “Yeah, well, who is ‘they,’ Frankie?” Pescia asked. “Eh? Can you tell me that? How do I know you aren’t working for the Arabs and arranged all of this?”

  “Because Lenzini’s still working with them, and if I was all for his plan to pal around with the rag heads I would have capped you by now,” Bolan said sharply. “But you look pretty alive to me, Gino, so I’d cut the smart-ass bit.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Pescia grumbled. “You’re right. I guess I do have somebody friendly to the Arabs in my backyard. I need to find out whoever it is and take care of business.”

  “Wrong,” Bolan said quickly. “What you need to do is start listening to me. You can’t go back to your club and slap nobody around, Gino. If somebody there arranged this, then they know you’re bound to find out about the hit here, and come around looking for some payback. Instead of winding up avenging it, you’ll just wind up dead.”

  “I can’t let this go, Frankie,” Pescia said.

  “Nobody says you have to. Look, for now the most important thing is to get another crew together. Safest place to do that is in L.A. Lenzini won’t be looking for you to go there, and neither will the Arabs. We can get our shit together. I may even know a few guys I can call up who would love a piece of this.”

  “Yeah, yeah…you’re right.” Pescia slapped the steering wheel and grinned. “You’re abso-fucking-lutely right, Frankie. Let’s get out of here!”

  “Now you’re talking,” Bolan said.

  Los Angeles, California

  IT TOOK the Executioner and Pescia five hours to reach L.A., and the mobster immediately drove them to an apartment a few blocks from Santa Monica Beach, which provided a great view of the ocean. The place was small but nice—affordable in a middle-class kind of way—and Bolan could immediately tell this guy had done well with the drug-set in that particular neighborhood. The difference between pushing on the streets and pushing toward the kind of clientele Pescia dealt with was a matter of numbers. A dope-head on ninety-eight was going to pay maybe twenty-five or thirty for a piece of rock, while someone down at the Marina, planning the next party on their yacht, would go four times that price for the equivalent amount of powder. Of course, the rock might be laced with rat poison or laundry detergent versus the powder containing talcum, but that’s where the differences ended.

  It was a strange economy when it came to drug dealing, and only those who knew how to talk the talk and walk the walk stood any chance of staying in business on the Gold Coast. In either case, Pescia had quite a little enterprise going for himself, and Bolan figured it wouldn’t take much to bring the small drug emperor to his knees when the opportunity presented itself.

  “So, what’s your plan?” Pescia said, throwing aside the curtains to let in the dawn light. He went to the bar and made himself a drink. He offered one to Bolan, but the soldier declined with a shake of his head.

  “You tell me,” Bolan said. “This is your territory. How many guys do you think you can get?”

  Pescia shrugged as he dropped ice cubes into his glass. “I don’t know, maybe ten, fifteen at best.”

  “That’s not a lot, Gino.”

  “Frankie, what do you want me to say, huh?” Pescia said in protest, throwing the tongs on the bar and reaching for a decanter full of what looked like bourbon. “Everybody I had lined up is probably dead. If not, they’re most certainly in hiding and not going to be coming out to play for some time. What, you think I can snap my fingers and guys just line up around here? It took a lot of doing to get the guys I had.”

  “All right, settle down,” Bolan said. “I just asked a question.”

  “Yeah, well, I just gave you an answer.”

  “Okay, so you can get ten guys. Tell you what, you provide the manpower, I’ll provide the firepower.”

  “Just how do you plan to do that?”

  “That’s my business,” Bolan said.

  “Okay, so we get some guys together and you get them some guns. So what? We just going to sit on our asses and do nothing? Maybe wait for the Arabs to stick it to us again? We’re sitting ducks as long as we’re not doing something.”

  “Right,” Bolan said. “And that’s where my plan comes in. Look, the whole reason you’re in hot water with Lenzini right now is because you won’t play ball with the Arabs.”

  Pescia snorted. “Does that surprise you? You knocked the shit out of me and burned their little club in D.C. to the ground. You didn’t actually expect me to go back to him with that message, did you? You know who blamed me for that? Serge and the boys. They said I didn’t have any balls to let some punk walk over me like that. And then they said that the Arabs were going to blame us for what happened, and I was going to be the scapegoat if anything nasty came down.”

  “You mean they were going to burn you to save their own asses?” Bolan asked, acting completely surprised by Pescia’s woefully told tale.

  “Yeah! Can you believe that shit? I give them the best years of my life, and come out here regularly and bring in my contacts. I’ve made Lenzini quite a bit of cash here. And that’s how I get thanked! They threaten to turn me over to the Arabs.”

  “That doesn’t sound like they’re protecting the brotherhood,” Bolan said in his most sympathetic tone. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “That’s not what the Family used to be about
. The rules have changed.”

  “You’re damn straight they’ve changed!” Pescia said, downing the last of his drink and pouring himself another. This time, he didn’t add any ice.

  Bolan had to keep the guy talking. The drunker he got the more vulnerable he was likely to be, and Bolan could pump him for valuable information. Intelligence was always the key in bringing down the enemy, and with guys like Pescia it was child’s play to get that information. Most people had a weakness, whether it was alcohol, drugs, sex, or money, and Bolan had learned how to work those weaknesses to his advantage.

  “There’s no more camaraderie, you know what I mean?” Pescia asked, taking another hard swallow from the glass as his face started to turn red. “There’s just a lot of talk, and making deals with guys who would just as soon slit your throat or sleep with your wife than do real business. That’s what I do, you know, Frank? I do real business. I don’t screw nobody, and I don’t shoot off my mouth to nobody.”

  Except to me, Bolan thought.

  Pescia finished his drink and poured another, then dropped stiffly into a nearby chair. “I just want to get these guys back, man. I want these guys to pay for what they did to me.”

  “I know, Gino,” Bolan said. “And I can help you do that.”

  “You can?”

  Bolan noticed as he sat down on a chair directly across from Pescia that the mobster’s eyes were starting to look glazed. He was tired and strongly affected by the alcohol since they hadn’t eaten anything on the trip. This was the most critical point for Bolan, and he had to make his move before time simply ran out. He had to put all of the pieces in place, and be ready for the NIF when it made its move. If he could manipulate Pescia, push the guy just a little bit further and earn his full trust, he’d be able to pull it off. Neither Lenzini nor the NIF would even know what hit them until it was much too late.

  “I can,” Bolan continued. “I can help you take back your business. You’re just going to have to trust me, man. You do trust me, don’t you?”

  Pescia nodded blankly, his speech slurring as he replied, “Yeah, Frankie. Yeah, I trust you.”