New Orleans Knockout

by Don Pendleton

  The two had been friends through a couple of those campaigns. It hadn’t started that way, of course. Grimaldi was a Mafia pilot, a wheelman of the skies, a syndicate flyboy who was expected to enjoy his fat salary and keep his ears and mouth closed. He wasn’t a “made man”—a full-fledged brother of the brothers—but on the payroll, just the same. So Grimaldi had known this guy Bolan from both sides of the street. He knew his threat—his effect—knew, even, that chilling, heart-shuddering sensation of looking at the guy over the wrong side of a gunsight.

  There was something about Mack Bolan that caused even his enemies to admire him. Those who hated him most—and with the best reasons—still gave the big guy grudging admiration and genuine respect.

  Grimaldi certainly had.

  He’d flown the guy from Vegas to Puerto Rico, without realizing until the last leg of the journey that his passenger was Mack Bolan instead of the mob courier he was pretending to be. And, sure, Grimaldi had very naturally conspired with the forces at Glass Bay to ambush this most feared enemy of the new kingdom. It didn’t work, of course. Bolan could have killed him then, but didn’t—for some reason. Twice again at Puerto Rico Grimaldi had found himself at the business end of Bolan’s gun, and twice more the guy had let him live. The Caribbean chapter had closed with Grimaldi a committed ally of the Executioner—and for some damn excellent reasons.

  Grimaldi loved the guy, like a brother.

  There was no getting loose from the mob, of course—not while a guy was still breathing. It was a lifetime contract, from their point of view. So, sure, he still flew the wiseguys around and made a pretty good living doing it. And kept his eyes and ears open for a good buddy named Bolan. He also jumped quickly and willingly to work with the guy any time the invitation was sent.

  Sure, he loved the big cold bastard. Bolan had held up a mirror to Jack Grimaldi’s soul, reminding the former combat pilot what manhood was all about. Grimaldi liked the view. He liked his own image beside Bolan’s.

  And, getting down to basics, that was the only damn reason for any of it.

  Grimaldi suspected that Bolan’s own reasons were probably very similar. There were some things that a man—a true man—just had to do. Bolan was doing them. A man measured up to his own challenge. Bolan’s challenge was just a bit more unique than the average.

  And this time, yes, the blitzer had a worried look about the eyes.

  They were headed for a small, private field just north of Seattle. Grimaldi broke the long silence of mutual critique to remark, “Pretty tough one, huh.” He lit a cigarette and handed it over to his passenger.

  The guy took a drag and handed it back. “Yeah,” he replied as he slowly released the smoke.

  “So what’re they doing on the island?”

  Instead of answering, Bolan responded with a question of his own. “How many flights have you made into here the past few months?”

  “Here?” the pilot replied. “None. Two into Spokane, though.”

  “What’s giving in Spokane?”

  Grimaldi shrugged. “They never tell me. I only know that the fair was the cover. Expo ’74, you know. My guys were supposed to be planning advisors. Something to do with the exhibits.”

  “From where?”

  “One delegation was from Europe. I don’t know where exactly. The other was from Tel Aviv.”

  Bolan blinked at that latter revelation. “Yeah?”

  The pilot shrugged as he replied, “That’s what the baggage checks on their luggage said. They flew into New York via Air Israel.”

  “Your reading?” Bolan asked quietly.

  “VIPs from the international arms. Bosses, I’d say. Three in the first party, five in the last. Armed escort from New York, both times, full head parties. I flew them in the executive jet. That’s reserved for nothing but the top.”

  “You flew them both in and out?”

  “Yeah. Stayed a couple days, both times.”

  “So they could have come on to Seattle by car. Both parties.”

  “That’s right,” Gremaldi said, sighing.

  “Anybody meet them?”

  “Oh sure. Red carpet reception.”

  “Mob people?”

  “None that I’d know,” the pilot replied.

  “I guess it figures, then,” Bolan coldly commented.

  “What figures?”

  The big guy had produced his “warbook” and was jotting down something for future reference. In an offhanded tone, he told his pilot, “They’re building a fort back there.”

  “On that island?”

  “Yeah.” Bolan was flipping the pages of the notebook, searching for something near the front. “You say they’re using the Spokane fair as a cover?”

  “That was the feeling I got. What kind of fort?”

  “A little Gibraltar. Complete with tunnels and stonewall bunkers.” Bolan had located the entry in his warbook. “Tel Aviv, eh. You ever hear of a ship called the S.S. Piraeus Merchant?”

  “What is that—not Israeli?—no, I never heard it mentioned.”

  “It’s Greek, and it’s sitting down here in the Port of Seattle right now. Two weeks ago she picked up a cargo skid at Marseille, marked for storage-in-transit at Seattle. Has Expo ’74 stickers all over it.”

  “What—the ship?”

  “The skid. Supposed to be a crate of machinery. It’s consigned to Nyeburg.”

  “Who?”

  “Allan Nyeburg—the guy that bought Langley Island.”

  “Oh, that Nyeburg,” Grimaldi replied, scowling. “Never heard of him either, thanks.”

  Bolan chuckled solemnly. “Don’t feel bad. Neither has anyone else. But they will.”

  Grimaldi shivered slightly for poor Nyeburg, whoever the unfortunate soul might be.

  Bolan sighed and closed the warbook, then glanced at his watch and took a look outside. “I guess there’s time,” he said.

  Grimaldi was lining into the runway lights, on final approach, the field barely visible through the growing fog blanket below. He withheld comment until after the touch down. The fog was actually a blessing. There was no tower here—just a base operator’s maintenance hangar and a tie-down area for private craft. Bolan had left his “warwagon” concealed somewhere up beyond the end of the runway, where Grimaldi would drop him off.

  He continued the landing roll to that point then swung clear and braked to a halt. “Time for what?” he asked the big grim man beside him.

  “Maybe a hard punch to the belly, before daylight.”

  “Need me?” the pilot asked.

  “Not for this one,” Bolan replied. He was getting his gear together.

  “Thought you were staying soft for a while.”

  “The soft drill is over, Jack,” Bolan told him.

  “I see.” The guy who loved Mack Bolan like a brother tried and failed to smile. “Are you telling me to get lost now?”

  “I’d like for you to stick around for a day or two if you can. Could get hairy, Jack. I could need you.”

  The grin worked this time. “You know where I’ll be,” Grimaldi said, quietly glowing.

  Bolan gripped his hand, smiled as only a life-and-deather like Bolan can smile, and stepped out of the plane. A small bundle was left on his seat.

  The pilot yelled, “Hey! You left something!”

  “It’s not mine,” the big guy called back as he disappeared into the mists of the night.

  Not his, bullshit. Ten grand, in hundred-dollar bills.

  Grimaldi stuffed it inside his shirt and taxied on to the hangar. He wasn’t working for Bolan’s war chest bucks, dammit. That smile and that handshake was plenty payment enough. But Bolan would never have it that way. The guy liked to pay his tab. Nothing personal. No friendships, no debts, nothing asked and nothing accepted.

  What a rotten way for a guy like Bolan to have to live!

  Grimaldi would not argue with success, though. The guy was alive, and that was saying plenty right there. And Jack Grimaldi, th
e capi’s flyboy, would gladly burn the whole ten grand for a ringside seat at Bolan’s next blitz.

  But, hell no—he would not argue with that guy’s formula for success.

  Grimaldi remembered Vegas—and the Caribbean—and Texas. He’d been there. Sure, he remembered. And he found himself feeling just a bit sorry for Seattle.

  3: PERSONAL TOUCH

  Bolan had scouted that wharf area several days earlier, shortly after the Greek ship had docked. He’d watched as they rigged the cargo booms and began the offloading, and he’d joined the stevedores down on the wharf as the stuff started coming ashore—working alongside them in Levi’s and dungaree jacket. He’d also located the suspect shipment and put his mark on the crate as it moved along to the transit storage area in the warehouse. Later he’d split a hundred dollars between a couple of warehousemen to “misplace” the crate for a few days—and he’d hung around long enough to watch where they put it.

  He had not really known, at the moment, just why he should be especially interested in the shipment, or if it held any meaning whatever to the developments around Seattle. It was simply another of those isolated pieces of an international jigsaw puzzle which kept turning up in his intelligence notebook. Until then he had never heard of Allan Nyeburg or Langley Island. But he’d heard rumbles from several sources concerning “a lot of stuff” moving by way of Marseille, the “hot port” of Europe, and he’d been spot-checking shipping manifests from that area ever since the Texas campaign. So it could have been a stroke of luck—or the questing finger of fate—that turned this shipment to Bolan’s attention just as he was opening his probe into Seattle.

  The resulting investigation of Nyeburg himself had nothing to do with luck or fate. It had been a simple job of softshoe scouting, asking questions in the right places, getting access to certain files and records—and putting the package together.

  It was an impressive one. And it had led directly to Langley Island.

  Nyeburg was among the newest of the new wave of front men lately being fielded by the syndicate, around the world. He was “clean,” well-educated, fairly young, considered brilliant in various areas of international trade and finance. In Bolan’s notebook, Nyeburg was now acting as some sort of advance man for the big push at Seattle.

  Discovery of the intrigue on Langley Island had served to sharpen Bolan’s curiosity about the crate of “machinery” from the S.S. Piraeus Merchant. So now he’d returned full circle to the beginning—and he intended to have a look at that shipment.

  He came, this time, in blacksuit—with the .44 AutoMag in open display at his right hip, traveling light, the warwagon parked two blocks over and poised for a quick split.

  The fog was in pretty good control of the wharf area, overlaying the blackness of the night like a damp woolen blanket and making dim haloes of the warehouse lights. The dark bulk of the Piraeus loomed mysterious and ghostly in the mist-shrouded dock, dim gangway lights twinkling like fireflies in the gloom.

  Farther down, at the storage warehouse, things were happening. The big cargo doors were open, muffled fight spilling out to mingle in shining shrouds with the moist atmosphere. A truck was parked down there, backed halfway into tie warehouse. Forklifts were whining around, moving freight or something about the interior.

  It was not an entirely unexpected development for Bolan, even though he had earlier ascertained that no night shifts worked this particular wharf. He had, in fact, called his warehousemen friends twelve hours earlier and instructed them to “find” the misplaced shipment and to notify the consignee.

  Now the man in black was penetrating deeper for a close look at the situation, combat senses alert and flaring into that no man’s land between dockside and warehouse, the AutoMag sprung and ready for instant use.

  A dim human form materialized directly ahead, less than fifty yards from paydirt. Bolan froze, noisily cleared his throat, then coughed lightly and moved on more slowly.

  A Bronx voice snarled, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me,” Bolan replied, using the same Bronxese but with a less belligerent tone. “How’s it going?”

  “How would I know? Nobody tells me nothing.” The guy was obviously a forward lookout. He was also ripe for picking. That voice revealed that its owner had been standing there quite a while—tense, uncomfortable, irritable.

  And he was now moving cautiously toward Bolan, probably trying for a better view.

  “Go down there and tell ’em I said to hurry it up,” Bolan commanded gruffly. “Get some coffee while you’re at it. You sound half asleep.”

  “Guess I am. Thanks. I’ll tell ’em.”

  The guy turned and shuffled away.

  Bolan immediately moved quietly along the backtrack. The lookout had accepted that “voice of authority” all too readily. Which meant, to Bolan, that others were waiting somewhere back there in the darkness of the waterfront. In a parked car, probably. Maybe a crew leader and a couple of guns. Bolan could not let that remain at his back.

  He withdrew the way he’d come, then circled quickly and quietly for the only different angle of approach—and he found them there, just up the street from the Piraeus dock, two men in a big car with a lonely vigil.

  The vehicle had been parked there a while, as evidenced by the even collection of fog droplets. The wipers had been operated as the car sat, to keep the forward vision unimpaired—and there was evidence of a continuing fogging problem inside, as well. The two front windows were cracked open about three inches from the top, the glass surfaces covered with the fine droplets of accumulated moisture without and condensation within.

  Both men were smoking. As Bolan drew nearer, he heard the radio playing soft music. The guys were relaxed, slouched in the seats, bored. He moved softly to their rear, opened a back door, and slid onto the seat behind them.

  The guy at the wheel snapped his head in a quick swivel rearward, mouth open, eyes flaring.

  Bolan cautioned, “Uh-uh” and gave him a good look at the big silver pistol.

  The other guy just sat there, eyes glued to the rearview mirror, frozen. But he found his voice first. “What the hell is this?” he blustered.

  “Doomsday, maybe,” Bolan informed him. He tossed a marksman’s medal forward. It hit the windshield and fell to the padding atop the dash. “Pick it up,” he commanded chillingly.

  The wheelman did so, moving slowly and carefully, turning it over and over between thumb and fingers, otherwise immobilized, speechless.

  The guy beside him growled, “What is it?”

  “A bull’s-eye cross,” the wheelman declared in a loud stage whisper.

  “Aw, Jesus,” the other guy said, the voice dismal and demoralized. “That’s not Mack Bolan back there.”

  “It is,” the Executioner assured him. “Who’re you?”

  The guy had decided to try the chummy approach. “I’m Danny Trinity. You never heard of me, I guess. I heard plenty about you, guy. This big dummy at my left hand here is Ontario Charlie Flora, my wheeler.”

  That took care of the introductions, and Danny Trinity ran out of wind right there. Bolan was interested in further conversation, however.

  “You boys might live a while if you play it right.”

  They understood what that meant, of course. Few living “made men” could boast of having once chatted with the Executioner. So if he was talking instead of blasting, there was double the usual hope right there.

  “We got no beef with you, guy,” Danny Trinity reported, apparently clinging to hope through a very obvious bravado.

  “Keep it that way, then,” Bolan advised. “Who’re you with?”

  The two hardmen locked eyes for a moment.

  Bolan warned, “Keep it straight. You’re talking to a guy who knows when you’re not.”

  Ontario Charlie took a gulping half-breath and plunged on toward hope. “We’re by way of Augie Marinello.”

  Okay, that hung straight enough. Marinello, though maimed by a clash with Bol
an during the Jersey war, still clung to life and to his position as most powerful New York boss.

  Coldly, Bolan asked, “How is Augie?”

  “What’s left of ’im, okay,” Danny Trinity sniffed. “You didn’t leave ’im much, guy.”

  “I could leave you less,” Bolan reminded the torpedo. “Where do you rank?”

  “Nowhere,” the mafioso replied, a bit less huffily. “I work a crew under Tony Vale.”

  “Enforcing,” the ice man said.

  “Yeah, sure. Look—you want my life history? I was born in—”

  Bolan growled, “Save it. You’re a long way from your territory, Danny.”

  The guy shrugged and angled a desperate toss of the eyes to his partner. “We’re on vacation,” he muttered.

  Bolan lightly gouged the back of his head with the muzzle of Big Thunder. “This piece is a hand howitzer,” he told the guy coldly. “It spits 240 grains of hollow-nose disintegrators with a muzzle energy of more than a thousand foot-pounds. The trigger moves very eagerly to a two-pound pull. All I have to do is sigh a bit too hard and your skull will fall in like a rotten egg. And every time you say something silly, Danny, it makes me sigh with regret.”

  “Okay, okay,” the torpedo said, voice ragged and choking with defeat. “It is a sort of vacation. We’re on loan. We been out here three weeks now, and this is our first job.”

  “How many boys with you?”

  “I brought a crew of six, plus myself. That includes Charlie boy, here.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “This one? Hell, a milk run. We thought. The locals are picking up some stuff at a warehouse down here. We’re riding shotgun, that’s all.”

  “Where are you shotgunning it to?”

  “To another warehouse.”

  “Another warehouse where?”

  “Up near Everett. Know where that is? Just up the coast.”

  Sure, Bolan knew where. Langley Island lay in that area.

  “Let’s have your hardware,” he told them. “I don’t want to see more than two fingers at a time. You first, Danny. Ease it out and pass it back.”

  There were no arguments in that regard. The hardmen seemed almost happy about it, as though their salvation was thereby assured. Bolan did not have a reputation for “killing cold.” They carefully divested themselves of offending weapons and passed them back, one at a time. Bolan threw them to the street and told the wheelman, “Okay, Charlie, let’s move.”