Death List

by Don Pendleton

  They paced back halfway down the corridor and crouched. Bolan drew his borrowed 93-R and aimed through the sights.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Knocking,” Bolan replied and pulled the trigger.

  The triburst struck the fire doors and made them rattle. Bolan cupped his free hand to his mouth and shouted, “We give up! We give up!”

  One of the security doors started to open as the Toretto gunners on the other side peered out to see what was what.

  The explosions were deafening and seemed to go on forever. The claymores detonated in a chain, one after another. They shredded the men through the open doorway and mangled the doors. Blood was everywhere, as was a fine mist that hung low in the air. Bolan waited with his Beretta at the ready.

  “I’ll go look,” Pierce said. He stood and ran to the end of the corridor, shotgun up and ready. When he got to the wreckage of the barrier, he surveyed the bodies. Turning, he shot Bolan a thumbs-up.

  The Executioner joined him in a few long strides.

  “Come on,” Bolan said. Let’s go say hello and goodbye to Paul Toretto.”

  They met no further resistance as they proceeded into the interior of the mansion, checking each room they encountered until they reached the last one in the corridor.

  The two men took up positions on either side of the door. The enforcer nodded once and Bolan threw the door open before pressing himself back against the wall.

  No gunshots rang out. Bolan risked a glance, lowering himself by bending his knees so his face wouldn’t be where a shooter might expect it. He took in a quick impression of the sparsely appointed room inside. A man in his shirtsleeves, his white silk tie askew, sat behind his desk smoking a cigar.

  Somewhere at the other end of the mansion, an alarm began to sound. Bolan looked at Pierce, who shrugged.

  “Well, gentlemen,” the man said. “Come inside. My gun is on the desk.”

  Bolan and Pierce entered the room, guns ready.

  “You!” Toretto looked at Pierce, turned pale and dropped his cigar on the desk.

  “Me.”

  “You look a little surprised, Toretto,” Bolan said.

  “He thought it was a raid!” Pierce said suddenly. He laughed, a harsh bark. “This dumb bastard thought we were the law! He was going to wait for us to collect him so he wouldn’t end up getting shot like his boys did. Claymores for the cops. How stupid was that?”

  “You son of a—” Toretto started.

  Pierce smashed him the face with the shotgun. He fell out of his chair.

  “Don’t,” Bolan warned. “He could have—”

  Toretto could have had a weapon under his desk...and he did. When the Mob boss popped up again, he had a MAC-10 machine pistol in his fist. Bolan drilled the mobster through the face with a single 9 mm round. At the same time Pierce cut loose with his shotgun, making a bloody mess of the dead man’s chest. Paul Toretto crashed into his own desk chair and collapsed there, half on and half off. The MAC-10 hit the floor a second later. The open bolt crashed home from the impact, and the weapon burped a line of rounds through the chair and Paul Toretto’s legs. Pierce took cover instinctively, dropping to the floor with his hands over his head.

  The sprinklers in the ceiling of Toretto’s office switched on.

  “Oh, come on,” Pierce said to no one in particular.

  Bolan offered his hand to help Pierce to his feet. “Come on is right,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”

  The little mobster stood and took out his phone. He snapped a couple of pictures of Paul Toretto’s corpse.

  “Proof for your bosses?” Bolan asked.

  “Hell, no. They’d take my word for it. But I’ve been trying to take out Paul Toretto for years now.”

  “I’m glad somebody’s having a good day,” Bolan said darkly.

  Pierce jerked his chin at the corpse. “He sure isn’t.”

  7

  “So...you got away...clean,” Aldo Corino wheezed. He tossed Pierce’s phone in the general direction of its owner. He had taken his time examining the photo of Paul Toretto. Pierce practically had to dive to keep his phone from hitting the floor. An irritated expression rippled across his face.

  The Corinos had taken their places in the same room in which Bolan had previously met them. This was apparently where they preferred to hold court. The friction between Pierce and his bosses was more obvious than ever, probably because the Corinos were feeling arrogantly secure in their positions with the head of one of their major rivals chopped off.

  “David has never been able to rid us of the Torettos on his own,” Rosa said. She was drinking tea from a china teacup, balancing the saucer on one bony knee. She paused to sip from her cup for emphasis. “I never thought I would see the day we were rid of Paul Toretto.”

  “Burned the Toretto estate...half to the ground...for good measure,” Aldo rasped. He managed a smile. “That was a nice touch.”

  “The fire wasn’t planned,” Bolan put in. “I can’t take credit for it.”

  “Nonsense,” Rosa said. She took another sip from her teacup. “You clearly live up to your billing. It’s a shame we can’t hire you to help David with his responsibilities on a full-time basis.”

  “Mr. Pierce is very good at what he does,” Bolan replied.

  “Just not...as good as you,” Aldo said. He smiled again, this time at Pierce, who stood next to Bolan. “Come now, David, it’s all...in good fun. We’re celebrating your victory. Why don’t you leave us...with Mr. Harmon...so that we can talk business?”

  “Run along now, David,” Rosa added.

  Pierce nodded. His face was a stoic mask, but Bolan could tell the shorter man was bristling at the condescending treatment. He excused himself and closed the door behind him, leaving Bolan alone with the Corinos.

  “It’s time to present you with the list,” Rosa announced. “You’ve proven yourself to us, Mr. Harmon, and now it’s time for you to reap the rewards.” She took a manila folder from the coffee table and handed it to Bolan. He forced himself to look nonchalant, even uninterested, as he thumbed through the contents. “This is the only copy of these instructions, of the list, that exists anywhere,” she said. “Either memorize the details and burn the list, or guard it carefully. If it’s discovered and the plan falls into the hands of law enforcement, everything is ruined.”

  “I know how to do my job,” Bolan said.

  “Remind him,” Aldo ordered Rosa.

  “Yes, of course.” Rosa shot her husband a stern look.

  To Bolan she said, “The dates have been agreed to. The target names have been agreed to. There was far too much negotiation among the families for those to change again. You must stick to the schedule, and the list, as if your life depended on it.”

  “Because...it does,” Aldo said.

  Again Rosa speared him with a disapproving glare. She nodded nonetheless. “We understand, of course, that you are one of the most accomplished killers in the world. But you are just one man, Mr. Harmon. One man cannot stand against an entire family. Keep that in mind should you choose to betray us.”

  “That won’t be an issue,” Bolan replied. “It’s not my place to ask, but I’m curious about something, though.”

  “Yes?” Rosa queried.

  “Why the beef with the Torettos? If the other families could agree on your plan, why did they resist? Why have you been feuding all these years?”

  The two Corino elders looked at each other, then at Bolan. Surprisingly, it was Aldo who spoke, and this time there was no sign of weakness in his voice, no grasping for breath. He took out his brass pocket watch and held it up.

  “You see this watch, Mr. Harmon?” he demanded, holding the timepiece aloft by the chain as a triumphant warrior might hold a severed human head by its
scalp. “My father, Tommaso Corino, took this watch from Paul Toretto Senior when I was just a boy. The watch belonged to my grandfather.” Corino seemed to swell with pride.

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “The Torettos were always a family without honor,” Aldo went on, the sheer hate he seemed to feel overpowering whatever pulmonary issue he battled. “The Torettos and Corinos were once friends, back in the Old Country. My grandfather and his counterpart of the day among the Torettos were close. Our families had business ventures together. There was plenty of profit to be had in those days.”

  “I can imagine,” Bolan said.

  “The watch was lost in a poker game. The Torettos cheat. ‘Never trust a Toretto,’ my father always said. It was a sore subject with him. Briefly, war broke out between our families, years ago, when shooting wars were much more common among the families.”

  “Mafia wars,” Bolan stated.

  “Not the most respectful term,” Rosa warned.

  “It does not matter,” Aldo said. “During the war, before we reached a peace agreement, my father faced Paul Senior in a knife duel. He was badly cut, but he won. And when Paul Senior was bleeding out on the floor in front of him, he reached into the man’s vest pocket and took the watch. And then he took his knife and buried it in the bastard’s eye socket. He left it there. Left it sticking out...sticking out of Paul Senior’s eye.”

  “Aldo,” Rosa cautioned.

  The Corino patriarch was starting to cough, shaking from the effort of his little oration. He waved his wife off and popped open the brass watch.

  “Inscribed...here,” he said. “Inside. My father had it added. ‘Received Back in Fair Trade For a Knife,’ it says. And...beneath that... ‘Blood for Blood.’ I read it...every day.” His coughing started up again, and it took him some time to recover.

  “The Torettos defied us,” Rosa said. “They stood against our family. And like everyone who stands against us, they eventually paid for it. We have long memories. And nobody who crosses us will prosper after doing so. Our feud with the Torettos is something that we could never forget. Now you have helped us end it by chopping the head off the snake.”

  There was an ominous silence. Aldo continued to cough. He put the watch away. Rosa finished her tea and placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table.

  “As for the matter of my fee,” Bolan finally said. He had to continue to play the part of Vincent Harmon. The man killed for money, and he would most definitely be looking to firm up the details of his payment.

  “Yes. We have the account details you provided us previously. We’ll transmit a million dollars after each successful hit.”

  “And if the stars align and some of the targets get away?” Bolan asked. “Not that it’s likely. But just for sake of argument.”

  “The fewer targets you eliminate,” Rosa said quietly, “the greater the chance that the Corino family, and the rest of the Mafia families aligned with us, will be very upset. You wouldn’t want us to become upset, Mr. Harmon. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal clear.” Bolan glanced inside the folder again. “I had better get moving if I want to get to the first target on schedule.”

  “Good...hunting, Mr. Harmon,” Aldo wheezed.

  “Yeah,” Bolan said over his shoulder. “See you around.”

  * * *

  “COME ON, SERIOUSLY,” Seb was saying to Pierce. “We’re all going to Disneyland next summer. The whole Corino family. I’m just wondering what you’re going to do because you’re not big enough to ride the really scary rides.”

  Joey thought that was pretty funny and started guffawing. The two hardmen were loitering outside the Corinos’ study in what was apparently their assigned station. Pierce had been waiting for Bolan and, because of that, was being subjected to still more harassment from the two Corino thugs.

  “You cut yourself shaving?” Bolan asked, jerking his chin at the bandages wrapped around Seb’s hand. It was the hand whose fingers Bolan had twisted out of joint.

  Seb stopped laughing. He turned to Bolan. “You’re damned lucky, hired gun,” he said. “The Corinos need you to do this job. If they didn’t—”

  Bolan reached out with one hand. Using his whole palm, he shoved Seb in the chest, slamming him against the wall. The big thug instinctively leaned forward, trying to shield the back of his head, and Bolan slapped him across the face with so much force that he stumbled and fell to one knee.

  Joey was drawing his gun, but this time Bolan knew the play was coming. He already had his recovered Beretta 93-R in one hand. Without looking at Joey, he shoved the snout of the pistol into Joey’s nose. The man froze where he stood, his gun half in and half out of his waistband.

  “This is a Beretta 93-R,” Bolan said quietly. “It’s set to 3-round burst. If I pull this trigger, two things are going to happen. The first is that not one, not two, but three 9 mm hollow-points are going to come out of the barrel very quickly. The second thing that happens is that you won’t know, see or remember anything that happens ever again, because there’s going to be air where your brains were. I mean that quite literally, Joey. The hydrostatic shock of three hollow-point bullets striking your skull at point-blank range is going to dig a tunnel through your tiny brain and out the back of your skull. Any hope you had of learning to read one day is going to be splashed all over these nice walls, and I just might get some on your friend Seb here.”

  Seb, meanwhile, was on all fours, trying to climb to his feet. Bolan had not merely slapped him. He’d thrown all the power of his body weight behind his slightly cupped hand, nailing Seb on the side of the face right at the “knockout button” where his jaw met his skull. A person could knock someone out that way, if a little more energy was put behind the blow. Bolan had held back a little because he’d wanted to make a point. You couldn’t make a point to somebody who was unconscious.

  Bolan made his point by stomping Seb in the face.

  He used the sole of his foot, not the toe. It wasn’t a kick so much as a grinding of the sole of his shoe on Seb’s face. He felt Seb’s nose go. The crack was audible. Pierce actually winced in sympathy.

  Seb collapsed.

  “Don’t. Stop. This is inappropriate,” Pierce said without inflection. He made no move to interfere.

  Without warning, Bolan punched Joey in the face, breaking his nose, too. He knelt, grabbed Seb by his shirt and dragged him to a standing position.

  Seb squalled and clawed at his gushing nostrils.

  “I’ve got a problem,” Bolan said. “I don’t like bullies.”

  “I’m a grown man, Harmon,” Pierce put in. “I’d hardly call them bullies.”

  “You’re wrong,” Bolan said. “A kid on a playground or a thug throwing around his authority are the same. I don’t like it. Nothing personal, Pierce, but if it wasn’t you, it would be someone else. Joey and Seb here...they’re the kind of people who like to pull the wings off flies.”

  Joey was staggering. He probed his broken nose with one hand. “I’m gonna kill you dead, you son of a—”

  “No, you’re not going to do anything,” Bolan said to Joey. “You’re going to stand there and bleed. You’re going to talk tough. After I’m gone, you and Seb here are going to grumble and whine and fantasize about the terrible revenge you want to take on me. But you’re not going to do anything about it. And you know what else? If you ever speak so much as a word to me again, a single syllable, a damned hello, if you so much as ask me for the time or try to hold a door open or closed for me, I will kill you. I will put a bullet in your brain and watch you fall down dead before your corpse meets the floor. Is that clear?”

  Joey and Seb struggled to look at him then at each other.

  “I said is that clear?” Bolan said in a graveyard voice. “Nod if you understand me!”

  Both mobsters ma
naged to nod.

  Bolan spun on his heel and walked off. Pierce hurried to catch up to him. They walked in silence for a while. Finally he said, “You’re better than this, Pierce.”

  The enforcer made no reply for a moment. They kept walking, passing the occasional mobster. Bolan noted the positions of the guards. He was starting to put together a pretty good map of the Corino estate in his head.

  “I know,” Pierce finally said.

  Bolan stopped walking. He locked eyes with Pierce. “Then why do you stay? Why work for these people? How much innocent blood do you have on your hands, Pierce?”

  “None,” the man replied, defiant. “Anybody I ever took down was somebody from the families, or thugs they hired. I told you. My job was to protect the Corinos from their enemies. I’m not one of these sick bastards who makes his living off the backs of innocent people. There are enough corrupt scumbags to go around. We’re all swimming in it down here, Harmon. Not a one of us has his hands clean, but I got good and dirty taking down people just like me.” He paused as if something had just occurred to him. “And where the hell do you get off telling me what I’m too good for? You’re a hit man! You ever take down somebody innocent, Harmon? Somebody whose only crime was getting on the wrong side of somebody else who had the money to pay your fee?”

  “It’s not like that,” Bolan said. “I do what I have to do, yeah. But I haven’t sold my soul. Not now. Not ever.”

  “I can’t figure you out, Harmon.” Pierce showed Bolan to the garage where the Lincoln was parked. “I can give you a ride to anywhere you need to go. Or I can borrow you one of the rides we keep on hand here.”

  “I was going to rent a car,” Bolan said. “But this would simplify things. I need to go directly to the first stop on my list. After that, I can make arrangements for my own transportation.”