Death List

by Don Pendleton

  It was time to stop messing around. Bolan headed out the doorway, assault rifle at his shoulder. He moved in a gliding heel-toe half crouch, a stable firing platform that minimized his target silhouette but did not sacrifice mobility. Moving in and out of the furniture barricades, he fired, again and again, taking out mobsters or putting rounds through men who were wounded but still able to fight.

  When he had reached the end of the room, he ejected the magazine from his assault rifle and slapped in a fresh one. The next corridor led to the study and to the Corinos’ inner sanctum.

  The Executioner proceeded down the hallway unchallenged and finally reached the study. Drawing his Desert Eagle from its Kydex holster, he held the weapon up and ready. The door was unlocked and it opened easily.

  Aldo Corino was seated in a chair next to his wife. The family patriarch looked like a diseased vulture. He stared up at Bolan. “You.”

  “Right the first time.”

  “You’ve ruined everything,” Rosa said. “The families are in chaos. The syndicate blames us for the damage done to our collective power. And it’s all because of you.”

  “You’ve left us...with nothing,” Aldo wheezed. “You’ve...destroyed us.”

  “That’s the general idea.” Bolan glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m going to take you both in. Assume the position against that wall. I’m going to search you and I’m going to cuff you. Then you’re going for a ride.”

  “Who are you, Cooper?”

  “No one special. Just someone who believes in justice. You’ve spent years preying on people, taking whatever you wanted with violence and cruelty. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re not going to do that anymore. This is the end of the road for you both. Now get up.”

  “No,” the old mobster stated calmly.

  “Aldo,” Rosa said, “I take back what I said. It wasn’t silly. Show him. Show him that he can’t do this to us.”

  With renewed vigor, the Don stood. He made a show of taking the handheld detonator, wired to his vest, from the pocket of the robe he wore. He held it out for Bolan to see and pressed down on the switch.

  Bolan looked at his watch again.

  “Goodbye, Rosie,” Aldo said.

  “Goodbye, Aldo.”

  Corino released the dead man’s switch.

  Nothing happened.

  “During Iraq and Afghanistan,” Bolan said, “our military developed a counter IED device. It’s a vehicle-mounted jammer called the Counter Radio Controlled Improvised Explosive Device Electronic Warfare System, or CREWS. News of its existence hit the internet and its news sites a few years back. I’ve got one in the Hummer parked in your garage. You won’t be setting off any explosives from that vest while I’m here.”

  “Damn you,” Aldo Corino said through clenched teeth.

  “No,” the Executioner stated coldly, “damn you.” With that, he turned and left them.

  It was a long walk all the way back to the garage. It took well over five minutes. Thanks to the CREWS system in his vehicle, however, he was in no danger. He pictured the Corinos, sitting in their study, mulling over their fates. They were probably confused as to why he’d simply left them alone. Were they relieved? Perplexed? Resigned to their fates? There was no way to know. They probably thought that his jammer had prevented the dead man’s switch from working. They had no way to know that, per Pierce’s description of the vest’s true function, the signal to detonate would already be switched on by now. The CREWS was the only thing preventing the vest from going off.

  Bolan reached the garage and climbed back into his idling vehicle. He’d left the garage door open, but the fumes in the enclosed space were still pretty thick, so he wasted no time pulling out.

  Then he reached out and switched off the CREWS system.

  The explosion, even all the way at the other end of the estate, was very loud.

  Epilogue

  Grant Park, Chicago

  The Chicago skyline was to Bolan’s back as he entered the vast brick plaza surrounding Buckingham Fountain. It was times like this, Bolan realized, that he was reminded of just how beautiful the Windy City could be. There had been a lot of blood in the streets of Chicago, and a lot of pain through the years. He had taken many lives here. But the city endured, as did its people.

  A beautiful day was sliding into night as twilight encroached. Bolan breathed the cool air and strode toward the figure waiting near the massive rococo fountain. Inspired by a fountain at the Palace of Versailles, the Buckingham represented Lake Michigan. In the evening, there were seasonal colored-light displays.

  “They say Grant Park is the city’s front lawn,” Hal Brognola said, staring at the fountain. He was chewing gum. “That makes the fountain Chicago’s front door. It’s been here since 1927.”

  “I see you’ve read the pamphlet.”

  Without looking at Bolan, Brognola said, “Some job you did here, Striker. Some job all the way through. The Man extends his regards. He’s very pleased.”

  “I’m pleased he’s pleased.”

  “Except you’re not. You’d do your job whether you loved or hated the folks in Wonderland.”

  “True enough,” Bolan said. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “You could.”

  They watched the fountain in silence for a while. Finally, Bolan asked, “So what did you come all this way to say, Hal? I could have met you in Wonderland on my way back to the Farm.”

  “Oh, I was already here. I just wanted to meet up with you to suggest you take a few days off. This last mission must have taken a toll. You need some downtime. I don’t want you burning out. You might as well stay here for a few days.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to spend my downtime at the Farm.”

  Brognola considered that for a moment. “Sure. I know Barb will be happy to see you.”

  “So where do we stand, Hal? Mission-wise, I mean.”

  “Everything’s coming up roses. They’re still scraping what’s left of Aldo and Rosa Corino out of the cinders that used to be their estate. Not everyone left got off so easily, though. Justice has served warrants on all properties owned by Veldt Security. The owner is apparently singing pretty loudly in the hopes of securing a deal. He’s not going to get one. Not one that keeps him out of prison for a very long time, anyway.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer outfit.”

  “Given that you managed to save the Mexican ambassador in the bargain when you rescued a United States congressman,” Brognola went on, “we’re enjoying some improved relations with our neighbor to the south. I think that was one of the reasons the Man was so pleased. He has a conference there this weekend. You’ve built up a lot of goodwill capital for him. And it never hurts to remove from multiple Most Wanted lists a professional, shadowy international assassin. He’ll never see the light of day again. I’ve got confirmation that he’s safely locked up. No more prison breaks for our boy. Officially, he’s deceased, which means if he’s got any friends left out there, they won’t come looking for him. And Harmon’s ‘death’ has bought US intelligence a lot of street cred, as the kids say.”

  “I aim to please,” Bolan told him. “And I don’t know anyone who says that. So why else are you here?”

  “Believe it or not, I had other business here in Chicago besides telling you to take a vacation,” he admitted. “I actually had to come to Chicago to meet with various federal agencies. We’re cutting up the Corinos’ assets, seizing what was theirs and bringing it under government control. There are some other diplomatic issues to sort out. The usual interagency, departmental stuff. You’ve left quite a power vacuum here in Chicago. We’re going to try to manage it from the ground floor, stay on top of whomever steps in to take over. If anyone.”

  “Whoever tries will be working wi
th considerably less power than the Corinos.”

  “That’s true. You’ve dealt what’s left of the syndicate a powerful blow. I wonder how they’d feel if they knew that the same man was responsible, yet again, for shattering the Mob’s grip on an American city.”

  Bolan chuckled. “Let’s not get any crazy ideas.”

  “Isn’t that my line? Speaking of which, Striker, you’ve got me dispensing funds to half the country. Did you buy an interest in a brewery?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “This last one, though...” the big Fed grumbled. “Why are my black bag funds providing the down payment on a guitar shop in New Hampshire?”

  “Repaying someone who helped me succeed on the mission. New Hampshire seems nice, doesn’t it? I hear there’s no state sales tax.”

  “I’m not sure that’s right. But regardless—a guitar shop?”

  “Trust me. You can take it out of my combat pay,” Bolan said dryly. “I must have enough accrued to buy my own aircraft carrier.”

  “All right, all right. Point taken. But let’s not get in the habit of expensing weird investments, all right? I seem to recall a bill I had to shell out for an ice-cream truck once.”

  “That was only partly my fault,” Bolan told him.

  “That’s not how I remember it.”

  Brognola turned to make eye contact with Bolan and offered his hand. The soldier shook it.

  “Be safe, Hal.”

  “In that snake pit we call Washington?” Brognola replied. “Not likely. But these days I don’t take too much incoming fire that isn’t rhetorical. You be safe, too. And do what I told you. Take a vacation.”

  “For a little while. You know me, Hal. I’ve got work to do. I can’t stay away long. There will always be predators. They need to be dealt with.”

  “I know, Striker. I know.”

  Bolan left the fountain and Brognola soon followed.

  As long as his country needed Mack Bolan, he’d be there, fighting for her.

  For as long as it took, no matter what it required.

  He could wear other masks, he could take on other roles, and he could help in other ways...but he would always be the Executioner.

  * * * * *

  ISBN-13: 9781460399170

  Death List

  Copyright © 2017 by Worldwide Library

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