Detroit Deathwatch

by Don Pendleton

  “They’ve got him on the make list here in Detroit.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He’s staked out.”

  Turrin groaned.

  Bolan said, “Don’t worry about it. They’re being very soft. Enough so that I believe I can slip through without a fuss.”

  “Watch yourself. Don’t believe everything you may have read about cops in Detroit. They’re tough cookies, and they crumble with great difficulty.”

  “Yeah,” Bolan agreed. “I got that reading. Well, my numbers are falling. Be dark soon. You’re staying at Damio’s all night?”

  “Right, and don’t ring off yet. I’ve got some intel for you. Something’s not exactly on key here in mobtown. Charley Fever is beating the drums and getting all the old guard out to that joint you hit last night. I get the feeling that he’s taking over. That’s quite a step for a guy like Charley. I mean—he’s plenty tough, sure. Right now he’s walking around with a hole in his shoulder you could fish through. But he’s never been anything more than a reliable gun hand—I guess you know that. He’s coming on as the strong man now, though, and the old bosses are listening to him.”

  “So they’re mobbing up at the hardsite?”

  “Yeah. But just the old guard. This could be the crack we’ve been looking for all these years. Detroit has always been a very solid town, you know. I mean, no family intrigues. Well, here’s the interesting part. I told you the old men back east were sending in head parties. That’s about a dozen of them in town now, from almost any point you want to name. I get it now that there has been a fissure brewing here, just beneath the surface, for some time. Detroit never really stood close to the nationals, you know that. Apparently this has been due mainly to the influence of Crazy Sal. Well, now Sal is dead and—”

  “He didn’t make it, then?”

  “Figured you knew. No. He died about noon today. Anyway, with Sal out of the picture, I believe the old men from the east hope to swing Detroit closer into the fold. Now Charley Fever, as I understand it, is rallying the old guard. The others have been very discreetly advised by La Commissione to stand clear of Charley Fever. Let him take the Bolan heat, they’re saying. We’re sending you guns to keep you insulated. Sit tight. And let Charley Fever worry about Mack Bolan.”

  Bolan grunted. “I could have written that script.”

  “Yeah. Well, it’s a good one, from our point of view. You did some good work out there last night, Sarge, and Brognola wants you to know that he’s well aware of it. It shook them good and embarrassed a lot of their traveling companions. Nobody got booked out there last night, but a hell of a lot of interesting names got added to the make lists. Now the whole Combination is jittery as hell. Hal would sure like it better, though, if you could just forget you ever heard of Butch Cassidy. I’m sorry I even mentioned the name.”

  “You didn’t have to, Leo. And I can’t forget it. It’s a personal matter. I’ll walk as softly as possible, but I have to make that guy.”

  Turrin sighed. “Then we’ll consider him made. Talk to the guy if you feel like you must, but I got a personal message for you from myself.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “End it there. Talk to Butch Cassidy, find out whatever it is you think you have to know. Then fade. Quick. Go somewhere far and quiet, and lay for a while. This is between buddies. As you are standing there right now, Sarge, you’re a dead man. You’re dead. Unless you get out of this town quick. Now they’re up for you. All of them. Both sides of the street. The cops are at full mobe, riot units and all. By sundown they’ll have roving patrols—you could call them destroyer forces—just prowling the streets and poised for a quick response. They have armored vehicles, massive firepower, gas, gadgets, the whole bit. Besides that, a special force of U.S. marshals hit town about an hour ago—every one of them an expert marksman and they’re packing big rifles.”

  “I know about all that,” Bolan commented wearily. “Thanks anyway.”

  “That’s just one side. The other is just as bad. The cream of the country’s streets have packed this town, and they’re all heavy guns. I’m at Damio’s, and holding. Buffalo is over at Thomasetta’s. Three New York crews are brooding over—”

  “Save it, Leo. I know.”

  “You save it. Get out.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Damn it, why not? What’s so damned urgent?”

  “I told you. Personal.”

  “Graves are very impersonal, Sarge. What do you want engraved on your marker? ‘Here lies Mack Bolan’s war’? Over some personal vendetta?”

  “It’s no vendetta. It’s an onus.”

  “A what?

  “Forget it. I’ll fade as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t hit that joint out there again.”

  “The yacht club?”

  “That’s the one. They’re expecting you back. Charley is stacking the joint with every gun he can command. It won’t be as soft as it was last night.”

  “Who says it was soft last night?” Bolan muttered.

  “Okay, call it piss hard for tonight. And stay away.”

  “I plan to.”

  “Okay. Hey. Don’t get down on Hal. Hell, he’s got high rankers crawling all over him.”

  “I know that,” Bolan said. He sighed. “Brognola’s a good man. Give him my best. But no apologies. I do what I have to do, Leo.”

  “Sure. Stay hard, man.”

  “You, too.”

  Bolan hung up, gazed coolly at the police vehicle parked alongside the booth, then thumbed in another dime. It was time to activate his auxiliary.

  Her voice came on the line cool and calm. “Yes?”

  “It’s the guy,” he told her. “You’ll find keys in the coffee can. They fit a gray EconoLine van parked below, slot G-12. Pick me up at the corner of Kelly and Morang. Twenty minutes.”

  “Wait. Where’s that? Approximately.”

  “East on Eight Mile to Kelly. That’s just beyond Gratiot. South to Morang.”

  “Got it. Do you need the stuff in the other car?”

  “I transferred it this morning.”

  “Oh, okay. Anything else?”

  “Just be there.”

  “Try and keep me away,” she replied breathlessly.

  He hung up and watched the setting sun for a moment, then returned to the vehicle.

  Sunrise, sunset. Birth, death. Man, woman. Person, cosmos. Yeah.

  He lit a cigarette and put the car in motion.

  All the numbers were in. The onus was in the saddle and riding Bolan. And the death image ever Detroit was settling in for the night watch.

  18: RIDDEN

  Emerson had once observed, “Things are in the saddle, and ride mankind.”

  Bolan would not argue with a man so wise. He’d had the same feeling himself, many times.

  He was already twelve hours beyond his deadline for leaving this town. The plan had been the usual—hit and git. Before the opposition could rally itself. Before the cops could gear up. Before the whirlpool of uncontrollable events could suck a guy into his grave.

  Bolan’s cosmic contempt was for death—not for life. He respected life and her myriad involvements. He was not exactly in love with the one he’d lived for the past few eternities—no man could truly enjoy a trip down blood river. Bolan certainly did not. But it was the only trip open to him now, his only apparent reason to go on living. And Mack Bolan certainly respected life enough to go on living, for as long as the grim game could be continued.

  Sure, things were in the saddle. And they rode Bolan.

  He had scouted this town with all the expertise at his disposal. He had read the enemy, counted them, sectored them. Then he’d hit them where he thought the hitting would yield the best results. There had been no grand dream of obliterating the enemy from this landscape. Bolan was a realist. He did not rely on miracles. He knew that a one-man army had its limitations. Given enough time, sure, a guy who knew his business could eventually put
the Detroit mob out of business. That was the hooker, though. There was not that much time on earth left at Bolan’s disposal—certainly not that much time left in Detroit. His whole success thus far had been built upon commando tactics. Invade the enemy with great force, raise all the hell possible, then withdraw—and all of it to the cadence count, on tight numbers, moving swiftly and never letting down until withdrawal was complete. Any deviation from that timetable could be disastrous.

  The strike at Detroit had been carefully planned along those very lines. The timing could not have been better. He’d caught them mobbed into a business conference, and he’d struck them there. He’d sent them in squalling and disorganized retreat, and he’d served notice on their “friends” that doing business with the mob could be hazardous. Also, he would have brought their damned hardsite down and left the rubble for them to contemplate—and the Detroit hit would have been worth it for that alone. Their God-complex would have been shaken, if nothing else.

  But, sure, things were in the saddle at Detroit.

  Here sat the commando force, twelve hours off its numbers, completely derailed from the original mission, contemplating the end of the game.

  Leo Turrin had not been exaggerating the situation. Bolan’s recon had yielded the same intelligence. Death was watching him. And all he could do was watch her back.

  Well … not quite. He was still on the offensive. The game had changed a bit, sure, but the enemy was still the enemy, and Bolan was still Bolan—and he had not been ridden beneath the waves of blood river yet.

  The dictates of an impersonal war had yielded to a strongly personal responsibility. Okay, call it by its true name: duty. Bolan had a duty to perform for a couple of daughters of Eve—and, in the face of that duty, he could gaze back at Death and spit in her eye.

  Could, hell.

  He had to.

  Any other course of action or inaction would amount to nothing more than a contempt for life.

  Things were always in the saddle. The ride had something to do with that same cosmic magic that Bolan had contemplated an eternity or so ago with Toby Ranger in his arms. A guy could honor the ride—and gallop off into his own destiny—or he could try to throw the rider and slink back to a safe stable.

  Eugene O’Neill once had a very similar thought. “Contentment is a warm sty for eaters and sleepers.”

  It had been a long time since Mack Bolan had known contentment. He did not seek it now.

  He would ride the good ride, wherever it might lead.

  Let Death watch.

  The Executioner was saddled and ready.

  “Pete’s sake!” Toby exclaimed. “This blooming truck is a rolling arsenal.”

  “Right, and she’s going along for the ride,” Bolan replied. “I want you to use the vehicle I came in. It’s hot, so be careful.”

  “Great,” she said. “With everything else, all I need now is to get caught with a stolen car.”

  “Worse,” he said, smiling. “It’s a police car. And they’re onto me. So stay off the radio. I believe they’re rolling around with direction finders.”

  Toby’s eyes were wide, wondering. “You are the damnedest …”

  Bolan laughed softly and told her, “I want you to run a little diversion for me.” He pulled her into the van section and placed her in front of a large city map that was taped to the wall. His finger traced the line marking the division between Wayne and Macomb Counties at the northern boundary of Grosse Pointe Woods, then circled a specific point.

  “That’s where?” she asked.

  “That’s where. This street, this block.”

  “What is that?”

  He said quietly, “Look again.”

  “Well, it’s just …” Her breath drew in sharply. “What are those red numbers? The house numbering system?”

  “Right.”

  She said, “Fourteen-ninety.”

  “Uh huh. And the house we’re interested in carries the number 1492. Second house on the right, running north.”

  “Well, I’ll be …”

  Bolan said, “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “I figured the number had to do with—it couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?”

  He sighed and squeezed her shoulders. “I decided a long time ago, Toby. There’s no such thing as coincidence in this magic-ridden old world. The man who lives at 1492 is, I think, our key to Georgette. I need to get in there and find out for sure.”

  “He’s home now?”

  Bolan nodded. “Holed up is the word. Hasn’t budged out of there all day.”

  “So what are we waiting for?”

  “The house is staked out. Two cars. One just north and across from the house, another around the corner and down the side street about a half-block east.”

  Toby was squinting at the map in the semidarkness.

  Bolan flipped on a battery-powered lantern.

  She said, “Okay, I see it. What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to drive that hot car in there.”

  “Oh, wow. Right up to the house, eh?”

  “Yeah. But do it cute. Tie something about your head so that blonde hair doesn’t show. Don’t give them a good look at you. Turn off your headlamps as you’re approaching, and leave them off. Roll quietly into the driveway and just sit there.”

  “What kind of driveway?”

  “Crescent, about fifty feet long, circling in off the road.”

  She sighed. “Roll in and just sit there.”

  “Right.”

  “How long?”

  “Long enough to get me quietly inside.” He tapped the map. “I’ll be coming in from back here. I’ll leave the war wagon here and go on by foot. From the time you turn onto that street, I’ll need about two minutes. So you’ve got to cute it for at least that long.”

  “Okay. I can do that. You want me to roll in past the side street stake-out.”

  “Right. I want them both to see you.”

  “You want them to catch me.”

  He squeezed her shoulders again. “I don’t want them to shoot you, Toby. When they begin closing, the game is up. There’s an element of risk. This is a Mad Dog alert.”

  “Yes, I know,” she murmured.

  “When they close, call out to them. Let them have a good look at you. From then on, it’s your game. I guess you know the best way to play it.”

  “Sure,” she said, still staring at the map.

  He said, “Okay. Let’s move.”

  “Mack …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you believe there’s any chance that Georgette—that she—could she be in that house, alive?”

  He told her, “The world is full of magic, Toby.”

  “Yes, I—okay, let’s go.”

  She whirled and grabbed him, arms encircling his neck, lips at his ear. “Stay alive,” she whispered.

  “Name of the game,” he muttered lightly.

  “If Georgette is already lost—if she’s—it’s not a smart trade, Captain Cocky. Don’t bury yourself in her grave.”

  “Who’s cocky?” he quietly replied. “If you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”

  “It’s a long shot, isn’t it.”

  “In this game, Toby, they all are. You know that.”

  “Sure. Sure. Well …”

  He sighed and asked her, “You’re not still dreaming of green pastures?”

  She shivered, “Why not? I still belong to the human race.”

  “Right,” he said. “That’s why we have to get moving, Toby.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” She released him, swiped angrily at moist cheeks, and stepped outside.

  Night had fallen. The atmosphere was still, oppressive, brooding.

  Bolan followed her out, and they synchronized watches, all taut business once again. “Follow me to the neighborhood,” he instructed her. “Stay about a block behind, but keep me in sight. I’ll start my move two blocks west of target. You go it alone from that point, and you
hit that drive precisely on the hour.”

  “Will do,” she murmured. Then: “How and where do we rejoin?”

  He said, “You kidding? You expect to talk your way clear?”

  She said, “They have to catch me first.”

  Bolan stepped back and growled, “It’s scrubbed.”

  “Oh, damn it! Down, Captain Gruff. I won’t do anything dumb. But don’t underestimate the jaw power of a lady fed. Now, where do we rejoin?”

  He told her, in a flat and level tone, “Toby, it’s a Mad Dog. Don’t give them any reason whatever to start jerking triggers.”

  “How about the apartment? Okay?”

  She was giving him the winsome smile, working him—and he knew it. He bunched his shoulders, growled something unintelligible, then said, “Okay. It’s your game, too, Toby. The apartment’s okay. Just don’t bring a flock of badges with you.”

  “Just get yourself back there,” she growled in the same harsh tone.

  He lifted her off her feet, very solemnly kissed her, put her down, spun her around, and sent her off with a gentle slap on the bottom.

  Then he climbed into the war wagon and went rolling into the jungle. It was a human jungle, the worst kind of all, filled with cannibals and head-hunters of every stripe and persuasion, patrolled by game wardens with ready guns who knew all the drops and preserves and poachers—and, yeah, at such times even Mack Bolan gave a thought or two to greener pastures.

  But, he knew, green pastures were for the dead.

  Warm sties and safe stables were no place to live the worthy life. There was no cosmic sprawl in such places, no magic worth pursuing.

  Bolan’s destiny lay in that uncertain sprawl that some men called hell. Bolan called it life. And he would live it, to the final gasp.

  19: BAGGED

  “Lee!”

  “Yeah.”

  “A slow roller, coming west. Wait … yeah. Can’t make the occupant but … it’s a loner. The car looks … whup! Hang on! That’s our bogey!”

  “Okay, sit tight! Hold station!”

  “Right! Passing me now. Still can’t make—but that’s it, that’s our car!”

  “Okay. I have him in sight. What’s he doing?”