War Against the Mafia

by Don Pendleton

  War Against the Mafia

  The Executioner, Book One

  Don Pendleton

  The courage we desire and prize

  is not the courage to die decently,

  but to live manfully.

  —THOMAS CARLYLE

  God will not look you over for

  medals, degrees or diplomas, but

  for scars.

  —ELBERT HUBBARD

  You say that a good cause will

  even sanctify war! I tell you,

  it is the good war that sanctifies every cause!

  —FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

  I AM NOT THEIR JUDGE. I AM THEIR JUDGMENT. I AM THEIR EXECUTIONER.

  —MACK BOLAN

  PROLOGUE

  Mack Bolan was not born to kill, as many of his comrades and superiors secretly believed. He was not a mechanically functioning killer-robot, as his sniper-team partners openly proclaimed. He was not even a cold-blooded and ruthless exterminator, as one leftist news correspondent tagged him. Mack was simply a man who could command himself. He was the personification of that ideal advanced by the army psychologist who screened and evaluated sniper-team candidates: “A good sniper has to be a man who can kill methodically, unemotionally, and personally. Personally because it’s an entirely different ball game when you can see even the color of your victim’s eyes through the magnification of a sniper-scope, when you can see the look of surprise and fear when he realizes he’s been shot. Most any good soldier can be a successful sniper once—it’s the second or third time around, when the memories of personal killing are edged into the conscience, that the ‘soldiers’ are separated from the ‘executioners.’ Killing in this manner is closely akin to murder in the conscience of many men. Of course, we do not want mad dogs in this program, either. What we want, quite simply, is a man who can distinguish between murder and duty, and who can realize that a duty killing is not an act of murder. A man who is also cool and calm when he himself is in jeopardy completes the picture of our sniper ideal.”

  Sergeant Mack Bolan was obviously such a man. A weapons specialist and skilled armorer, he also held marksman awards in every personal-weapon category. The sarge did not keep a personal record of his “kills,” but the official accounting shows a verified total of 32 high-ranking officers of the North Vietnamese Regulars, including General Ngo An; 46 Viet Cong guerrilla leaders, and 17 VC village officials. This account of a typical sniping mission was recorded in a report filed by Sergeant Bolan’s spotter, Corporal T. L. Minnegas, covering their final mission together:

  Team arrived vicinity of Station B at 0435 hours. Pvt. Thomas and Pvt. Yancey reconned and reported back “all-clear” at 0450 hours. Station B manned at 0500 hours and equipment set up. At 0630 hours village began to stir. VC recon party arrived at 0642 and checked out the village. At 0650 Tra Huong and escort arrived outside chiefs house. Chief and unknown male came out to greet Huong party. Targets confirmed with Sgt. Bolan and RVNM guide. Sgt. Bolan’s first round got Tra Huong (through the neck). Round two was through right temple of village chief, round three through back of Col. Huong’s aide (unidentified). Departed Station B at approx. 0652 hours, all objectives accomplished. Arrived Base Camp at 0940 hours. No casualties Sniper Team Able.

  Vietnam represented a new type of warfare for the American soldier. Many grim “specialties” were developed there by American youth. And perhaps none more grim nor more specialized than the one personified in Sergeant Mack Bolan. Bolan had been a career soldier. At age 30 he was a 12-year veteran and on his second Vietnam tour. He had never married. His mother, Elsa, a youthful 47-year-old second-generation Polish-American, wrote him faithfully on Tuesdays and Fridays of each week and sent him a “care” package twice monthly, each one filled with tangy Polish sausages, cookies, and a small cake or two. Her letters were always cheerful and uncomplaining, and she often enclosed snapshots of Cindy, Mack’s pretty 17-year-old sister, and of Johnny, the kid brother just turned 14. Sam Bolan, Mack’s father, had been a steelworker since the age of 16. Mack always thought of Sam Bolan as being as dependable and as indestructible as the steel he made, and though Mack and Sam never corresponded directly, the letters between mother and son bore frequent messages between the Bolan men.

  From one of Elsa’s letters, for example: “Pop wants to know if it’s true what they say about Asian women. Ha!”

  And the reply from Mack: “Tell Pop there are a lot of truths about Asian women and I’m diligently seeking the full story. A-ha!”

  Cindy Bolan, at the time of the tragedy, had only recently graduated from high school. Her big brother represented her ideal of masculine perfection. She wrote him each night, continuing the letter diary-fashion and mailing it weekly, often confiding her secret fears and problems in the rambling letters. Example: “Mary Ann keeps trying to talk me into going to a pot party with her. Have you ever smoked pot? I hear it is used widely over there.”

  Counselor Mack’s reply from across the sea was: “With friends like Mary Ann, you don’t have much need of enemies, do you. As for myself, I have plenty enemies enough over here without adding pot to the list.”

  In another exchange, Cindy remarked: “It’s always a problem. I mean, you know, how much is too much? I never had that problem with Steve, but Chuck keeps me shook up all the time. I mean, he has a hands problem. Know what I mean? I’m crazy about him but I don’t know just how to handle this problem of his.”

  The responding counsel from her brother was typical. “Chuck doesn’t have the problem, honey,” he wrote. “You have it. You know how to handle it if you really want to handle it. Right?”

  Cindy’s reply to that also typified these personal exchanges between brother and sister: “Oh, by the way, no more Chuck problem. How did I handle it? No more Chuck!!!”

  In a letter from Mrs. Bolan dated in late spring, she told her son: “Now that the worst is past I suppose I should tell you that Pop has been having a bit of a rough time. He had a light heart attack in January, and the doctor would not let him work for a while. We pinched pennies and got through okay on the sickness benefits and Pop is back to work now and everything looks bright. Of course a few bills piled up but we’ll catch up okay. Cindy had already decided to work a year before starting college, and I guess that’s what bothered Pop the most—Cindy’s education. He has always felt bad about not seeing you through college, you know. But—all is well now so there’s nothing for you to worry about. And you are not to send any money home. Pop would have a fit!”

  On the following August 12th, Sergeant Bolan was summoned to his base camp chaplain’s office, where he learned of his father’s death. And of his mother’s. And of his sister’s. The official communiqué also advised that young Johnny Bolan was in critical condition but was expected to survive. Bolan was air-lifted home on emergency leave to handle funeral arrangements and to see to the care of his orphaned brother.

  It was a sad and traumatic home-coming for this professional soldier. The trauma was deepened when Sergeant Bolan learned the circumstances of the deaths from the homicide detective who met him at the airport. The elder Bolan had evidently “gone berserk” and, without apparent provocation, had shot his wife, son, and daughter, finally turning the gun on himself. Only the son survived.

  It was another 48 hours before young Johnny Bolan was removed from the hospital’s critical list and the grieving soldier could fully piece together the events leading to the tragedy. Johnny’s statement to a police stenographer, delivered from a hospital bed, reads as follows:

  Pop had been sick and couldn’t work for a while. He got behind in some bills and he was worried about some money he borrowed about a year ago. Then he went back to work and he could not do the job he had been doi
ng, because of his heart, and the job they gave him did not pay as much. He was worried about that, because of the bills and being behind, and then these guys were starting to bother him at work. These guys he owed some money to. I heard him tell Mama one night that they were blood-suckers, that they didn’t even want to leave him enough every week to take care of his family. He said they could all go to hell. Then one night he came home with his arm pulled out of the socket. His shoulder, I mean. These goons had worked him over. Mama got all tore up over that. She was scared he would have another heart attack. She was going to call the cops but Pop wouldn’t let her. He said they’d just start taking it out on her and the kids. I heard Mama telling Cindy about it. Then things got okay again, a few weeks ago. Pop couldn’t understand, but he was telling Mama these goons had been leaving him alone, and he sure wasn’t going to go ask them why. Then the other night something happened. I don’t know what. I just know Pop started yelling and blowing his stack. Mama and Cindy were trying to quiet him down, they were afraid he’d have another attack. Then next thing I knew he had this old gun of his and he was blasting away with it. One of the shots got me. Then Pop went back in his bedroom and I heard one more shot just before I passed out. That’s all I know.

  It was “all” Johnny knew for the official police record, and the statement was sufficient to close the case as “murder-suicide.” For Sergeant Mack Bolan, however, the case was anything but closed. Johnny had no desire to withhold anything from his brother, and in a private conversation with Mack, he confided that Cindy had become involved with the “goons” who had been pressuring their father.

  “She went to see these guys,” Johnny said, “and told them about Pop’s heart and asked them to lay off’f him. She told me about that. What she didn’t tell me was about this later deal she let them talk her into. At first she was just turning her paycheck over to them every week. She was only getting thirty-five a week, and that was supposed to be going in the bank for her college, you know. Then I found out what she’d started doing for them. She started working for those guys, Mack. She was—sellin’ her ass. Don’t look at me like that, she was. I followed her one night and I found out for myself. I knew something was bothering her. I wasn’t trying to spy on her, I just wanted to know what was wrong. Well, I caught her. I followed her to this motel, and I hung around outside. I saw this guy go in. After he left, I busted in. The door wasn’t even locked. Cindy was on the bed, bare-assed and crying. She about died when she saw me. She said she had to get that money paid back quick, or they’d go to work on Pop again. She said they gave her a month, just one month, to cough up five hundred bucks, and they told her how she could earn the money. They set the whole thing up, and sent this guy she called Leo around to talk to her. Leo set up dates for her. He’d call her and tell her the time and the place. She had just finished her third ‘date’ when I caught her. I told her it was no good, that Pop wouldn’t want it that way. She said it wasn’t a matter of what Pop wanted or didn’t want, it was just a matter of what had to be done. Well, I couldn’t get anywhere with her. So I did a dumb thing. All I could think of was telling Pop. I knew he’d straighten Cindy out. I mean, I knew he wouldn’t hold still for what she was doing. God, Mack, I didn’t think he’d go nuts. And he did. He went completely ape. Right off the bat he busted me in the mouth. Knocked me flat. I saw stars. I was layin’ there on the floor and he was yelling and jumping around like something gone crazy. You know what I think? I think he must’ve had some idea that something funny had been going on. I mean, the look in his eyes when I told him. Like the light dawning, you know. Just the same, I never saw him like that before. He reached down and got ahold of me again and he was slapping me with his open hand and yelling, ‘Tell me you’re lying, tell me you’re lying!’

  “Then Cindy came running in. She was trying to pull Pop offa me, and both of them were yelling and screaming. Pop let go of me finally and I don’t really know what they were saying to each other, except Pop kept muttering, ‘It’s a lie, it’s a lie’—and Cindy was trying to explain that it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t that important. Oh yeah—she told him she’d sell her soul if that’s what it took, that he meant more to her than any lousy phoney morality—and I think that’s what really touched him off. He got real quiet then, and then Mama came running in. That’s how fast all this happened. Mama had been in the bedroom asleep, and you know how light she sleeps. By the time she got awake and could get in there, all the shouting had ended.

  “She and Cindy started trying to fix my mouth, trying to stop the bleeding. Pop was standing in a corner, his arms folded across his chest, and he was just looking at us. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face, Mack. I remember he said something silly, real silly, in that quiet way he had of talking sometimes, you remember? The sort of meditating voice? He said, ‘Cindy, I want you to get an education, honey.’ I don’t think Cindy heard him. She was trying to get some ice out of a tray, to put on my lip, I guess. Anyhow she didn’t say anything back to him. He walked out of the room, back toward his bedroom. Next thing I knew, Pop was back, standing in the doorway. He had that old pistol in his hand, that old Smith and Wesson Uncle Billy gave him. I tried to yell something, but I didn’t get a chance. Mama and Cindy were both mother-henning me, hovering over me. He shot me first. I actually saw him pull the trigger, I mean I saw his finger moving. Then it was like the world coming to an end. He just kept on pulling that trigger. I saw Mama and Cindy go down and still he kept shooting. He stood there staring at me after the gun was empty, just staring at me. Mama and Cindy were laying across me and one of Mama’s arms was on my head. I was peeping at him around Mama’s body. It was like he didn’t even know Mama and Cindy were there, like it was just me’n him. He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘I’m sorry I busted your lip, John-O.’ Then he just turned around and went back out, back toward the bedroom. Coupla minutes later I heard another shot. Then somebody started banging on the front door and I passed out.”

  Mack Bolan’s only comment to his brother’s emotional story was a hushed, “Son of a bitch.” This entry from the diary, however, dated August 16th, is more revelatory of his reaction to the triple tragedy:

  “Cindy did only what she thought had to be done. In his own mixed-up way, I guess Pop did the same. Can I do any less?”

  And on August 17th, Bolan wrote: “It looks like I have been fighting the wrong enemy. Why defend a front line 8,000 miles away when the real enemy is chewing up everything you love back home? I have talked to the police about this situation and they seem to be helpless to do anything. The problem, as I see it, is that the rules of warfare are all rigged against the cops. Just knowing the enemy isn’t enough. They have to prove he’s the enemy, and even then sometimes he slips away from them. What is needed here is a bit of direct action, strategically planned, and to hell with the rules. Over in ’Nam we called it a ‘war of attrition.’ Seek out and destroy. Exterminate the enemy. I guess it’s time a war was declared on the home front. The same kind of war we’ve been fighting at ’Nam. The very same kind.”

  On August 18th a sportsman’s shop in pittsfield was burglarized. The owner reported that a high-powered hunting rifle, a deluxe scope, some targets, and several boxes of ammunition had been taken. An envelope of money sufficient to cover the loss had been left on the cash register. “It was just a midnight sale with no salesman present,” the shopkeeper told police. “Evidently nothing else was disturbed and, from my standpoint, no crime has been committed.”

  On August 19th the watchman at a deserted stone quarry several miles from Pittsfield investigated the sounds of gunfire in one of the back canyons of the quarry. “I didn’t go all the way down in there to talk to the guy,” the watchman later reported. “He wasn’t hurting anything or anybody. He’d set up this target range and he was plunkin’ shots into the target from about a hundred yards out. Some sort of high-power rifle, sounded stronger’n a .30-06 but you know those rock walls build up sound, so I co
uldn’t really say. I watched him for a little while. It looked like he was doing something to the gun every now’n then, you know, adjusting it or something. He’d fire five rounds, then fiddle with the gun, five more rounds, then fiddle some more. Must’ve been out there a couple hours, but I didn’t go down in there to say anything to him. It’s a perfect place for target practice. He wasn’t hurting nothing. I get in some pistol practice around here myself. What’s there to hurt?”

  Another entry from Bolan’s diary, dated August 19th, reads:

  “The Marlin really surprised me I had never used a .444 before. I’d guess the muzzle energy at about a ton and a half. Enough there, anyhow, to bring down a grizzly. I should not have any trouble with the rats I have in mind. I sighted it in at a hundred, a hundred and ten, and a hundred and twenty yards, and the corrections are calibrated onto the scope. No sweat. I softened the lever action some, little too much tension there for the rapid-fire I need. I am going up to the drop tomorrow and verify the range, though, using the scope. I want no error.”

  On August 21st, Bolan wrote:

  “Okay, I have located and identified the first bunch and I am ready. The police lieutenant told me all about TIF. That is Triangle Industrial Finance. They’re a licensed loan outfit okay, but they use loan shark tactics and they’ve found a way to gimmick the law and get their rates up sky-high. The law can’t touch them—but The Executioner can. My recon is complete and target identification is positive. Laurenti is the wheel, the OIC of the local setup. Every night at 1750 hours his car is parked at the curb in front by the man called Mister Erwin. The other Mister is a troop called Janus—Mister Janus. Must be some kind of a joke. The only ones they call ‘Mister’ are the ones with side-arms. They wear them in shoulder holsters. The one who looks like a salesman is named Brokaw. I believe he runs the office details. The college-boy type is Pete Rodriguez. He’s an accountant, and as big a louse as any of them. The five of them leave the office at 1800 hours every night, give or take a minute or two, and go out to their substations to pick up collections from their legmen. Later they make personal calls on slow accounts. But not tomorrow night! The Executioner has a little collection substation of his own all set up, on the fourth floor of the Delsey building. It’s a perfect drop. I ran my triangulations last night and again tonight. It will be like picking rats out of a barrel. The setup sort of reminds me of the site at Nha Tran. The targets will not have any place to go but down—to the ground. And that’s just where I want them. I’ll take the two ‘Misters’ first. That will plug the possibility of return fire and cut down on wild lead flying around. No problems I can see. I will have plenty of time for Laurenti. I timed out at six seconds on the dry run tonight and that was figuring them to scatter in all directions after the first round. I think I will better that time tomorrow because I do not believe these troops have been under fire before. I will probably be half done before the reaction even begins. Well, we will see. We will see, Pop.”