Abba's dark eyes flashed. "Is that the way it is to be, then?"
Joey Metrano nodded, caution in his eyes now.
Abba laughed, moving around to the trunk of his car. "There is a truly fearless man in there," he said. "You shall never take him quietly." He opened the trunk and reached into a satchel, coming out with a hand grenade, holding it up in front of Joey's face.
"What's that for?"
Abba held up a finger. "Since you are the leader here, I want to see what your orders will be."
"Give me the grenade," Joey said.
"Yes," Abba said, smiling, and placed the grenade in Joey's palm, pulling the pin as he did.
Metrano stared openmouthed at the live bomb in his hand.
"Whatever you decide to do with it," Abba said, moving away from the man, "I'm going in."
* * *
"How do you expect to get Metrano in the Mid East if you can't get him here?" Johnny asked, walking up next to Bolan to study the letter projected on the wall.
"I've spent two weeks trying to crack his defenses here," Bolan said. "Besides his goons, the walls around the place are set with glass and floodlit. There are electronic eyes everywhere, along with TV cameras and the manpower to watch them. The lawn around the house is mined and booby-trapped… and I haven't even gotten to the house yet. I'd have a better chance getting into NORAD headquarters. He can't possibly have that kind of protection away from home."
Johnny moved back and shut down the enlarger. "Maybe this one's just too big for us, Mack."
Bolan looked hard at him, understanding his feelings. "Look," he said. "I've got to do this. Ten million dollars' worth of heavy equipment in the hands of terrorists can turn a lot of places into hell on earth." He pointed toward the kitchen. "That's why she died. She gave her life without complaint to stop this„ and we don't even know her name. Plus the letter talked about a dope exchange, a new pipeline into this country, a new sewer to kill our kids. Metrano's the enemy. And until the world stops living by jungle law, I have a job to do."
Johnny turned on the overhead light. "I know, Mack. I guess lately I've been worrying too much."
"Why don't you worry about getting us in and out of the country?"
"Sure, I…"
The explosion was like the roar of the wind as the living room wall burst inward in orange fire, part of the ceiling falling as the lights blacked out. The concussion knocked them both back against the far wall, Bolan breaking through Sheetrock to lie half in the dining room.
Head spinning, covered with plaster dust, he pulled out in time to see through the flames an enemy squad charging up the lawn toward them.
5
The warrior moves instinctively. In the time it takes for civilians to react to a crisis, contemplate activity and decide on a course of action, the warrior has already responded in kind. Bolan was up, lifting a still-groggy Johnny to his feet and shoving him around the wall and into the kitchen. Big Thunder was in his plaster-covered hand, spitting death through the flames that were already threatening to turn the house to tinder. A dark figure on the lawn jumped like a puppet, falling in a heap on the ground. One down — but how many more?
They had to move — and quick. If the Executioner never had the odds, at least he usually got to pick his killing ground. This wasn't it. He got around the wall, the house veiled in dark, roiling smoke. Johnny was on his knees, coughing, as their assailants surrounded the house, blasting away, turning the inside of the house into an arcade.
"Get up!" he yelled, coughing. His eyes were burning. "Move toward the garage."
Johnny struggled to his feet, blood oozing from where his head had hit the wall. His hair was matted thickly and he was still disoriented.
There was a loud crash, and more of the ceiling fell in, more fuel for the fire that now raged out of control. As Johnny staggered to the garage door, Bolan looked frantically around for an equalizer. At least the fire was keeping the attackers back. Had they come in without it, he and his brother would probably be dead by now.
He remembered the Ingram MAC-10 stuttergun in the kitchen. He moved through the growing haze to retrieve it, shoving the clip of parabellums to lock into place. A dish towel lay across the sink. He picked it up and ran it under the tap, then tied it around his face like a mask to help with the smoke.
The TV picture tube exploded in the next room. Bolan moved to the living room with the automatic, faced with a wall of fire, and chose his targets through the shooting flames. He raked the area with short bursts, taking some of the attackers to the ground, driving the others back. If they wanted to bring the fight to him, he'd give them all they could handle.
Behind him, Johnny had fumbled open the door leading to the garage, moving into its cavernous darkness. Bolan backed toward it, determined not to let the vermin take him here, now. He reached the door, pulling the towel off his face. The woman still lay on the table and he knew he couldn't abandon her, not like this.
The whole front of the house fell in as he charged back into the dining room and jerked a curtain off the window. Gunfire erupted behind the movement, the glass blowing out the window as Bolan ate carpet.
He came back up, angry, using what was left in the gun on the goons around that side. He threw the empty Ingram to the floor and grabbed the woman, wrapping her in the curtain.
They were pressing close, firing again as he made the garage. Then, for a brief moment, all was dark and calm. Johnny was leaning against the battered Lincoln, breathing deeply.
"You okay?" Bolan asked, moving to the back door, his burden thrown over his shoulder.
Johnny nodded, clearing his throat. "Who is it?"
"Metrano's people," Bolan said, opening the door and throwing the body on the back seat. "There's a Middle Easterner out there, too. We attract a good crowd." They could hear voices yelling, up close. "Thought I'd shaken them all. Let's go!"
"Where?" Johnny said, climbing into the passenger seat.
Bolan jumped in the driver's side and keyed the engine. "Anywhere that's not on fire," he said, and threw the car into reverse, jamming the gas pedal.
The tires squealed loudly and the car broke right through the garage door, wood and glass exploding around them. The second it took to smash into the car blocking the driveway lasted an eternity.
Looking over his shoulder, Bolan saw it coming, but couldn't get his foot to the brake fast enough. They slammed into the car, the impact throwing them backward. The Executioner's arm jammed the horn, as Johnny went half over the back seat.
Bolan pulled his head up in time to see ten men with guns turn toward him and take aim. He banged the gear shift with an open hand, the transmission locking on the Drive position, and hit the gas. The forward momentum hurled Johnny back onto the seat.
In front of them a man stood splay-legged, his .38 raised. They hit him head-on, the lethal impact throwing him onto the hood. Then the garage blurred past and they crashed through the other side. The gunner slithered off the hood and onto the lawn. Bolan felt a brief jolt as the Lincoln's radials rolled over the body.
The terrain dropped steeply in the back of the house and the Lincoln raced down a slope, nearly capsizing before reaching the level beach.
They spun off through the loose sand, wide arcing sprays spewing up from the back wheels. Metrano's soldiers were giving chase on foot, still dangerous, even from a distance.
Bolan drove toward the hard-packed sand closer to the water. The ocean looked inviting, soothing. He resisted an impulse to drive into the water, and turned hard, speeding along the waterline, the sound of gunfire becoming more distant by the second.
* * *
Tomasso Metrano stood looking down at the mangled body of his son. The father held a handkerchief up to his nose to ward off the dissipating smoke, and he knew that no one could tell precisely what caused the moisture-filled eyes. Except, of course, Big Tommy himself. Joey had never been all that he had hoped, but he had been a good boy and had always tried to please his father. This was
no way for a Metrano to die," ground up like hamburger under the wheels of a car. It was his own fault, really. He should never have sent the boy to do a man's job.
The Executioner's house was nothing but smoking ruins, the fire department mopping up the remnants, hosing water on any embers. Police and ambulances filled the streets, taking away more of Metrano's people. This was going to cost a bundle to keep quiet. He was liable to have to juice them all the way up to Tallahassee.
He turned from Joey's body and the huge hole in the back of the garage, and looked toward the sea. Abba, his PLO contact, was staring in the direction the bastard had taken.
Metrano moved his six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound frame to stand beside the man. "What happened here?" he asked softly.
Abba just touched him with his dark eyes, then looked back toward the ocean. "Your son wanted to go in," he said. "I told him I had a better plan. But he would not listen." He pointed down the beach. "We have to find that son of a whore. I have seen his kind before. He is crazy. He will do anything."
"What happened to my boy?"
Abba shrugged matter-of-factly. "They ran him over like pita bread. Maybe we should postpone the exchange until we kill this bastard?"
"No," Metrano said quickly. The truth was he couldn't afford to postpone the trip. The Executioner had cost him millions in cash he desperately needed to keep his organization fluid.
"Did he die like a man?" he asked.
The Palestinian's eyes held a question. He turned and looked back at the body. Two men were loading it onto a stretcher, covering the remains of Joey Metrano with a white sheet. "He died," Abba said. "Everything dies. Why? Do you give out medals for bravery like the army?" He laughed at his own joke.
"I want him," Metrano said, a whisper. "I don't care what you have to do to get him, but I want him. He's gonna die slow, you understand?"
Abba nodded, smiling.
Big Tommy pulled a cigar out of his suit coat pocket and stuck it into his mouth. "And when it comes time to kill him…" He pulled his cigar out and pointed it at his chest. "I'm gonna be the one to do it."
Abba laughed gently, his eyes dancing. Maybe America wasn't such a bad place after all.
Metrano turned and walked off, through the hole in the garage and back out front, watching as they loaded Joey's body into the ambulance. Police were waiting to talk to him, but for what he paid a year in pad money, he felt they could wait a month for him.
Joey had never been very good at Family business, but his mother had loved him and telling her was going to be a pain in the ass. Of his three sons, Joey had been the worst. Because he was the youngest, his mother had babied him. He had sent the dumb shit out to try and make a man out of him, but it didn't work out.
Tomasso Metrano turned his back to the warm night air and lit the cigar. He knew one thing, the bastard who was dogging him had taken his last shot. The Executioner had just gone from being a nuisance to a priority.
* * *
Mack Bolan gently lowered the unidentified body into the grave they had dug on the beach. They were isolated, far from Metrano's people, from any houses or roadways, with only the steady pounding of the waves for company.
They had pulled off a door panel and the glove compartment lid to help with the digging. It had taken them a long time with the makeshift tools, and those Bolan placed carefully in the grave with the woman. He straightened, then bent back down and as an afterthought removed the woman's Star of David necklace and put it in his pocket.
Johnny had been sitting on the fender of the ravaged car, watching the field burial. The cut on his head had been cleaned and bandaged, thanks to the medical kit that Bolan had kept in the Lincoln's trunk. Now Johnny jumped off the car and moved to the grave, helping his brother shovel armloads of sand back into the six-foot-deep hole.
"You said her accent was French," Johnny said. "How does that fit in with Israeli intelligence?"
"Israel is considered a homeland to all Jews," Bolan replied, using his hands to fill the hole. "Wherever they're from, they can have automatic citizenship in Israel."
They finished up, smoothing out the area.
"You're determined to go over there, aren't you?"
Bolan nodded, his face a mask. "I've got to. You've got misgivings?"
"Plenty."
Bolan pointed to his gut. "I go with what's in here," he said. "I can't know about this and not do anything."
"Yeah, I know."
They stood, dusting off their pants. Bolan turned and looked at the battered car. They couldn't use it anymore. He decided to drive it farther down the beach and abandon it. Later he'd send cash to the rental company to pay for the thing. "We're going to have to go underground while I raise some cash," he said.
"Maybe Miami," Johnny said. "Somewhere in the barrio."
Bolan nodded. "It suits." He looked down at the ground, surprised that he couldn't immediately place the grave site they had just dug. "Guess we're done here."
"Yeah" was all the younger Bolan said.
They climbed back into the car. Bolan had to try three times before he got it started. He put it in gear and they rattled on down the beach.
"You know," Bolan said loudly over the engine noise, "you mustn't feel obligated to involve yourself with the overseas mission. In fact, I'd prefer if you stayed out of it. I can handle it myself."
Johnny laughed, then grimaced with the pain in his head. "Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble," he replied.
"Well, you've done a hell of a job so far," Bolan said.
6
Bolan moved up the long flight of narrow wooden stairs, the smell of urine strong in the confined space. It was dark in there even in the middle of the day, the walls on either side filthy and scrawled with spray-painted graffiti proclaiming the names of the neighborhood Cuban street gangs that claimed the place as part of their turf.
The Executioner's false Vandyke beard was itchy where the spirit gum held it in place. A briefcase dangled from his left hand. He wore a brown three-piece suit, the silenced Beretta 93-R nestled snugly under his left arm. He was going to the Bank of Metrano to make a withdrawal.
A Cuban whore stood two-thirds of the way up the, stairs, all legs under her black leather microskirt. She smacked gum loudly while filing her long black nails that looked like talons with an emery board. At Bolan's approach, she braced herself against the wall and raised a black-stockinged leg to the other side, blocking his advance.
"Hey, good looking," she said, blowing a bubble. "Need your plumbing overhauled?"
"Some other time, maybe," he said, moving her leg and walking past.
"I've got your time right here," she called up to him, and went back to work on the claws.
Bolan crested the stairs and walked down a narrow hallway, stopping in front of a door with Ecstasy Inc. written on the dirty glass. He went in.
A pudgy, pink-looking man sat behind a desk, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbows. A nameplate, identifying him as Larry Price, manager, sat on the desk. There was a tattered sofa across from the desk, and several doors led out of the office and into other rooms. In the back he could hear women moaning in mock rapture.
The man snorted, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "How do?" he said in a gravel voice, and stood.
"I'm looking for a little… relaxation," the Executioner said, smiling.
"Well, you've come to the right place, brother," Larry replied, stepping out to shake hands. "We got relaxation in all shapes and sizes."
Bolan took the man's hand, twisting it violently behind his back. "Okay, Larry," Bolan said quietly, into the man's ear. "We're going to get into the safe and see what there is to see. Where is it?"
"On the wall," the guy returned. "Please don't hurt me."
"You'll only get what you got coming."
Larry moved toward a framed picture on the wall. Bolan unholstered the 93-R and let him get a look at it.
The manager dialed the combination. "I
just work here," he said. "I don't have nothin' to do with nothin'."
"That's not what the girl I visited in intensive care said last night," Bolan said, jamming the Beretta's snout into the base of the guy's skull. "At least as much as she could talk around the wires holding her jaw together."
"Hey, you got to make these bitches respect you, right?"
"Right," said Bolan, jerking the arm upward.
The man yelped in pain, and Bolan released him after he felt his captive got the message. He massaged his shoulder for a moment, then reached out, fumbling with the dial on the wall safe.
The safe swung open, and for just an instant Larry let his eyes flick toward one of the other doors. Bolan caught the motion, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
He swung around, the 93-R tracking, just as the door flew open, two men with 12-gauge pump shotguns jumping through.
Bolan fired, drilling one through the neck before he even took aim. The gun flew from the hood's hands, his momentum carrying him across the room to crash through the front door, glass breaking loudly. Bolan heard the whore on the stairs screaming.
The other hood fired as Bolan dived to the floor and rolled, wood splintering under the heavy gauge right beside him. He returned fire as the button pumped, his right thigh exploding, knocking him back against the wall. The hood fired again, blowing a large gash in the front wall. Bolan came up high this time, his shot shearing away the man's lower jaw.
The mobster's eyes widened as he slid to the floor, looking like some hideous mutant. He fell to his side, blood running freely from the gaping hole in his head to pool on the dirty floor.
Bolan spun to the pudgy manager in time to see him pulling a .45 automatic out of the safe. He pounced on the man, slamming his hand in the heavy safe door to make him drop the gun. The manager rolled away, nursing his shattered wrist.
"What were they doing here?" the Executioner demanded.
"I don't know," Larry sobbed, tears rolling down his cheeks. "They showed up this morning, said they were waiting on somebody."
Death Has a Name Page 3
