Vegas Vendetta te-9

by Don Pendleton

  The officer replied, "Yes sir. A private jet wiped-out during its landing roll, just a few minutes ago. Gear collapsed or something. The runways are cleared and open, though."

  Brognola thanked the Air Force officer and went back outside. He gave not a damn whether or not the McCarran runways were open. He did give — though — quite a bit of damn about the guy who was undoubtedly behind it all.

  He rejoined his party outside the operations office and told the chief marshal, "That was Bill Miller, FBI district officer. Our friends arrived, okay, but it appears that our eternal warfare expert was on hand at McCarran to welcome them to the city of hope. And from the sound of the report, he disillusioned them right off the bat."

  A smile was wavering at the marshal's lips. He said; "What a guy. He took them on right there at the airport?"

  "Took 'em on, hell. Practically shot them out of the sky. Demolished the plane, killed eighteen, hurt a bunch more. The brothers came out with scratches…"

  "That's a bit much," the marshal commented, his lips flattening against his teeth. "The guy is going rocky, Hal."

  The group of lawmen were moving along the flight line to the transport section. Brognola heaved a deep sigh and said, "I don't know. I've never known Bolan to be fast and loose with the civilians. He's usually pretty careful about that — always, in fact. It may be significant to note that there was absolutely no other traffic — not on the ground, not over the field, not even in the entire control zone."

  "It still sounds rocky. When he starts going after airplanes…"

  "What's so damned sacred about an airplane?" the justice official snapped testily. "A target is a target to the guy, so long as the civilians are clear and safely out of it."

  The marshal grinned and said, "Hell, I didn't know you cared."

  "Well I do, and I guess it's no secret. I've tried everything to… but orders are orders — and believe me, I'll put a bullet in his head as fast as not. I just like to keep the perspectives in mind, that's all."

  "I like the guy myself, Hal. But that can't change anything."

  "Not a thing," Brognola agreed.

  "We'll gun the poor S.O.B. down just like we would any lunatic. Right?"

  "Right," Brognola calmly replied, refusing to be baited.

  The party had reached the helicopter area. The marshal stepped back to allow the other man to board first. "Even though we know he'll never return our fire," he said quietly. "Right?"

  "You'd better hope not," Brognola muttered. He climbed into the aircraft and turned back to add, "I've seen the guy's work. He's a real classy sharpshooter, make no mistakes. And he goes for the head."

  "I won't make any mistakes," the chief marsha] replied. "We have a few sharpshooters in our troop too, you know."

  Brognola signed and dropped into a seat. "That's the only damn reason you're here."

  Indeed. It was the "only damn reason" Brognola himself was there. He'd been the guy's champion. Now, as the official closest to the problem, it was logical — if ironic as hell — that he be given the task of eliminating the problem.

  As for Bolan shooting back… Brognola knew damn well that he would not. A more distasteful chore had never arisen during a career often sadly lacking in taste. But… it was the way things were.

  He had to get Bolan. He simply had to get him.

  Chapter Eleven

  The watch

  The Vegas Strip has a "grapevine" second to none in the world. Despite efforts by both police and underworld to quiet the fact of the Executioner's presence in town, the word spread among the regular residents with the vigor of an uncontrolled forest fire.

  The incident at the airport, together with the executions on the Strip itself and the invasion of Gold Duster earlier that morning, became the chief topic of hushed conversation in the twenty-four hour city. These inevitably led to a rehashing of the Bolan legend, much of it inaccurate or exaggerated.

  "The guy has a CIA license to kill." This was the favorite story.

  As close runner up, "He's got a thousand faces, and nobody really knows what he looks like."

  "Just watch," went another attention getter, "when he's finished, the cops will step in and mop up his leavings."

  The consensus of opinion in the law-abiding community was heavily sympathetic to Bolan. All of the professionals in Vegas knew, of course, which were the mob joints and which were not — this also was a perennial favorite topic of conversation. Most of the "straights" had adopted a live and let-live attitude toward the mob — this was the Vegas tradition. It was no secret, however, that the legitimate casino operators resented the unfair advantage which naturally fell to the kinky businessmen through their connections in high places and a virtually unlimited supply of financial support. So the straight people of Vegas were shedding no tears over the Bolan crusade, except for the fear that it might depress the tourist situation.

  Just the same, there was a noticeable apprehension all along the Strip and in the city's Glitter Gulch — wherever games were played in that valley. Dealers flipped their cards with one eye on the table and the other on the door. Pit bosses nervously scrutinized unfamiliar faces and security personnel strolled about with hands resting on pistol butts.

  The city's visitors, assiduously kept "out of the know" by the regulars, remarked upon the number of police vehicles cruising the Strip and the hordes of foot patrolmen on Fremont Street, particularly in Glitter Gulch. If one were to look carefully he might note that some of these officers were from other areas adjacent to Las Vegas — such as North Las Vegas, East Vegas, Henderson, and even from Boulder City. A person with a practiced eye for concealed weapons could possibly discern the presence also of great numbers of alert guntoters in civilian clothing, although the observer would need a great instinct for separating the good guys from the bad.

  And all about Las Vegas — the city of strangers — faces suddenly became highly importar't almost an obsession, for those who lived and worked there. Police accosted everyone who seemed to stand out a little from the crowd, frequently they accost d one another Hardfaced men in tailored silk suits and dark glasses stood in hotel lobbies and prowled the lounges and the casinos also "accosting" anyone who aroused their suspicious natures and here, also, the frequent mutual stare-downs and violent reactions between accoster and accosted would have been comical, if not so potentially tragic A minor shoot-out did occur in a Fremont Street tavern between two men who were 1ater identified as "free-lancers," bounty hunters seeking the pot of gold in Bolan's head.

  In this latter regard, special police details were stationed at the airport and in bus and train depots to turn back an expected invasion of gunmen, both freelance and otherwise.

  The "Bolan Watch" was on, and if the atmosphere in the civilian community was tense, it was downright explosive in the police and underworld segments.

  It was leaked in the press, for example, that a special federal "strike force" was in town and that a highly placed official in the Justice Department was coordinating all police efforts in the matter. There were rumors of hard feelings among the local cops, and a wire-press reporter in Carson City, the state capital, charged that state and federal officials had clamped a "news blackout" on the events at Las Vegas.

  Rumors of a different nature began flowing from the Gold Duster when Vito Apostinni "didn't show up for the noon count." The story that swept along the Strip claimed that "Heart o' Gold Vito got planted in Skeleton Flats," this latter a reference to the unofficial graveyard supposedly existing in the desert somewhere along Highway 91, far south of the city.

  It was also being said that eastern bigshots had taken over the entire top floor of the Gold Duster Hotel and that the whole place had become an armed camp, with much coming and going on the part of the area's criminal element. Those "in the know" whispered about an underworld purge in the western crime capital, and the stories became more persistent as the day wore on.

  Bolan himself seemed unperturbed by the commotion. He had gone
directly from the dawn strike at the airport to his modest tourist-home accomodations on the north side. After a leisurely meal in his room and a shower, he went to bed for a refreshing six-hour sleep.

  At two o'clock he was on the move again, dressed casually in modish flair slacks, sport shirt, and bright blue blazer. He walked through Glitter Gulch, the gambling center of the downtown area, and fed slot machines at several of the joints. He kept his ears open and his nose clean, and after an hour of this "scouting," he invaded the Strip via taxicab and went directly to the hotel where he had met Tommy Anders and the Ranger Girls some hours earlier.

  He scouted the parking lot, decided that the watch on his wheels had been lifted, reclaimed his Pontiac and set out on a tour of the neon jungle's high spots.

  The Executioner had, many death-waits ago, learned to blend into a given environment and to become a part of the background of almost any situation.

  A "watch" could work in more directions than one.

  The watchers themselves were being watched.

  Chapter Twelve

  Crap out

  At nightfall, Bolan returned to his room and again changed clothes. He donned the black skinsuit and covered it with the dark silk tailormade threads favored by big time torpedoes, beneath the coat a pastel shirt with flaring collar and oversized tie and — the trusty Beretta in sideleather.

  He fussed with his hair to achieve the just right look, then put a band-aid across the bridge of his nose and another just off the chin along the jawline. Purple tinted lenses in gold wire frames and a black rollbrim hat completed the job to his satisfaction.

  Then he went directly to the Gold Duster.

  A congregation of hoods and uniformed deputies stood outside, eyeing everyone who passed.

  The smirking Bolan flipped them a bird as he swaggered through the cluster. One of the men behind him muttered, "Wise ass."

  Bolan jerked around and quietly demanded, "Who said that?"

  None responded or even returned the hard stare. He sniggered and proceeded to the lobby.

  "Boys" were all over the place, several of them almost identical in appearance to the new arrival. Band-aids sprouted freely, here and there a head-wrap, and a guy going into the lounge was showing a pronounced limp.

  Bolan felt right at home.

  He went straight to the desk, elbowed an elderly lady out of the way, and commanded the immediate attention of a room clerk.

  "Are they still upstairs?" he asked the guy.

  The clerk nodded his head uncertainly and replied, "Uh, yes sir, I think so."

  "Check!" Bolan demanded.

  "Uh, come to think of it," the clerk suddenly remembered, "they are. We just sent up dinner."

  The guy started to turn away. Bolan leaned across the desk and grabbed his arm. "Get Hard Mountain for me."

  "Sir?"

  "I got a friend out there. Make the call, eh?"

  The clerk nervously pulled loose from Bolan's grasp and said, "Yes sir." His eyes fled to a corner area of upholstered chairs and mahogany tables. "You can take the call in the telephone lounge, sir. Just pick up the receiver, I'll have the switchboard put you through."

  Bolan growled, "Thanks," and threw the guy a fiver.

  The light was on when he reached the house phone. He picked it up and said, "Yeah, who's this?"

  "I'm ringing, sir," the operator reported.

  "Oh yeah. okay. When they answer, honey, you get the hell off. This is private."

  "Certainly, sir," the house operator assured him in an offended tone.

  "Don't mention it," he said.

  A few seconds later she told him, "Go ahead, sir. Fin leaving."

  He snickered into the transmitter and said, "Who's this?"

  A guarded male voice replied, "This is Desert High Ranch. Who'd you want?"

  Bolan chuckled and asked, "Been laid lately?" '

  The guy chuckled back. "At this goddam joint? Hey who's this?"

  "This is Vinton."

  "Who?"

  "You know. I came in this morning." Bolan snickered. "By the skin of my teeth, I mean."

  The guy laughed. "I know what you mean. That bastard hit up here, too, last night."

  "Yeah I heard," Bolan said chattily. "We're at the Duster, you knew that."

  "Yeah. Uh, who'd you want?"

  "Shit, he didn't say who I should call, he just said call."

  "Who said? Joe?"

  "Yeh. I guess I oughta talk to the head cock-in-charge, eh?"

  The guy laughed again and said, "I guess you're talking to 'im. This's Red Evans."

  "That don't sound kosher to me," Bolan said lightly.

  "I guess it's about as kosher as Vinton, eh?" The guy was obviously enjoying the conversation. "I could give you about a dozen different calling cards, if you wanted 'em all that bad."

  "Listen, I gotta come out there, I guess."

  "Yeah sure, you're welcome. Bring about a dozen broads too, huh?"

  Bolan laughed and said, "I'm looking at a six foot Swede right now. Legs about four feet long, squeeze you until you scream for mercy. I think I'll lay her 'fore I come out."

  "What's her name?"

  "Shit, who cares?" Bolan snickered. "All ass and tits. Dumbest looking broad I ever saw."

  "Stop it, you're talking to a fuckin' monk. I been up here six days straight. Supposed to get rotated back to town today, then this son of a bitch comes roaring into town. Why're you coming out?"

  "That's what I called about. You're supposed to go down and find that shipment." ' "What?"

  "That heist that wasn't a heist. It's still out there."

  "Bullshit," the guy said calmly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I'm talking about the shipment this guy was supposed to've lifted. He didn't."

  "He didn't what?"

  "He didn't get it."

  "Bullshit, who says so. Is Joe..."

  "Sure, what the hell you think? We got a turkey that ain't shut up for an hour now."

  "No shit!"

  "Yeah. The stuff's out there, somewhere, on the side of that hill."

  "No shit!"

  "Yeh. Joe says to send those guys down lookin' for it."

  "You mean these… ?"

  "Yeh, the figure boys. They didn't up and leave, did they?"

  "Course not. When Joe says stay, they stay. Well look…"

  "How many boys you got left out there, Red?"

  "Well not many. I don't like sorting the joint. I mean, if that guy comes back…"

  "Nah, he's holing up somewheres. Hell, we got this town so heavy a guy can't hardly breathe." Bolan chuckled. "Everything's stopped dead 'cept the roll of the dice and slap slap slap of the cardboards."

  "When that stops, I'm getting off," the guy replied, laughing.

  "Me too."

  "Well where are we supposed to look?"

  "Straight down the hill from where the hit was. This guy says they just got tossed overboard, so look straight down the hill."

  "I guess that turkey's name ain't Bolan, huh?"

  "I wish it was."

  "Me too," the guy said glumly. "Listen, there's only four of us. I mean, except for the button-down collars."

  "They don't count," Bolan agreed.

  "They sure don't."

  "They try to jump up each other's asses at the first snap of a trigger."

  The hardman laughed. "That's right."

  "It won't hurt 'em to do a little midnight mountain climbing Right?"

  The suggestion broke the guy up. Some seconds later he gasped, "I wish I could go out and watch 'em."

  "Don't," Bolan cautioned, "You stay in the joint."

  "Yeah I will, but I wish I could."

  "I wish I could bring you a couple dozen broads, Red. You sound like an okay guy."

  "Yeah, you too. Listen, when you coming out?"

  "Soon as I can take care of a few things here first. You know. Listen, this is what Joe says, not me. Keep this quiet."

 
"Oh sure."

  "As of this minute right now, you talk to nobody."

  "Oh sure, right."

  "You got my name? Vinton. Remember it. You talk to nobody else."

  "I got it, Vinton, yeah. Don't worry."

  The guy definitely was beginning to sound worried, though.

  "Get that chopper warmed up," Bolan commanded. "And keep it ready. Things are getting hot down here. You-know-who just might need a quick way out."

  "Oh… you mean… a couple of you-know-whos."

  "That's it."

  "Oh yeah, say. Do you know them personal?"

  "What the hell?"

  "Oh sure, I'm sorry."

  "That's okay. You're okay, Red."

  "Thanks. I'm sorry if I sounded…"

  "Oh hell no, that's okay. Listen. Maybe I should…"

  "Huh? What was you gonna say?"

  "You sound like an okay guy."

  "Oh, well thanks."

  "Listen."

  "Yeah?"

  "Your boss is… well, how do I put this?"

  The voice from Hard Mountain was becoming more troubled by the moment. "You mean the carpet, yeah, we all been wondering about that."

  "Well, you-know-who didn't 'predate that stuff down at McCarran this morning."

  "Oh God, I guess not. God that was terrible."

  "Listen. Just a word, eh? Cool it with Joe."

  "Oh God yeah, thanks Mr. Vinton."

  "Don't uh, don't say anymore to him than you have to. You know? Just yes and no and that's all. You know?"

  "God yes, I know. Don't worry. I won't."

  "Okay. Talk to me, and that's all."

  "Pardon me, but Joe didn't tell you to call, did he."

  "You got me, Red. He didn't."

  "God, we were all wondering about that."

  "You'll be okay, Red, don't worry."

  "Hell I appreciate..."

  "Don't mention it. Send those jerks down the hill. If they find the stuff, just cool it. Sit tight. I'll be along soon as I can."

  "Oh sure. Are you, uh, bringing a force out?"

  "I'm thinking about it." Bolan chuckled. "Who'd you gay is the head cock out there?"

  "Hey, uh, if you mean what I think you mean…"

  "Yeah, you know what I mean," Bolan assured him.