The Bone Yard te-75

by Don Pendleton

  And still.

  He hit the double doors to the garage, already calling out to the stray uniforms who were standing around waiting to begin or end their shifts. They would be going with him, filling in the ranks for what looked like the biggest sit-down bloodfeast in Las Vegas history. And there would be enough to go around for everybody, he was sure, perhaps with seconds for the hungry ones.

  Goddammit, and the thought was back, refusing just to die and blow away like desert sand.

  Where was Mack Bolan when you needed him?

  * * *

  Paulie Vaccarelli snapped a wild shot in the general direction of the house and ducked back under cover, wincing as a stray round glanced off fender metal inches from his head. The previous explosion, caused by God-knew-what, had calmed them down in there for something like a half a minute, but the bastards had regrouped, and they were pouring out defensive fire again as if they had a million rounds to spare.

  And maybe they did, Paulie thought, the grim notion ricocheting back and forth inside his mind until he got a grip on it and put it down where it belonged.

  No million rounds, no way. His troop had taken Kuwahara's people by surprise, and they were fighting back the way Japs always fought — with everything they had. But they were losing, right, surrounded by some of the toughest gunners he had ever seen, cut off from any possible escape. Cut off.

  He risked a backward glance in the direction of the gates, and saw the Lincoln was still burning brightly, all four tires melted down, the limo resting on its belly in the middle of the driveway like a flaming dinosaur carcass.

  Paulie wondered what the hell had happened to it, just exploding like that. Maybe some kind of land mine, or some other kind of goddamn booby trap — except, why had the Japs let three cars through, then blown up the last one.

  Why?

  To trap your ass, you stupid jerk.

  He shrugged, refusing to acknowledge the idea that they had suckered him somehow, prepared a trap that would be inescapable. One of the gate guards just got lucky, maybe with some kind of armor-piercing round, or maybe even with one of those frigging grenade launchers you were always hearing about. No telling what kind of hardware that goddamn Kuwahara had floating around, with his contacts in Tokyo and Vietnam or wherever.

  Paulie risked a glance above the Lincoln's hood and almost lost it as another automatic burst came sizzling in from the direction of the house. The bullets hit the armored bodywork and whined away, but he still felt terribly exposed out there, despite the bulwark of the limo that protected him from any head-on fire.

  Beside him, Jake Pinelli was chafing at the bit, anxious to get in there and start wasting Kuwahara's troops. He jabbed at Paulie with the muzzle of his silenced Ingram, leaning forward and raising his voice to make himself heard above the din of battle.

  "We've gotta get in there, goddammit! We can't just sit around out here all night and wait for the cops to come in on our blind side."

  The cops.

  Paulie had forgotten them when all the shit had started flying, but he knew Pinelli was correct.

  It could not be long now before the first patrol cars made the scene, and he for one did not intend to face a lineup charged with multiple counts of homicide.

  Not for the sake of some yellow bastard like Seiji Kuwahara.

  "Okay," he snapped back, reluctant in spite of the new urgency he felt. "Let's take 'em."

  "Right." And Jake Pinelli was already rising from his crouch with a long burst from the Ingram, raking the front of Kuwahara's house as he charged out of cover and into the direct line of fire.

  Paulie watched him, frozen where he sat, his hand white knuckled where it gripped the walnut stock of his.357. He could not force himself to take the necessary first step, could not make himself get up and follow Jake Pinelli through the hellgrounds.

  And the New York gunner made it maybe twenty feet before converging fire ripped into him and through him, spraying crimson back along his track so that huge globs of him spattered on the Lincoln's bullet-scarred hood and fenders. Paulie felt something wet sting his face and he ducked out of sight, vainly willing his mind to erase the image of what he had seen. Of what might have been him.

  They were trapped, he acknowledged it now, and if Kuwahara's samurai could not find an exit, neither could the troops who still survived outside the house. He tried a hasty head count, stopping short of two full carloads when another bullet snapped the smoky air beside his ear.

  They had lost something like half of their force already with no end in sight, and Paulie Vaccarelli started concentrating on a way to disengage the enemy without losing the other half in a blind-assed retreat. The point, after all, was to get out alive, and he would worry about Spinoza and the consequences of his failure when he was safe on the other side of that frigging wall two hundred yards distant. He froze, staring at it through the smoky night. The wall.

  If he could make it... Paulie stopped dead in his tracks before he could translate the thought to action. There were others here who were his responsibility. He could not run and leave them here to make it on their own. They were depending on him. And yet... His thoughts were swallowed by the sound of another explosion, and Paulie turned back toward the sound just in time to see an upstairs-window casing shiver and disintegrate, expelling bits of wood and plaster with a flaming body, everything raining down on the steps twenty feet in front of his position.

  He scanned the battlefield, taking advantage of a momentary lull in the cross fire to check out his surroundings. Suddenly he saw a nightmare figure moving toward him through the battle murk. The man was tall and muscular, clad in something like a black skinsuit, carrying the largest tommy gun Paulie had ever seen. The guy's face was black — but whether he was made up or a natural, Paulie could not say. His full attention now was centered on the smoking weapon that the big guy carried, and he knew instinctively that he was looking at the source of the explosions that had ripped the night apart. Whatever else he was, the guy was no damned Japanese, but Paulie had to figure that he was responsible for taking out the two demolished Lincolns. If he had also blasted Kuwahara's house, then that was fine. But clearly this one was not taking sides. Instead he seemed intent on wiping both sides out, and that was where Paul Vaccarelli drew the frigging line.

  Spinoza's hardman lurched erect, his big .357 Magnum out in front of him and steadied in both hands, the sights wavering briefly before they came to rest on the big guy's chest. He was an easy target, right, if only Paulie could make his goddamned hands stop shaking so much. Downrange, the big man seemed to sense his danger, pivoting in the direction of Paulie's position, the ash-can muzzle of his weapon tracking with him, belching flame before poor Paulie could notice a finger on the cannon's trigger. The high-explosive can impacted on the Lincoln's nose, punching on through the grille to detonate beneath the hood with thunderous effect.

  Vaccarelli was driven backward, sprawling on the grass, his Magnum flying. Miraculously, he made it to his feet, coming out of the somersault erect, ears ringing from the near concussion of the blast. He glanced around, but there was something warm and sticky in his eyes, and he was being blinded by the smoke from... Holy mother, from his own damned jacket burning!

  Paulie Vaccarelli knew that he was standing there on fire, and then the panic hit him, made him run, the black-clad stranger long forgotten as he streaked across the night, a racing human torch.

  * * *

  The burning scarecrow figure lurched along for half a dozen strides, then Bolan saw it toppled by a rifle shot. Inside the house the gunners were attempting to regroup their forces, and the flaming silhouette had been a target too inviting to resist.

  He swung their way and sent a high-explosive doublepunch through the ruin of the twin front doors, following it up with a hissing can of smoke to add confusion. The house was burning fiercely now at several points, and Bolan knew that there were only moments left until he heard the wail of sirens on his flank, announcing the appro
ach of riot squads responding to the din and smoke of combat.

  It was a roaring hell in there, but Bolan had to get inside and seek out Seiji Kuwahara, close down this end of the pipeline before the Executioner took another step along the campaign trail in Vegas. He knew from grim experience in the jungles of the world that you exposed yourself to needless danger any time you left the serpent's head intact, still able to deliver lethal venom even with its dying spasm. Kuwahara was the Oriental viper's head in Vegas, and when Bolan had disposed of this one, there were others of an Occidental cast who called for his attention, right. But first things first. He was advancing on the house, prepared to answer fire with cleansing fire when Bolan heard a labored engine drawing closer on his flank. Almost before the sound had registered, a sleek white Caddy cleared the side of Kuwahara's mansion, running straight and fast along an offshoot of the drive and making for the gates.

  There was just time for Bolan to react, half turning, catching just the barest glimpse of Eastern profile, then the limousine was past him, powering along the drive.

  The soldier hit a crouch and braced the 40mm cannon tight against his hip, one finger on the trigger as he tracked his target, estimating range and elevation.

  When he opened fire, the Executioner was dead on target at a range of fifty yards, the mushrooming explosions marching right across the driveway, setting up a barrier of smoke and flying shrapnel that the hurtling Caddy could not bridge. He saw the crew wagon swerve, lurch, stall, and he was moving out of there and in confrontation with the dragon long before the first door opened, spilling human targets into view.

  Mack Bolan recognized the ninja at a range of thirty yards, and spent no time debating how to handle him. The XM-18 thundered and the guy was simply gone, evaporated in a storm of needlelike fl6chettes that hit with such intensity he doubtless never knew that he was dying. And they were packed inside the Cadillac, the ninja trying to get out and face the enemy, a little man wedged in among them with his hands raised, trying desperately to shield himself from the death he saw approaching.

  Bolan knew that he had found the serpent's head.

  A twitch of his trigger finger and the launcher roared to life, unloading its remaining cylinders in rapid fire; fl6chettes, shot and high-explosives all impacting on the Cadillac's interior like a draft from hell itself. The windows on the Caddy blew outward and the crew wagon seemed to bulge for a moment, inflating like some kind of cartoon vehicle before it simply burst apart. Bolan rode out the shock wave and went to ground beneath the flying shrapnel, feeling pieces of the vehicle and occupants as they rained down around him in a grizzly downpour.

  And from the distance, drawing nearer-sirens.

  He could hear the numbers falling in his mind, their echoes louder than the straggling gunfire that continued from inside the Kuwahara house. Some of the enemy were still engaged back there, but he no longer had an interest in them. Captain Reese and his commandos would be more than capable of dealing with the stragglers. And Bolan had more serpents left to kill this night before the desert sun came up and burned away the sheltering darkness.

  He was far from finished in Las Vegas, right — if anything the major battle lay ahead, and he had only fought a skirmish here with Kuwahara's men and the advance guard from New York. If he had severed and destroyed one viper's head, the whole damned nest awaited him downtown, and he did not intend to keep the serpents waiting long. The Executioner was done in Paradise, the snakes were driven out — for now — and he was moving on.

  To Glitter Gulch.

  To the Gold Rush.

  To Frank Spinoza and the good-old boys.

  If they were waiting for him now... for someone — braced for trouble — then there would be killing in the Mafia's open city such as Captain Reese had never seen.

  17

  "All right, we're set to go."

  Abe Bernstein looked around him at the faces of his soldiers. Then his eyes fell on Jack Goldblume and old Harry Thorson, feeling pride well up inside of him until he was about to burst. It took a moment for him to continue but he finally found his voice.

  "Spinoza's men have run into some kinda trouble at Kuwahara's and they won't be back. At least not soon. We've got a chance to clean it up tonight if everybody does his job and follows orders."

  He turned to the tall mercenary dressed in a hotel security uniform, raising one eyebrow as he spoke.

  "Your people in position?"

  "Yes, sir. This hotel is sealed off tight. Nobody in or out without your say-so."

  "Fine."

  The old man nodded satisfaction.

  "All of you have team assignments, wings to cover. Are there any problems?"

  "Hell, no," Harry Thorson growled around the stub of his cigar. "Let's quit the goddamn jawin' and get on with it."

  Bernstein smiled, half turning toward Goldblume.

  "Square with you, Jack?"

  "Fine."

  But there was something in the newsman's voice that made Bernstein uneasy. A trace of weakness, perhaps. The taint of fear. He had arranged for two of Goldblume's team to watch him through the night, dispose of him if he seemed likely to jeopardize the mission. Their friendship spanned four decades, but tonight Abe Bernstein was about to realize a lifelong dream. And no damned friend was going to cheat him out of it, no way.

  If Goldblume pulled his weight fine, but if he tried to weasel out.

  Bernstein dismissed the topic from his mind and checked his Rolex.

  "Okay. We start on top and work our way down, clearing each floor as we go, and meet back here within the hour. Cleanup detail starts at 1:00 A.M. What do you military fellows call it?"

  "Oh-one-hundred hours," the tall mercenary responded, his face deadpan.

  "Right, then. At oh-one-hundred hours, I want everybody back down here for cleanup. Anything still living in the joint by then had better be on our side."

  He watched the teams led by Thorson and Goldblume as they headed for their separate banks of elevators, leading to the south and east wings of the hotel. His own team would take the north wing in a moment, ride up to the penthouse level and begin their killing at the top. Abe Bernstein felt that it was going to work this time. Sweet revenge was within his grasp and he could almost taste it now, it was that close.

  His troops had reached the elevators, moving like real soldiers as they crossed the wide deserted lobby. Three of Spinoza's watchdogs were lying back behind the registration desk with throats slit, no longer interested in reporting to their boss exactly what was going on beneath his nose. Spinoza would find out for himself soon enough, and Abe Bernstein was saving that one for himself. He had made certain that his team would be the one to take Spinoza and the others — Johnny Cats, that goddamned Liguori from Chicago — all of them.

  A clean frigging sweep. A royal flush, with the Mafia's local royalty flushed right down the goddamned sewer where they all belonged.

  "Let's go," he said to no one in particular, already leading out across the lobby, trusting his specials to fall in behind him. He knew that when he turned around they would be there. They were good soldiers and always followed orders.

  Abe Bernstein had heard that somewhere, but he could not make the mental linkup and he put the thought away.

  No time for the abstractions now that they were down to the reality of action.

  He was hunting big game now and when the smoke cleared there were going to be some very interesting trophies on his office wall.

  * * *

  Lucy Bernstein poked her head out of the office door and took a cautious glance along the corridor in each direction. There was no one in sight and she edged into the open, taking time to close the door behind her, wincing as the locking mechanism clicked audibly into place. She realized that she was holding her breath and it embarrassed her, but she was still afraid. It was more than an hour since the last paying guests had cleared the Gold Rush, and in that time, instead of digging up the leads she needed for the climax of her expose,
she had been in and out of empty suites and offices, dodging and hiding wherever she could find a door unlocked.

  They were not hunting her — not yet — but she felt cut off now, under siege. She had accomplished nothing, losing track of Frank Spinoza and his friend almost at once, and now the only thing that she could think about was getting safely out of there, away from what she sensed was brooding danger. She had been right, the lady news hawk knew, when she suspected that her grandfather was lying to her.

  There had been no labor trouble at the Gold Rush this night, not if all the bellhops and domestic personnel around the place were any indication. Strange, but now that Lucy stopped to think of it, she had not seen a woman anywhere around the hotel and casino since she'd left the crowded lobby better than an hour ago. It was as if the female staff — the cooks, the maids, whatever — had been cleared away to preserve them from the coming storm.

  Now she was all alone inside the cavernous hotel that had so quickly taken on the characteristics of an armed encampment. That was a story in itself, but first she had to be alive to write it — and she feared that if she was discovered, her short career might be abbreviated by a one-way midnight ride into the desert.

  Lucy did not plan to end her days as cactus fertilizer, and she moved along the corridor with grim determination, looking for an unobtrusive exit that would get her out of there and on the street again without attracting any unwelcome attention along the way. She reached the bank of elevators, hesitated with her finger on the button, finally decided against it. If the elevator did not dump her right into the lobby, she would run the risk of being stopped at any one of several floors along the way, or else emerging into hostile hands upon arriving at her destination. No, the elevator simply was not safe enough to suit her needs.

  Lucy was turning away from the stainless-steel doors when the approaching sound of voices reached her ears. She hesitated, gauging their direction, bolting as she realized that they were just around the corner from her, closing swiftly.