Command Strike

by Don Pendleton

  “Did you hear about the hit at corporate office?”

  The guy’s eyes jerked. “When was that?”

  “Just after you gentlemen took off,” Bolan explained. “David Eritrea was locked up with the New York company in the East Room. Suddenly there’s gunfire. They break down the door and find Eritrea in there with a smoking gun and four dead bosses.”

  “My God, that’s terrible!” Orion said, voice hushed.

  “You bet it is,” Bolan agreed. “And we have this full council slated for tonight. You can see the job we have facing us.”

  That baffled face could not see, but the voice did not let on. “Yes, sir. It’s getting really hairy, isn’t it?”

  “In doubles,” Bolan assured him. “Where’d you get the vehicle? I sent you in a taxi.”

  “Vega left it. They came out in two. I figured it was okay. You didn’t say—”

  “It’s okay, sure. I just didn’t want you drawing any attention leaving corporate office. Naturally I wondered about your wheels out there.”

  Orion asked, “Is the set okay? I mean—that’s how Vega—it looked okay. I have a man out back, walking the fence. Those two in the car. Two out on the pier.”

  “It’s a good set,” Bolan reassured the guy. “I’ll take over in here, though. I need to shake down the joint. Who belongs to the other vehicles?”

  “Sir? Oh, the two by the garage. They were here when we arrived.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  “About an hour ago. The cabbie got lost twice. I didn’t think we’d ever—”

  “An hour ago! That Ford still has a warm engine! Maybe Vega came in three. Did you think of that? Did you wonder if maybe his missing man is really planted somewhere around—just keeping an eye on you?”

  Orion was very uncomfortable. “I guess I didn’t get around to that yet, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t know about … all that in town.”

  “Listen, I want you to get out there and reset. Pull those boys off that pier and get a hard line around this place. Get them off their ass and out of that car.”

  Orion was already moving. “I understand now, sir. We’ll harden it, damn quick.”

  Bolan went behind him and locked the door. So. He had a hard line outside.

  All he had to do now was find the hard line inside. And that was going to take some damn fine imagination!

  20

  ACES FULL

  Undercover lady Sally Palmer had told Bolan that Barney Matilda had stopped at a public pay phone while enroute to Manhattan earlier that day. That would put the time somewhere between nine and ten o’clock.

  Ace Orion reported that Ace Vega and band had been dispatched to Barney’s place at 9:58, on a “duplication of assignments.” Ergo, it would seem that at about ten o’clock that morning, while highly agitated following a “walking inspection” of the Marinello estate, Barney had sent a band of aces to protect his place here on the shore.

  That was understandable. What was not immediately understandable was the mechanism for the send. Orion had called it a “standard send, machine cut.” Bolan knew a lot about these people, sure, but he did not know it all.

  How did old Barney control a secret force on a national scale—for God knew how many years!—a force of skilled professional killers—and still maintain his own anonymity above those ranks? The bosses didn’t know the “control”—obviously the aces themselves didn’t know—nobody knew!

  So how the hell did the guy run his show?

  “Programs,” sure. Machine cut, standard send. Sally spoke of a full switchboard in the master bedroom, and Bolan himself had seen the equipment in that limousine—though just a layer or two below the surface. What other secrets would that vehicle reveal, under a thorough examination?

  Machines, sure. The guy ran his invisible kingdom by remote control.

  Bolan went directly to the bedroom and tore into that bedside chest. It was quite a bit more than a switchboard, Sally. The Executioner knew a thing or two about closed systems, communications razzle-dazzle, electronics intrigue. It was more than a scrambler, too. It was a program box, dammit, switching and relaying, garbling and ungarbling, sending and receiving and recording and storing conversations and instructions between a dozen exact copies of itself in as many central drops in every region of the country—and perhaps even one or two outside the country, if those circuits could ever be traced through their maze.

  But there had to be more than this! This lousy box beside the bed! This was a lousy instrument! In order to function, it needed a brain!—computer banks, data processors, records storage—hell, it needed a room twice the size of this one, crammed with gear!

  He lifted the dummy shell away from that instrument and located the central feed, an armor-clad coaxial cable which disappeared into the wall. He tore off a section of wall paneling to determine the angle of departure.

  The angle was straight down.

  Bolan took a fix on that wall position and went to the basement—a musty, low-overhead affair loaded with ancient bric-a-brac, bulging cartons of junk, several pieces of broken furniture. Furnace and hot-water heater, rusted laundry tubs. That was it. Here, emplaced on the forward wall behind light wooden boxing, the coax ran from ceiling to floor.

  Bolan kicked at the boxing for a closer look.

  It went through the floor, dammit, and straight into the ground. Or did it? He did not like the feel of that floor. It gave just a bit, here and there.

  Bolan threaded the silencer aboard the Beretta and put a round into that floor. The bullet dug in, displacing an inch or so of powdery mortar. Mortar, yeah, not cement!

  It was a false floor, mortar over wood.

  He began a methodical search for the secret to the place and found it in the rusted laundry tub. The spigot lifted up. Machinery whirred. A section of rear wall opened revealing a lighted stairwell.

  Bolan went below, opened another small door, and stepped into fantasyland. All the gear required, and more. Enough, maybe, to launch a missile to the moon.

  And there was more.

  A dead ace, head-shot from behind and lying face-down in a thickened pool of blood.

  An abused and woeful lady fed, blouse ripped and soiled, trickle of blood coming from the corner of that lovely mouth. And, sure, crafty old Peter, rock of the church that greed built, leering at him over the sights of a hand cannon with a six-inch silencer.

  “Keep those hands where I see them,” the old man commanded. “Use them and lose them.”

  “Congratulations, Peter,” Bolan said as he advanced deeper into the place. “From the Talifero twins to all of this in one easy jump, eh?”

  “I got news for you, wise guy,” Matilda snarled. “I taught the Talifero kids which end of a gun is which. Since we’re on it, something else I think I’d like you to know. Pat and Mike’s real name was Matilda. So how do you like the wrong end of a gun, looking at a man you robbed straight from his loins!”

  The Talifero brothers? Barney’s own kids? Why not?

  Bolan said, “I’ve never robbed any man, Barney. I give back what is given. You know that. But I never took pleasure from another man’s grief, no matter what he gave. I’m sorry about your boys. But I’d do it again.”

  “I pulled the plug on Pat no more’n two weeks ago. He’s been a vegetable all this time. Less than that, even. I kicked the fuckin’ plug outta the wall.”

  What was wrong? Why all the conversation?

  Bolan said, “I guess that was best.”

  “There was no plug to pull for poor Mike. They brought his head back in a separate box.”

  The parley was okay with Bolan. The longer it lasted, the better the chances. He told the angry old man, “Mike had it coming. He turned on Augie in Jersey. And that’s the only reason Augie left his legs in Jersey.”

  Sally Palmer made a strangling sound as she cried, “Mack, he’s stalling you. He sent for help.”

  “It’s okay,” Bolan told her, looking at Barney. “All the hel
p in the world won’t help him now.”

  The living legend chuckled, deep in his throat. “That’s almost funny.”

  “You haven’t even heard the punch line,” Bolan told him. “I knew you wanted your limousine back, Barney. Very valuable vehicle. So I delivered it. With all the covers off.”

  It jarred. Those eyes crackled pure hatred. “What is that s’posed to mean?”

  “I delivered it to the headshed, Barney, to the guy in charge of VIP entertainment. He’s driving the visiting bosses around Manhattan right now. In your limo, right. Entertaining them with your taping system. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  “You rotten bastard!” Matilda growled.

  “If I were you, I’d steer clear of Manhattan after this. Come to think of it, I’d steer clear of just about everywhere. I couldn’t even recommend that condominium in Florida now. No way. Those boys are going to be upset enough to follow you clear to hell. You know? I never met a wise guy that loved an ace. I wonder why.”

  Those eyes were jerking now, yeah. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Aw, sure you do. Any ace could tell you, even the reds. They don’t get those face jobs because of the cops, Barney. And they don’t get them just so they can spy better. They change their faces because they want to keep on breathing. I can always tell an ace who’s earned a pile of hate. All I have to do is count the face jobs. Isn’t that right, Barney—I’m sorry—it’s Peter, isn’t it? Ace of all the aces, the real Boss of all Bosses. I can see why you’d rather rule by remote control. Your rotten old face wouldn’t have room for all those scars, would it? You ever hear of Dorian Gray, Barney? He was a guy who never changed in appearance, but his portrait kept getting uglier and uglier. You’ve got to be the ugliest—”

  “Mack, you’re playing his game!” the girl screamed. “There’s a secret way in here! He’s waiting for help!”

  “She’s right,” the old man said. “Don’t think I wouldn’t love to gut-shoot you, wise guy. But I have better use for your blood. I’m taking you and Punk David to the table tonight.”

  “No, you’re not,” Bolan told him coldly. “I never play another man’s game. You should know that by now. No help is coming. You haven’t a friend left in the world. You’ve used them all up, man. And now I’ve taken over your gestapo. All of your aces are calling me Peter—not Omega, not any more. I’ve taken over your remotes, I’ve taken over your offices, I’ve taken over your cadre, and now I’ve taken over the nerve center of your empire. I’m not playing your game, Mr. Matilda.”

  The sneer was still there, but it had lost something. “You’ve taken over! That’s rich, I love it. Whose hand has got the gun, smartass?”

  “A very old hand, Barney. That’s quite a weight you’re supporting there, isn’t it? That long silencer isn’t helping the balance any, is it? I get seasick just watching that old hand with the gun. I don’t believe you could hit the goddam wall, Barney.”

  “You’re ready to try me, huh?”

  “A minute ago, no. Now, yeah. But I’d rather not. I don’t have to do you, Barney. Ten thousand angry savages, just waiting for the chance, could do it so much better. And I guess they hold the title. No. I don’t want to try you, old man. I’m giving you the chance to walk away. Say yes or no. Say it right now.”

  Barney said it with his eyes.

  And Bolan was ready. He went to the left, against the pull, launching himself in a whirling dive as the trained hand flew to hardware. Barney’s piece whistled first, but Bolan’s whistled better. Barney’s round hit the wall, directly behind where Bolan had been. Bolan’s round hit headbone, splattering in between raging eyes and reaming a path through vicious and horror-uglied old brain cells, spilling muck and hatred and greed and power gone crazy all over the nerve center of the empire.

  “Thank God!” Sally gasped. “Another second of that and I’d have started screaming!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But you’re insane! His hand was steady as a rock!”

  “The eyes weren’t,” Bolan told her. He dropped a marksman’s medal into the gore. “The eyes were full of aces. In my game, the joker is wild.”

  “In your game, pal, the game is wild,” said the lady fed.

  He picked her up and carried her out of there.

  The wild was just beginning.

  21

  COMMAND DESTRUCT

  The hard line outside was intact and functioning. Bolan accompanied the lady to her bedroom upstairs, where she could effect repairs to her minor hurts and replace damaged wardrobe.

  “Who was Barney expecting?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know. He called someone from the data center just before you came along. I knew that place had to exist. I’m sorry for the powder I took on you but I just had to find it. Mack—don’t feel bad. That man was pure poison. That was his own man down there with the head shot off.”

  “I was expecting something like that,” Bolan told her. “I don’t feel bad. I feel glad.”

  “If you were expecting it,” she said, giving him a baffled look, “why didn’t you come in shooting?”

  “I didn’t mean Barney. He was a surprise. I meant the ace. One of the house force had already been reported missing. They tore the place apart looking for him. I’m still having trouble with the pieces. Give me a sort, will you.”

  “I came straight out here after I left you. I saw that the house was under guard—which was very unusual. But I didn’t know it until I was already in the drive, so I decided to just bluster in. Barney was always very careful about his image as a retired citizen with little to hide. It caught me cold and I guess I wasn’t thinking too well, either. I’d figured to have the place to myself. I was furious. I went right up to the guy and asked him what the hell was he doing here. He said there’d been some trouble and he’d been asked to watch the house until Mr. Matilda returned. He was very courteous and he didn’t challenge my right to be here. That was fine. Except that he obviously intended to stay inside with me. Well, I came on up here and waited my chance. It took me an hour of stealth and pounding pulses to get down to that basement, another ten minutes or so to find the trick door. I guess I got found about the same time. This guy came down right behind me.” She smiled ruefully. “You know I never carry a gun. But I’d picked up a piece of pipe from the trick laundry tub. I still had it when I heard the door machinery whirring again.” Her eyes were dancing. “I was scared to death but I laid for the guy and I caught him with a beauty. It knocked him silly. Barney came in on me about twenty minutes later. I don’t know how he got in. Just suddenly there he was. He hit me with a haymaker that knocked me twenty feet, I’m sure; then he went over and shot that poor guy while he lay there unconscious. A couple of thousand years later, you came along. Those are all the pieces I have, pal.”

  Bolan said, “Two cars are in the drive next to the garage. The Ford is yours?”

  “Sort of loosely, both are mine. The Pontiac goes with the territory. It was here when we left this morning. The Ford I drove out from town this afternoon.”

  Bolan sighed. “Okay. I just didn’t want any more surprises. Let’s get back to that phone call from the message center. You have no idea who Barney spoke to?”

  “None whatever. It was very cryptic. He said, uh, ‘It’s now. Send it.’ Those were the exact words—then he said something like, uh, ‘Pick up Barney Matilda and the beer.’”

  “And the beer?”

  “That’s the way I heard it.”

  Bolan stalked to the window and peered through the curtains for a moment. From there he said, “You said Barney simply appeared down there.”

  “Yeah, there’s another trick entrance. I looked up and there he was.”

  “Pick up Barney Matilda and the beer.”

  “Hey, I’m not trying to sell it. Just telling it like it was.”

  “Pick up Barney Matilda at the pier!”

  “Hey! That makes more sense!”

  “You b
et it does. Are you ready to quit this place?”

  “I’m ready, Teddy. Are you ready to try springing us?”

  He grinned, took her hand, and told her, “Hell, I own the joint.”

  Bolan called in his hard line and sent them home. “It’s gone to hell, gentlemen,” he told them. “You know what’s been happening in town all day. Well, we lost it. I suggest you burn your marks and show this town your backs for a while. I hear Brazil is very friendly.”

  A very stunned and befuddled band of aces climbed in their vehicle and quickly faded away.

  Bolan went back inside and told the lady, “It’s clear. You better go while it is.”

  “Aren’t you coming?” she asked worriedly.

  “Not yet. Don’t worry, the intelligence bank is all yours. I won’t touch a thing. Come back tomorrow, and don’t come alone. When you turnkey the thing to your boss, look for a trick door and a tunnel to the shore. It comes out under the pier, I’d guess.”

  She glumly nodded her agreement with that. “I guess. Well. So it’s goodbye already.”

  “Already, yeah. But at least it’s a happy note. Right?”

  “Right,” she murmured. “Say, uh, what do you have going later tonight? After, uh, the wild game is over. I, uh, I’m still a bit fuzzy on some of the plays.”

  “I usually don’t hang around the hellgrounds when it’s over, Sally,” he told her.

  “You don’t hang around anywhere for long, do you?”

  He said, “Someone once told me that travel is healthy. I try to watch my health.”

  “Oh, sure. I believe in that. Especially in your case. But, uh, how do you know when it’s really over? I mean, if you don’t get a debriefing … by an expert …”

  Bolan grinned. “Are you an expert?”

  “Certain phases of the game, sure.” Those baby-doll eyes glinted with mischief. “I could even check your health.”

  “Left hand or right?”

  “Huh?”

  “Which side of the mirror do I enter through?”

  She laughed daintily and told him, “All my doors are open to you, Mack, honey.”