Ivory Wave

by Don Pendleton

  Chiarello himself was completely gray, and he looked older than he probably was, which Bolan attributed to his time in prison. His face was heavily lined, his eyes hooded. He looked strong, but Bolan guessed that now that he was on the outside, with more on his mind, that wouldn’t last long. He wore a dark blazer over a silk shirt and linen pants, and the jacket’s structure couldn’t disguise the way his shoulders slanted away from his muscular neck. His waist was trim, his chest deep. He glanced over the men gathered around the doorway, acknowledging them with a couple of slight nods. Annamaria didn’t even look at them. Bolan wondered if she was somehow ashamed of needing their protection. Maybe what shamed her was the fact that everybody knew how the beautiful home and the cosmetic surgery and the expensive leather suitcases had been paid for. She’d had plenty of time to get used to it, but she had also been able to spend much of the past twenty-five years pretending it wasn’t true. Now it had all been brought back in a very real, undeniable way.

  Artie walked quickly between the groups of men, laying out the plan. Most of those stationed at the house would be joining them. Four men would ride in the lead vehicle, three in the second with Chiarello, three in the third with Annamaria and the rest bringing up the rear. Once they reached the building that housed the coffee shop, they would drive around to the alley running behind it and unload by the back door. All the men would get out then, and congregate around Dominic’s car. Once he was inside they would form the same barrier around Annamaria. Inside the building, they would have an upstairs room in the building’s center, with no windows. It would take a wrecking ball, or an RPG attack, to get to them in there.

  They split up and entered their assigned vehicles. The driver of the lead one rolled slowly to the gate, where the men standing guard let them out, but as soon as he was on the street, he hit the gas. The other drivers followed suit, and in moments all four SUVs were tearing down the quiet residential street. Bolan, in the front seat of the second car with Chiarello directly behind him, was reminded of convoys in Iraq, where contractors and soldiers alike ignored every traffic law in favor of reaching their destinations quickly and alive.

  What he didn’t like was how close the vehicles were staying to one another. This wasn’t Iraq, after all—there was no other traffic, no danger that some other vehicle, possibly one loaded with explosives, would weave in between the convoy vehicles. But, as in Iraq, a roadside bomb could take out multiple vehicles if they were too bunched up.

  He was about to say something to the driver, to encourage him to drop back a few car lengths, when the machine guns opened up.

  21

  They had just entered the first turn of an S-curve that cut between a small neighborhood park on one side and a high school on the other. Both stretches of roadway were dark, until muzzle flashes tore the night at the same instant that window glass shattered and there was a noise like a rainfall of pebbles hitting the sides of the vehicle. The driver let out a grunt of pain, but Bolan wasn’t sure if he’d been hit by a round or by windshield glass.

  The front car was hit by at least a few rounds, and the driver’s response was to push the accelerator to the floor. The driver next to Bolan was starting to do the same thing. Bolan grabbed his arm. “Stop the car,” he said.

  “But—”

  Bolan already knew the arguments the man would make, and they didn’t have time to go through them. “Just stop,” he said. “Block the road if you can.” He didn’t want the SUV carrying Annamaria to go past, either. To emphasize his point, he gave the wheel a tug toward him and turned the key, killing the engine.

  His commanding tone did the trick, and the vehicle fishtailed as it jerked to a shuddering stop, tail toward the curb. The position put Chiarello in the safest position, hard to get to by the gunmen slightly ahead of the SUV on right and left. Bolan was out the door before it even came to a full stop, dropping to his stomach on the asphalt, his H&K aimed at where he had seen the last muzzle blast from the park. As soon as he saw another one, he squeezed the trigger and sent a dozen rounds sailing through the dark. Hot brass shell casings clinked to the street around him. The shooter cried out, and the flame from his gun barrel tilted toward the sky.

  Answering fire still came from the other side of the street, though, somewhere near the school building. Bolan suspected the shooter on that side was using the building itself for cover. He gained his feet and ran in a crouch to the corner of the big SUV, then sighted on the near corner of the school. It had occurred to him that there were only two shooters here, which was why he had wanted the vehicles to stop before getting deeper into the S-curve.

  He saw the second gunman in light reflecting off a window of the school building, before the man had even settled on his next target. Bolan squeezed off another long burst, and the man fell.

  Bolan returned to the SUV and stuck his head in the door. “You okay, Mr. Chiarello?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Chiarello said. “You got those bastards.”

  “That’s right,” Bolan replied. “But they’re only the beginning.”

  “What do you mean?” the driver asked.

  “Two guys? Nobody would send two guys on an ambush like this,” Bolan explained. “They were just to get us distracted, not paying attention on the next couple of curves. We’d speed up, then we’d slow down for the tightest curve, thinking we were in the clear. That’s when the bigger force would hit us.”

  “We should turn around,” the driver said. He reached for the key.

  “Mr. Chiarello,” Bolan said quickly, “if we do that, you might get out of this alive. But you’ll only have taken out two of their men. And, honestly, you’ll look like a coward if you run from this. We have one chance to make a real statement here, but you’ll have to trust me for a few minutes.”

  In the dim light he could see Chiarello considering. He didn’t take long to make up his mind, which Bolan appreciated. “I don’t know who you are, but if I had ten more guys with your balls I could rule the entire Midwest,” he said. “Do what you’ve got to do.”

  “It’ll mean leaving you here with limited protection. And your wife, too. For a little while.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Chiarello said.

  Bolan didn’t delay. He put Chiarello and his wife into the third SUV, and had them duck down behind the seats. He put two shooters in the front, including the one who had been wounded most severely, bleeding from the clavicle, and took the rest with him. As they cut across the schoolyard, he explained what would have to pass for a plan.

  They had nine men. He didn’t know how many would be waiting around the bend, or how closely they’d be bunched. But they would be watching the road, starting to think that their targets weren’t coming after all. They had let the first vehicle go by, guessing—correctly—that Chiarello wouldn’t be in the lead car. But by now they’d be worried that maybe that one would turn around and come back. They would be on edge, having heard the exchange of gunfire and not knowing what the results had been.

  All those factors would work in favor of Bolan and his crew. As would the fact that they’d be coming from behind the gunmen, instead of from the road. If there were other shooters on the far side of the road, they would be safe behind whatever cover they had taken. And if they were all on the far side, then Bolan’s plan would be a disaster because he and his men would have to cross the street on foot. They’d be sliced to ribbons.

  Bolan had to admit that he was impressed by the quality of the men hired on Chiarello’s behalf. They had never trained together, never had to fight as a unit, but they moved through the dark with speed and silence, their weapons at the ready. In less than two minutes they had crossed the school grounds and passed through somebody’s side yard.

  Ahead of them were the men from the other team. Bolan counted seven. They were huddled together behind a thick hedge, probably discussing their options. He cou
ldn’t tell if there were more across the street, but he’d find out soon enough.

  For now, the task ahead couldn’t be easier. The way they were grouped meant he could put them all down himself. With nine guns, they would never stand a chance. It was almost unsportsmanlike.

  Then again, Bolan wasn’t here for sport.

  He gave the signal, and he and his guys fired short bursts, cutting the men down where they stood. From the far side of the street, somebody opened fire at them, but it was only two guys, and they didn’t last long.

  When they were finished, Bolan led his team back across the schoolyard. The sound of distant sirens cut the quiet night. They had to move out in a hurry, now that the path was clear, or there would be a lot of difficult questions directed their way.

  They reached the cars and split up, returning to their designated spots, except Bolan got into the third car with Dominic and Annamaria Chiarello and sent two men up to what had become the lead car. They were barely out of the S-curve when they met the first SUV, which had eventually doubled back for them. It let them pass, then made a screaming U-turn and followed.

  They didn’t stop again until they were in the alley behind the coffee shop. There, the men did as they’d been told, forming a human shield for the Chiarellos. When the couple was safely inside, the men filtered in, going back to the common room. Only there did the tension finally break. Pouring coffee and making sandwiches and lighting smokes, the men started talking loudly, telling those who had stayed behind what had happened, cracking jokes. Bolan recognized the syndrome. During the action they had held it all in, keeping themselves together. Once they were on safe ground, they had to let the tension out. Some men did it by fighting, some through sex. Here, those weren’t very viable options.

  While a doctor tended to the wounded, Artie came for Bolan. “Kenner,” he said, his mouth a thin, straight line, “come with me.”

  Bolan rose from his chair, downed the dregs of his coffee and flipped the empty cup into a wastebasket. He felt several pairs of eyes burning into him as he was led from the room.

  * * *

  “MR. KENNER,” DOMINIC CHIARELLO said. He took Bolan’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “I didn’t have a chance to thank you earlier.”

  “No need,” Bolan said. “I was hired to fight for your side. Long as I get paid, I’m happy.”

  They were in a kind of sitting room that had been set up for the Chiarellos. The upper floors had been apartments once, and though this one was no longer furnished like one, it did the job. This room had a couple of chairs and a couch, thrift-store modern, but serviceable. Bolan saw a closed door at the back of the room, and he figured there was a bedroom behind it. Annamaria was probably in there. To get in, he and Artie had passed a small kitchen, and a glance through another open door had revealed a toilet and sink. “Still. Once I heard everything that you did, I was glad we had you with us. You really took charge.”

  “It’s just who I am, I guess.”

  “Well, Mrs. Chiarello and I are grateful to you. That could have gone a lot worse.”

  “It could have,” Bolan agreed.

  “How much do you know about what we’re doing here?”

  “Only what Artie told me. And Massimo. There’s trouble between you and your brother. You’ve been expecting him to make a move on you, and now I guess he has.”

  “Yeah, it looks that way. The cops got there before we could take a closer look at those shooters, but I know they came from Nuncio. I don’t know what’s got his panties in a twist, but when he attacked me and my wife, he went too far.”

  From what Bolan had heard in the common room, Dominic’s side had made the first moves, and Nuncio had been playing defense. But he didn’t know the truth of it. To be honest, he didn’t care.

  He had shot those men on the street because they were shooting at him. He had no animosity toward them, or any loyalty to Chiarello. He was allied with Dominic only because he hadn’t had a path directly to Nuncio, and he figured that one way or another, being in the middle of the fight would take him where he wanted to go.

  It was about Ivory Wave. About Angela Fulton, and all the other Angela Fultons still at risk. Dominic Chiarello was nothing but a vehicle—one he would ride as long as he could until he reached his destination.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Chiarello continued. “We’re going after Nunce. No ambush bullshit, either. I know he’s holed up in that building of his, downtown. We’re going in there and we’re not coming out again until my brother is dead. Nobody shoots at my wife. Not even him.”

  “Makes sense,” Bolan said. “But attacking an office building in the middle of downtown? That’s going to attract some attention.”

  Chiarello nodded. “That’s right. But this is Friday night. That’s not a big nightlife part of town. Even when I lived here before, they rolled the sidewalks up there at six on Friday and didn’t unroll them again until Monday morning. So we’ll make our play tonight. The law’s going to be on us pretty fast, so we’ve got to be faster. Get in, get Nunce and get out. Hopefully we’ll be done by the time anybody hears the noise.”

  “You have anything like antitank ordnance?” Bolan asked. “We’ll need it to get in fast.”

  “I got a line on some H&K GMGs,” Chiarello said. “From the same source that supplied the submachine guns. But they haven’t come through yet.”

  “I might be able to help with that,” Bolan told him. “I have a couple of LAWs and an AT4.”

  Chiarello looked impressed. “Didn’t you just fly in from Vegas? You can’t check that shit with your bags.”

  “I believe in being prepared,” Bolan said.

  “The Boy Scouts never should’ve let you go.”

  “To tell you the truth, they were always a little tame for me.”

  “How much time you need, Kenner?”

  Bolan calculated the distance to the airport and back. “Ninety minutes,” he said. “And a ride.”

  “You got it. We’re going in tonight, but not until midnight, when the streets in that neighborhood are completely deserted. That’ll give you plenty of time to pick up the hardware, and then we’ll meet up here and hammer out a plan.”

  “I’ve already got a plan, Mr. Chiarello.”

  Chiarello’s left eyebrow arched. “You do?”

  “We blow up the doors, go inside and shoot people,” Bolan said. “You think it needs to be more complicated than that?”

  Chiarello laughed. “I guess not. I think that’ll about cover it.”

  22

  Nuncio was sitting alone in his office, which had essentially become his home. He had set up a cot in one corner, and he had been clever enough to put a kitchen in the building when he had bought and converted it. It wasn’t big enough to feed everybody, but he was the boss, and his needs came first. He was thinking about the only thing that had been on his mind lately—why his brother had it in for him, and what he could do about it. He hoped that was being taken care of right now.

  Then someone knocked at his door, a hesitant tap-tap-tap, and he knew it hadn’t been. “What?” he demanded.

  The door opened and Gino came in, walking as if there might be land mines under the floor. Gino had never married, hadn’t had many girlfriends, in fact. Physically, he was almost the opposite of his brother, slight and pale. Nuncio had wondered many times if his late wife had taken a lover or two, because it didn’t seem that Gino could possibly be his son. He had also wondered if Gino was gay. He had tried to tell himself it wouldn’t matter to him, but of course that was a lie. He would consider it a betrayal.

  At the moment, however, it was the favored son, Massimo, who was the traitor. Nuncio thought there had to be a lesson in there somewhere, but he couldn’t spare the time to try to figure it out. “What is it, Gino?”

  “T
hey missed Uncle Dom,” he said.

  “Who did?”

  “The trap we set. You were right—Uncle Dom and Aunt Annamaria, they left the house and drove into the city. But the trap didn’t work. Marco got a call from Joey B.”

  There were three guys on the payroll named Joey, all of them new, hitters brought in just for this fight. Fortunately they all had different last names, so they went by their initials.”

  “Did Joey B explain why he’s a miserable fucking failure?”

  “He didn’t have time to. According to Marco, he was dying fast. The rest of them were dead, he said, or near enough.”

  “All of them?”

  “That’s what Joey said.”

  “And why didn’t Marco bring me this news?”

  “He’s busy with something else, I guess. He asked me to tell you.”

  Nuncio sighed. “So the guy who’s been with me the longest, who’s one of my closest friends, even him I can’t trust.”

  “You can trust Marco. And me.”

  “If Marco’s busy with something, it’s not something I told him to do,” Nuncio said. “That means he’s probably busy looking for a way out of this. Selling me out to Dom, maybe.”

  “He wouldn’t!”

  “He would, Gino. You got to be realistic here. We got some good guys on our side, guys who’ve made reputations all over the country. But for all we know, Dom’s got an army. We’re in here and he’s out there. This would be the time to get out, if you wanted to go.”

  Gino looked as if he might burst into tears. That would be just the confidence builder Nuncio needed. “Papa! No way I’m leaving you! No fucking way!” he added, as if the swearword would make it more meaningful.

  Nuncio swore, too. Probably too much. But some guys in the life, they had seen GoodFellas one time too many. Pesci could pull it off, but most guys just sounded like idiots when they tried. That was one reason Nuncio had tried to take his business interests legit, tried to raise his sons in a different environment than the one he and Dom had grown up in.