Ivory Wave

by Don Pendleton

  The other reason, of course, was that Dom had wound up inside. Dom was tough enough to take it, but Nuncio didn’t think he was. If he had been looking at twenty-five years in a cage, he would have ended himself somehow. Dom had gone through it and come out stronger.

  That was the key difference between them. That was why Dom would win this fight.

  “Papa?” Gino asked.

  “What?” Nuncio snapped. He’d had a moment of weakness, a moment of believing that he had already lost, and the kid had seen it. He had to do something.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Nuncio said. Even as the words slipped from his mouth, the idea came to him. “There’s something you have to do for me, Gino.”

  “You know all you have to do is say the word.”

  “Where’s Marco?”

  “He’s in his office.” One flight down, Nuncio knew, with almost the same view. A little less lake, a little more of the building across the street.

  “Perfect,” Nuncio said. “You’re carrying, right?”

  Gino drew his jacket aside, showed his father the Glock 9 at his hip. Nuncio wasn’t sure he had ever fired it, certainly not in anything like a life-or-death situation. “Of course.”

  “Go on downstairs. Kill him.”

  “Kill Marco?”

  “That’s what I said.” Nuncio bit off the words, pissed off that the boy would even question a direct order.

  “But—”

  “He’s turned against us,” Nuncio said. “He’s gotta go. And I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “You don’t. But—”

  “Again with the buts!” Nuncio slid his top desk drawer open. He had a piece under his armpit, but Gino knew he had one in the drawer, as well. When he spoke again, he had regained control of his temper. His voice was even, measured. Cold. “Take care of it, Gino.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Gino said. No more arguing.

  Good thing, too.

  Nuncio had to have his only remaining son on his side. He could come out of this whole thing on top, he was sure. That momentary loss of confidence was a fluke, that was all. He would best Dom finally, and he would get back to his real interests—his businesses. Making bank.

  He would crush Dom, and then the rest of this bullshit would blow over.

  It wouldn’t take long now.

  * * *

  AS MIDNIGHT NEARED, a convoy of vehicles cruised down Rockwell Avenue, their headlights off. Streetlights provided all the illumination they needed, and there were few other vehicles on the road, and no pedestrians. Chiarello had been right about one thing—the place closed up tight on a Friday night.

  They stopped a couple of blocks from the NDC building. The building across the street, the one with the restaurant where Bolan had eaten, blocked their view of it, and presumably the view of them from there. Men issued from the vehicles, and many of them gathered around the back of the Navigator that Bolan had been driving. He had been upgraded, thanks to Chiarello’s word to Artie, from simple gunman to driver and armorer.

  That last was also thanks to Stony Man, not that he would tell these people that.

  Charlie Mott had included some heavy-duty firepower when he had made that delivery to Bolan. The soldier unzipped the heavy black bag he’d been carrying around and handed out two disposable M72 Light Antiarmor Weapons—LAWs. Rocket launchers, in short. They were old, but still functional.

  Perhaps more useful, he had a considerably more modern AT4-CS. The CS stood for confined space, which meant the issue of back-blast, which had originally made the weapon iffy for use in urban conflicts, had been solved. A saltwater countermass absorbed the back blast; the spray that resulted was much less problematic than the fireball that had been a problem before. The muzzle velocity had been slightly reduced, but the trade-off was considered worth it for urban use. The weapon’s big drawback was that it was built to be fired only once. But the AST warhead inside it would make that one use a worthy one.

  “What the hell is that?” Massimo asked.

  “Think of it as a key,” Bolan said.

  “A key?”

  “You have a key to your dad’s building?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to use it? Open the door and let us in?”

  Massimo laughed. “They’d butcher me.”

  “Right,” Bolan said. “That’s why we’ll use my key.” He hoisted the weapon, showed Massimo the basics. He took off the safety pin, then moved the sight covers, causing the sights to pop into place. “This doesn’t have a bad back-blast,” he explained. “Compared to other models. But you still don’t want to stand behind me when I use it.”

  “I’ll be standing next to you,” Massimo said. “I want to see that son of a bitch in action.”

  “Just not too close,” Bolan said. He handed the weapon to Massimo while he inserted earplugs and pulled on a pair of goggles. A full helmet would have been better, but space and weight had both been issues.

  “What does it shoot?” somebody asked.

  Bolan tapped the olive-drab tube. “It’s preloaded,” he said, “with an antistructure tandem warhead. It carries two charges. The first one has a shallow penetration, but makes a big hole. The second goes through the hole and blows up anything or anybody on the inside. My key to the castle.”

  “That thing looks awesome,” Massimo said.

  “Let’s find out. Wait a minute.” He took a couple of minutes to explain firing the LAWs to the two men who had ended up with the weapons. Dominic Chiarello had come with them, and he stood around with his hands in his pockets, supervising but not taking part.

  All in all, they could deal out some serious damage to Nuncio’s home base before even getting inside. Of course, it would be a noisy entry. Once they got in, they’d have to move fast and get out.

  Or Bolan would, anyway. He didn’t care if the police rounded up the rest of them. It would be for the best, in fact.

  But Bolan had a particular mission, and he wanted to get it done.

  Once they were outfitted, nineteen men walked toward the NDC building. Bolan had the smaller of his zippered gear bags hanging against his hip, the strap cutting diagonally across his chest. He let Massimo carry the AT4, and he handled it as easily as a child’s toy. He was grinning like an idiot. It was the first time Bolan had seen such a broad smile on the big man’s face, and it gave him an idea.

  “You want to fire it?” he asked.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Nothing to it.”

  “Hell, yes!” Massimo replied.

  “Okay. When we get into position I’ll show you the steps.”

  “Cool!”

  For a hardened killer, Massimo’s enthusiasm was boyish. Bolan figured the reason for that enthusiasm was the fact that he had just been handed a device that would make killing easier than ever. Whatever the source, he intended to take advantage of it. He moved a little closer to Massimo as they walked, and spoke with his voice low.

  “You probably know a lot about your father’s business, don’t you?” he asked, handing over the eyewear and earplugs.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Tell you what—we’ve been thinking about getting into that bath salts business. Ivory Wave, and all that. How’s that going for you?”

  “Great!” Massimo said. “Papa says it’s better than cocaine in the eighties. Low overhead, high margin, customers can’t get enough of it. And we don’t need to worry about anybody going to jail, because the drugs we lace it with are hard to detect, so you’re not having to hire kids to sell it on street corners or anything like that. Or paying lawyers and bail costs. It’s probably our single most profitable sector.”

  “Wow,” Bolan said. “Now I’m sorry we didn’t dive in sooner. Whose idea
was it for you guys, originally? Somebody took home a nice bonus, I’m guessing.”

  “Oh, that was all Papa. He heard about it someplace, you know, and said we should try it out. Gino and I, we weren’t so sure. But then, we weren’t involved back in the eighties when coke was booming, so we didn’t know. Turns out, if you sell something that gets people hooked, you’ve got a nice steady revenue stream. Our chemist was able to twist ours and make it better and even more addictive, so our numbers are almost double anyone else.”

  “So it’s addictive, this stuff?”

  “Oh, hell yes. Don’t ever try it, that’s what I hear. But sell it like crazy, because people who do try it keep on wanting more.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” Bolan said, “but I’m addicted to revenue streams. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Hey, no problem, dude.”

  They reached the diner on the corner, and Bolan held up a hand to stop the procession. He waited until Dominic Chiarello joined him at the corner. It was the old man’s show theoretically, even though he had ceded the tactical decisions to Bolan. Still, he needed to look as if he was involved. Bolan caught his eye and Chiarello gave him a nod.

  “When we get around the corner, they’ll know we’re here,” Bolan said. His voice was a low rumble, but he knew everybody could hear him. “So we’re going to have to set up fast. Our initial volley is going to make a lot of noise, and it’s going to let anybody in that building—anybody within a mile of here—know that we’re out here.” He pointed out positions for the LAWs, and Massimo and the AT4. He wanted the AT4 to take out the front door, the LAWs on the garage gate and the gunmen watching it. He positioned men with MP5s and high-capacity magazines aiming at the windows facing the lake.

  “Fire until you’re empty,” he said. “Then come back over here and reposition. When vehicles come out of the garage, take them out.” He indicated four men. “You guys go into the garage when we blow the gate. Anybody who’s already in a vehicle and moving toward the exit, you can let them go unless you need to defend yourself. Massimo, how many staircases inside feed into the garage?”

  “Just one,” Massimo said. “And the elevator.”

  “And how many staircases on the inside?”

  “One from the lobby up to the mezzanine,” Massimo replied. “Two internal ones, including the one to the garage.”

  “Okay, two of you stay by the elevator doors and punch the button. When it arrives, kill anybody inside and disable it. You might be able to just leave a body between the doors. They’ll bump against it, but it won’t go anywhere as long as the doors can’t close. If you come up with a better way, though, do that. The other two, come up the stairs and shoot anybody coming down.

  “The rest of us will go in through the front doors, or the hole that AT4’s going to make there. When you hit the stairs, don’t turn around and head back down or you’ll be shot by our own guys coming up. Four guys peel off at each floor—two from each interior staircase. Get inside the doors and start shooting. Careful you’re not shooting at each other from opposite ends of the hall. We’re going for maximum casualty count here. Everybody okay with that?”

  A few men nodded. Nobody objected. Bolan knew the plan was rudimentary at best, and would get a lot of his men killed.

  That didn’t matter, though. They weren’t really his men. They were murderers, every one of them, and the country would be a better place without them.

  He turned to Chiarello. “Maybe you should stay here until we’ve cleared the building and taken Nuncio. Then you can come in and assume control of the operation.”

  “As long as my brother’s alive,” Chiarello said. “That’s the main thing. Save him for me to deal with.”

  “Everybody got that?” Bolan asked. “He’ll probably be on the top floor, hiding under something. Leave him to me, and let me know when the lower floors are cleared.”

  More nods and grunts of assent came his way. The men were anxious to get going, their adrenaline revving up their nervous systems. If they didn’t get into action soon, they’d be jumpy, worthless.

  “Okay, then. Any last questions?”

  None came.

  “On my mark,” Bolan said. “Heavy ordnance first, then we move out.” He watched them all to make sure they were ready, then counted down.

  On his word, the men bearing the LAWs and large-capacity MP5s fanned out to the spots he had indicated. Massimo stepped forward with his AT4, and Bolan made sure no one was behind him.

  Once the men were set, Bolan shouted out, “Fire!” and the street exploded into booming noises, then explosions as the rounds hit home. The rocket sailed across the street, hit right next to the big bronze doors, blew, and then as expected, the secondary charge continued through the hole and exploded on the inside. Anybody standing near it would have been torn to shreds and blown up against whatever walls remained.

  The LAW rockets took down the garage gate and part of the wall. One of the gunmen on the inside ran out into the street, half his face sheared away. A quick triburst from an SMG finished him.

  The MP5 rounds crashed through windows and pelted anybody trying to see what was coming. When the barrage was over, men raced to cover.

  Then the real attack began, with Bolan leading the way. Nuncio’s men were shooting from the few windows that had an angle toward the intersection, but for the most part, when Bolan had brought the window gunners back in from their original positions, he had removed most of their potential targets. The side facing the diner, above the garage entrance, was a solid, blank slab. The greatest danger would be when he led men in through the front door, which would take them directly beneath the windows. Then Nuncio’s guys could fire straight down at them. If they met any resistance at the point of entry, it could get ugly.

  The group split up as they crossed the street, the smaller force heading toward the gaping garage entrance. Bolan took the rest close to the building, and they hugged stone as they worked toward the doorway. They had successfully cleared most of the windows. A few shots came from the farthest one, but the angle was bad and the rounds impacted harmlessly against the street.

  The AT4 had obliterated the left-hand door and a large chunk of the wall beside it. Bolan flattened against the wall for an instant, then spun into the opening, weapon at the ready, and scanned the visible interior. There was a large lobby area, marble-floored, detailed in rich wood and brass. But the floor had a crater in it, and body parts littered the rest. Scorch marks spread out around the blast area, and blood was everywhere, trails of it like lines on a road map, linking human tissue and debris and dropped weaponry.

  Bolan stepped inside.

  The lobby’s ceiling soared overhead, two stories high, with a graceful staircase sweeping up to the mezzanine. The only pieces of furniture on the ground floor were a reception-security counter with some video monitors behind it, and a waiting area with couches and chairs. A huge cut-crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, and Bolan saw trace amounts of blood on the lower rows, twenty feet above the floor. The smell of smoke and raw flesh warred for supremacy in the air.

  Not a living soul was in sight.

  That wouldn’t last, Bolan knew. By now, they knew the building had been breached. Whoever was still alive on the upper floors was preparing some kind of defense. So far, Dominic’s men had made it through with no casualties, but that was about to change.

  From this point forward, blood would be spilled on both sides.

  23

  Gino had taken the elevator down, his knees too weak to trust on the stairs.

  He had never killed before. His brother had, he knew. Once, at least, that he was aware of. Massimo had always had a violent streak, though, even when they were kids. Massimo had been a scrapper, then he had grown huge, seemingly overnight, and become notorious as a bully. When their father had an
nounced that he was adopting the straight-and-narrow path, Gino thought sure Massimo would object to their old man throwing away his chance to be one of those Mob legends, like the Iceman or Tommy Pitera. Maybe he was wrong, maybe there was a decent core somewhere inside his brother. But if there was, he hid it well.

  More than likely, he had killed again. He had always struck Gino as a killer waiting for his chance to shine.

  That urge had never run strong in Gino, though. He had been relieved at their father’s decision. The straight life was the safe life, without prison worries or fears that one day he’d turn the key to start his car and ignite a bomb, or turn the wrong corner and find a man with a gun waiting for him.

  Now, simply by getting out of prison, his uncle seemed to have changed all that.

  On legs that threatened to give way with every step, he walked past the NDC executive offices, his own included, as well as the empty one that his uncle Dom had never used, to get to Marco’s. It was a corner office, next to the one Gordon Hawkins used and directly below his father’s, though only half the size. Marco’s responsibilities with the company were limited; mostly he was there as a sounding board for the old man, a crucial voice of reason.

  Gino had always loved Marco, who was more of an uncle to him than Dom had ever been. Dom had done much for Massimo, but every time he saw Gino, he looked at him as if he was a stranger and a bit of a pest.

  He stopped at Marco Cosimo’s door. It was open, but he knocked anyway. The man was sitting at his desk, staring at the window as if important messages were being beamed to him from the distant lake. At Gino’s knock, Cosimo swiveled in his chair. “Gino,” he said.

  “Something outside?” Gino asked. He held the Glock behind his back.

  “No. I don’t know. I thought I heard...I don’t know what. Probably just a car going by. What are you—”

  He didn’t answer, and Gino never brought the pistol around, because from outside the window, flashes came, bright as daylight, and with them came thunder like the hoofbeats of the Four Horsemen. “Fuck,” Cosimo said when the building started to rock, and Gino forgot all about the task at hand.