"Yes, sir!" Raw fear owned the small man.
"Driver, get onto 63rd. I want to go straight west."
The wheelman nodded. Bolan watched the street signs, and when he saw they were on 63rd, he ordered the driver to stop. Then the Executioner turned to the small man again.
"What's your name?"
"Orville."
"Okay, Orville. This is a chance for you to go legit. Now get out of here."
Bolan reached in front of Genovese and opened the door. The small man with the leather case scrambled out of the car and ran as fast as he could up the street.
"You're Bolan," Genovese said.
"And you're dead, Genovese."
The Mafia hotshot smiled. "That's been tried before."
"I haven't tried before."
"No. But you want something from me, or else I'd be dead already, like Mario back there, and Jake Spanno yesterday. It was you, wasn't it?"
"You're right, Carlo. I want something, and you're going to give it to me, sooner or later. I have all the time in the world." Bolan tapped the driver on the shoulder.
"Keep on going until you come to Bedford Park."
"What do you want, Bolan?" Genovese asked.
"Don Spanno, the old man. You were with him for years. You know everything about his operation. Take me to him."
"We'd both be blown away."
"I'll take my chances."
Genovese shook his head. "Not so, Bolan. You're not that straight line. I know as much about you as anybody in the world. Made you a kind of private study. You're here to fuck up our drug business."
"If you know so much about me, you'd know you're living on borrowed time."
"Park's coming up," the driver said.
"Good, find a deserted spot and shut it down."
"A hit in the park? Not terribly original for the Executioner," Genovese sneered.
When the big car stopped Bolan told the driver to get out, walk away fifty yards up a slight rise and lie facedown with his arms and legs spread out wide. The driver did it without a word.
"Now, how do I find Spanno?"
Genovese laughed. "You don't want Spanno. You killed his son, the drug boss. You wasted Montessi, another Family's drug man. Now you only have two to go. Spanno is a bluff."
But the first tinges of doubt, of growing fear began to show around Genovese's eyes. Quick nervous glances out the window. His hands suddenly became an obligation, a nuisance. There was nowhere to put them.
"Get out of the car, Carlo. Step back slowly from the door six feet so I can see you. You blink sideways and you get three slugs in your head."
Genovese did as he was told. Bolan followed him and patted him down with one hand, keeping the Beretta ready. The mafioso was clean.
"Back in the car, the front passenger seat. And get in from this side."
The Executioner called out to the driver. "You use a phone in the next three hours and you're dead."
"Yes, sir," the guy called back.
The keys were in the ignition; a wheelman would always leave them there, unless it was a long park situation. Bolan started the big engine, then drove out of Bedford Park to 63rd and headed back toward town. He pulled in to the first motel he saw and rented a room.
Ten minutes later Bolan had Carlo Genovese tied to the bed. His mouth was taped shut, and his hands and ankles bound together.
Outside, Bolan hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door knob, then left.
The address was in Cicero, a small community close to downtown Chicago. He would go there to continue his campaign in progress, and also to give Genovese time to reflect on things as he lay immobilized on the motel bed. But first he dumped the crew wagon and took a taxi back to Jackson Park. He figured the cops would have given up watching the street around where Montessi had been shot that morning. He was right. He walked a block to his Ford, got in and drove away.
The street the Executioner wanted was half a dozen blocks off Roosevelt, with single-family houses that had been built around the turn of the century. He found the address and parked a few hundred yards away. From the bottom of his suitcase he extracted three small oblongs and placed them in a carrying pouch clipped to his belt.
He changed back to combat black, strapped on his battle harness and snugged the Beretta in a shoulder holster. Around his neck he slung an Uzi submachine gun with double magazines of 9mm parabellum rounds. The second magazine was welded at right angles to the first at the bottom. The extra clip extended toward the muzzle and acted as a second front hand grip that helped stop muzzle-climb on full auto.
Bolan watched as two men entered the front door. He slid around the side of the house and slipped through a back entrance that led to the basement. Lights were on but the windows had been painted black.
As Bolan crossed the threshold, a man dropped the girlie magazine he was reading and clawed for hardware. He was too slow. Bolan put a silenced Beretta round through his head.
The Executioner tried the basement-door handle and it came unlatched. He pulled it toward him half an inch and looked inside.
It was a cutting and packaging room, and two men were working at a long table. At the far end lay three wrapped bricklike packages. On the table was a finely calibrated scale and boxes filled with small plastic envelopes. Beyond them was a heat-sealer machine to close the packets. At the other side of the room a man sat on a high stool watching the procedure. A shotgun rested across his knees.
Bolan nudged the door open another inch and took out the armed guard with one silenced head shot. One of the men opened his mouth in surprise when a red drizzle dotted the white powder. Any scream from him was stillborn as a second slug filled the toothy gap, the impact hurling him off his seat. His flailing hands scattered the white dust that settled on his face, filling his nostrils as the man enjoyed his final high without knowing it.
The second worker broke for a side door, but the Executioner used up a 3-round burst on him, dropping him before he could reach the door handle.
The nightraider listened. Footsteps on the wooden floor over his head, but nothing that sounded unusual. He checked the powder on the table. Cocaine and heroine. He took the split-open packages and dumped the contents in the toilet. He opened the taps in the sink and emptied the other three-pound bags of coke, watching it dissolve and run down the drain.
Back in the cutting room he planted two chunks of the C-4 plastic explosive that he had brought. He placed a charge on each side of the basement ceiling where he found supporting beams, priming the puttylike plastic with a five-minute pencil timer/detonator.
Then Bolan opened the side door and saw a set of steps. Sounds of music floated down the stairway. He started up quietly and as he gained the top tread, he met a black man coming through the door. The man started to shout, but flashing steel stilled the screams as the Executioner's knife slid across the man's throat. His eyes went wide and only a gurgling sound escaped his lips as he tumbled into Bolan's arms. The big man in black let the body down on the steps quietly and looked into the room.
Four men were standing around laughing. Two women passed on the way to the kitchen and returned with fresh drinks. What was it, a convention?
As Bolan hesitated a woman came to the door and pushed it open. Bolan slapped one hand over her mouth, the other around her waist and pulled her into the stairwell. She saw the body on the stairs and stiffened. Bolan could feel her mouth trying to work up a scream.
When she got over the first panic, Bolan whispered to her.
"You won't get hurt if you remain silent. Understand?"
Her head bobbed up and down.
"What's going on in there, a party?" Again she nodded.
"How many people?" He moved his hand off her mouth. She swallowed twice and took some deep breaths.
"Maybe a dozen. They keep coming and going. They're picking up their shit here. All dealers. Who are you? What happened to Wilbur?"
"He got hurt. Are you a dealer?"
"I'm a ho
oker. I work for the outfit. They say come out here and decorate, pop a few johns."
"How many party girls?"
"Three of us."
"You have a minute to get them out of here. The whole place is going to blow sky-high."
"A bomb? Please don't hurt the girls. I don't care what happens to the other pigs."
"Move it. Get your friends and run."
Bolan gave them sixty seconds, then he cracked the door. He saw someone heading for him. Bolan slammed the Uzi on the side of the guy's head and pushed him down the steps.
"Freeze!" the Executioner shouted.
All heads spun to look at the dark-clad stranger.
Bolan saw somebody clawing for a handgun. The Uzi stuttered off five rounds before the man cleared leather. He slammed backward against the wall, dead before he slumped to the floor. The sound of the unsilenced Uzi was thunderous. Other dealers fanned out, heading for doorways.
For a moment there was only the sound of rushing feet.
One brave soul came around a corner of the living room with a 12-gauge. Before he could aim, the Uzi chattered again. The shotgun shattered in the hoodlum's hands as lead tore into it. More 9mm whizzers perforated the gunman's chest, leaving the soul to rest in pieces.
The sound of the SMG in the confined room was overpowering. Two men scurried out the front door and Bolan rushed out behind them, not sure how much time was left on the five minutes. He got to the street and blended into the growing dusk.
He was barely across the street when a thunderous roar split the evening. The whole side of the two-story house ripped apart with a blinding explosion. The basement wall blew out. Timber, siding and shattered glass shot skyward. The second eruption came fifteen seconds after the first, demolishing what was left of the house. Windows in buildings on both sides of the cutting factory cracked from the concussive effect.
Somewhere a siren wailed. Fire crackled from the basement. A gas pipe split and the escaping vapor fueled the fire in the fading daylight.
Bolan walked away from the ruined house.
17
Bolan drove back to the motel and parked outside the building. He did not leave the vehicle immediately, but opened the suitcase and rummaged around until he found a small brown leather case. Inside nothing was damaged or broken. There were two throwaway syringes and two plastic vials filled with liquid. It would be the only method the Executioner would use: he would not stoop to turkey-meat torture, nor could he kill Genovese. Right now the man was Bolan's single lead.
He entered the motel room and ripped the tape off the mobster's mouth.
"I thought you were going to let me rot here, Bolan."
"Too simple. Who is the Mafia drug czar of Chicago?"
"I'll be damn near dead before I tell you that."
"You ready to die, Carlo?"
Genovese snorted.
"I hear you used to do some turkey work, Carlo."
"No way, not my style. But it's not your style either, Bolan. Kill, yes. But no torture, no shooting at cops, and you have a soft spot for the civilians. That's your kind of play. Turkey meat? Never."
"Don't bet on that, Genovese."
"What are my options?"
"Damn few." Bolan growled.
"After my wheelman tells them you have me, my word will be shit," Genovese said bitterly.
"So even the score. You don't believe that crap about Men of Honor, do you?"
"It's kept me alive up to now."
"Up to now." Bolan took out the leather case, opened it and took out the syringe, then one of the two vials.
"What's that?" A look of fear crossed Genovese's face.
"Heard about death by injection? Decided to try it."
"Just like that? In cold blood?"
"You're no good to me. I need the name and location of your boss. If you clam up, I'll get it someplace else. In any case, you lose."
The Mafia big shot stared fixedly as Bolan pulled the liquid from the vial into the syringe, then pumped the air out of the barrel.
"L-look, there's no rush. You want names? I've got some. How about the biggest madam in town who also uses girl addicts and hooks every man on drugs who comes into the place. She's also a big supplier to a bunch of dealers."
"Keep talking."
Genovese gave him the woman's name and address.
"You need the drug bosses of the other Families, right?" He gave the names and addresses and Bolan made a mental note.
"That's enough, right? That should get me off the hook. I'll say I escaped after you tied me up, and I can still stay straight with the Families."
"No, Carlo. I want the czar's name. I won't leave without his head."
"Go ahead then! I might as well die right here." Tears rolled down his cheeks. "I figured I might buy it some day, but not like this."
Bolan brought the needle down and drove the point into the savage's arm. Genovese screamed in terror.
"Happy hell, Carlo."
Bolan put his hand over the mobster's mouth as he tried to scream again.
Bolan waited for three minutes, then checked on Genovese. His eyes were open.
"Good morning, Carlo. How do you feel?"
"Feel? Yeah, okay." His words were slow, a little slurred. Bolan knew that was normal for a sodium pentathol injection taking effect.
Bolan began with easy questions, the standard method in interrogating a person under the effects of truth serum.
"What is your wife's name, Carlo?"
"Beth."
"You have two children?"
"Three."
He asked the names of the key drug men of the other Families and Genovese answered as he had before.
"Does the four-family drug czar live in Chicago?"
There was a slight hesitation, then he said yes.
"Where were you born, Carlo?"
"Chicago."
"How old are you?"
"Forty."
"What's the drug czar's first name?"
"Jay." No hesitation.
"How old is your daughter?"
"Twelve."
"What is Jay's last name?"
Hesitation. And a scowl. "Lupo, Jay Lupo."
"Where does Lupo live?"
"In Chicago."
"What's the address?"
"Towers Street, 1814."
"What apartment number?"
Hesitation. "Thirty-four-oh-one."
"Can you get me into Jay's quarters?"
"Yes."
Bolan smiled. The drug would wear off in an hour. Carlo would sleep for another three or four. By that time The Executioner would be back, and he and Carlo would visit the drug czar.
His next appointment was with a madam in Oak Park just off Lake Street. It was a fancier place than he had expected. A quick recon showed it must be party night. Perhaps a big shipment had just arrived and all of the «team» members were on hand for distribution.
Bolan wore his blacksuit with the Beretta in shoulder leather under a dark sport jacket. Over his shoulder hung a small utility bag that contained four white phosphorus grenades.
The Executioner timed his arrival at the door with a group of six other visitors. They did not knock, just opened the door and walked in and Bolan hung behind the group. Inside he found a short hall that led to a huge reception area. A man came into the room holding a drinking straw and a small folded paper packet filled with white powder. The guy laughed and pointed to the room beyond.
To the left a stairway rose to the second floor. Bolan took the steps two at a time, then climbed another flight to the third floor. There were doors on both sides of the corridor. Two of them were open. He peered in the first and found a young woman, engrossed in a card game, sitting cross-legged on a bed, wearing only bikini panties. She looked up and smiled at the big stranger.
"You here for the freebie?"
"No, but I'll give you a tip. Get dressed, you're going to be out in the dark in five minutes."
"Why?"
Bola
n let his jacket swing back so she could see the gun. He took a smooth-bodied WP grenade from the utility bag and showed it to her.
"No questions, miss. Just do as I say."
She jumped off the bed and turned around, suddenly becoming shy. Quickly she pulled on a blouse and faded blue jeans and pushed her feet into sandals.
"Collect your other girl who isn't working. I'll talk to the rest."
"The men could get nasty."
" Leave them to me."
The girl grinned as she left the room ahead of him. Bolan tried the door that was closed. It was not locked. He pushed it in and stood there with the Beretta up and trained on the bed. A blonde, straddling an obese man, turned when she heard the door open.
"What the…"
"You have one minute to move downstairs, dressed or not." He spun and left the room, kicked in the next closed door and found two girls entertaining a thin blond man.
"This is a raid!" Bolan shouted. The girls jumped off the bed and scrambled for clothes. The man sat there swearing. When he stood up, Bolan pushed him into the hall. The five hookers stood there waiting.
Bolan popped the safety pin on one of the WP grenades and tossed the phosphorus bomb into the closest room. Five seconds later the device exploded and smoke gushed from the room as well as a thin spray of the white, sticky, burning material. It stuck on the opposite wall and kept on smoldering.
"Everyone on the second floor, out," the Executioner said. The girls scampered down the hall, pushing open doors, screaming at the people inside. Bolan waited at the second open door until a black girl slid into tight pants and pulled on a jacket. Her john jammed himself into slacks and a shirt but didn't have time for shoes. Bolan motioned him out with the Beretta, then tossed in a WP smoke grenade and closed the door.
Smoke began to seep down the stairs. People on the first floor smelled the smoke and everyone began to yell.
One woman in a long red dress with diamonds at her throat was bustling around in the confused throng, shouting orders and screaming. A stream of people poured out the front door to the sidewalk.
Bolan saw someone hurrying back in against the flow.
"Whole damn top floor is burning!" the man said. "We better get out with what we can!"
They dashed to a room at the rear of the building, and Bolan followed them. A box on a large table held bundles of «papers» of heroin and coke. The papers had been folded from magazine pages.
Resurrection Day Page 13