Resurrection Day

by Don Pendleton

  "One move and you're dead," Bolan called. The man froze, then dropped to his knees.

  "Please, don't shoot! I'm a visitor. I don't live here!"

  "Flat on your face!" Bolan ordered. He saw Genovese straighten and move out from the wall. "Carlo, walk down the hall ahead of me."

  Genovese moved slowly, holding his left arm tightly to his side.

  A door opened at the end of the hall and in the subdued light Bolan could see the glinting snout of a weapon. He dived to the side, pulled up the Uzi and triggered a burst.

  The resounding gunfire in the confined hallway deafened everyone there. The weapon in the doorway spit flame, and Genovese screamed. The Executioner's arm snaked out to encircle the Mafia man's body before he fell, at the same time using the mobster as a shield. Carefully Bolan pulled him around a corner and slowly extracted the grenade. He pushed the pin back in, making the explosive safe.

  Then he looked at Genovese.

  The man was dead.

  The young blond man on the floor quivered with fear and remained facedown.

  Bolan darted for the first door, the one the kid had left. He flattened against the wall and peered around the doorway. The room seemed empty. He jumped inside, the Uzi panning the gloom. A connecting door clicked and the Uzi muzzle tracked upward.

  A woman stepped into the room quickly. She was tall and attractive with shoulder-length dark hair. A short black nightie half covered her crotch. Heavy, brown-tipped breasts strained against the see-through thinness of the sheer nylon fabric.

  "Where's the gun?" Bolan growled.

  "It's empty, on the bed. I thought you were a burglar."

  Bolan reached around the door and found a wall switch. The room was another bedroom; the king-size water bed had rumpled sheets. He could see no one else. He picked up the handgun and checked it. She was telling the truth.

  Bolan looked more closely at her. The lady was about forty-five, and he could tell her face had been lifted. She had a young woman's figure with long, shapely, tapered legs.

  "Who are you?" Bolan asked.

  "I'm Jay Lupo."

  "Where's the boss?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The czar, the top drug man for the four Families?"

  "You must be joking. I've only been here a week but he said nothing…" She smiled. "He does let me have my little friends like Alec."

  "Where is this broad-minded friend of yours?"

  "Out. Some kind of shipment or something. I don't bother with that." She walked toward Bolan, her arms out, her breasts jiggling. "Mmm, you are a hunk."

  Bolan caught her arm, spun her around and pushed her ahead of him.

  "First, lady, we check out every room in this place, then we have our long talk. Move it!"

  The trip took them through two more bedrooms, an office and into the dining room. The suite was empty. The only other person alive in the place was Alec, who was still shivering facedown on the floor.

  "Get your pants on and get out of here," Bolan snapped. The young man leaped to his feet and vanished into the bedroom. He was back in a minute, pushing a shirt into slacks and then putting on his shoes as he hurried out. The door locked behind him.

  At first Bolan didn't get it, then suddenly everything became clear. The name that Carlo Genovese had given him had thrown him. Jay could have been a man or a woman. Bolan shook his head.

  She had moved to the bed and sat down. She stared up at Bolan.

  "What do you want from me?"

  "I know who you are and I intend to find out all your pipeline connections."

  "The Mob will kill me if I tell you."

  "You have no choice. If you don't, I'll kill you."

  She whimpered, suddenly weak and spineless. Her smudged mascara and smeared lipstick gave her face a grotesque look in the harsh light as she began to speak. She gave Bolan the next major link in the pipeline: Denver. They had more shit coming in from Texas, but that line was temporarily out of service. The only other big shipments came in through Hoboken, New Jersey. Bolan memorized the names and addresses.

  Moments later he stood at the bathroom door as she leaned over the sink repairing her makeup.

  Her right hand snaked under a folded towel on the toilet tank.

  The aging moll whirled, a.32 automatic in her hand spitting hot lead.

  Bolan's Uzi shattered at point-blank range. A 5-round burst drilled through her right cheek.

  Bolan felt a fire in his side as a.32 automatic round grazed his ribs.

  The woman was screaming in fury and pain. She sank back on the toilet seat, blood dripping from her left cheek where tooth fragments had torn through her flesh.

  "Kill me!" she shrieked through bloody lips.

  She stood, looked at her face in the bathroom mirror and flew at him, her right hand a claw that tried to rake his face.

  "Kill me!" The words came slower this time.

  Bolan pulled a fragger out of his pocket. He stood at the door and tossed the grenade back into the room. He was already in the hall while the explosive was still airborne. He reached the corridor when the grenade went off with a tremendous, contained explosion that sounded ten times as loud inside the building. Bolan covered his ears but still the sound hurt. When he looked back he saw the door of the suite barely hanging on its hinges.

  The Executioner rode down the elevator and waved as he went past the guard into the Chicago suburb.

  21

  After two days in Denver, Mack Bolan had checked out Fairway Ford, "The Workingman's Friend."

  The Executioner parked a block from the big dealership, watching the activity. He knew everything he needed to, including the time of the "special shipment" of parts coming in tonight at ten o'clock. The boss, Darrell Hudson, arrived at ten-thirty each morning and worked until seven in the evening. He oversaw every department and took special pride in handling most of his own paperwork. The boss ran a tight ship and productivity was high.

  Darrell Hudson was a self-made man. He had come up the hard way, lifting himself out of the Depression as a mechanic and later opening his own garage.

  A dozen slogans peppered the walls of the dealership, all suggesting that if God drove a Ford, this was where He'd come for fine service.

  Darrell Hudson was a leader in a large Baptist church, a member of a Boy Scout committee and a volunteer in the United Fund and half a dozen other civic organizations and nonprofit groups.

  He was also the biggest cocaine supplier to the mile-high city.

  He was dirty as hell.

  Bolan put down the binoculars. The dealership owner had gone to lunch. Tuesday was Rotary. Bolan had found out that Hudson had a perfect record with the Rotarians: he had not missed a weekly meeting for more than twenty-five years.

  He would miss the meeting next Tuesday.

  Hudson was a tall, thin man in his late fifties, who never drank or smoked, never ran around with other women and had three sons. The youngest was in line to take over the business when his father retired.

  Bolan gunned the rented Thunderbird and pulled in at the service entrance. He had been waiting for a line to build up and now his was the sixth car, giving him more time to look around the dealership. He got out of the Thunderbird and leaned on the front fender in the sunshine as he waited.

  Three service advisors were working the cars as fast as they could. Bolan decided it was a standard enough dealership for a cold-weather climate: large round showroom with attached business offices and closing rooms. Open service lanes with two wings of barnlike sheds for service bays, and a large warehouse for parts and supplies.

  He did not see a likely place where the hot goods could be stashed while they were waiting for reshipment. Maybe inside the service stalls. The paint booth would be ideal, unless a car was in there being spray-painted.

  In the line Bolan saw a man he had identified only a few hours before. His name was Carmine Ricco, lately of Chicago, moved to Denver to work for Hudson, overseeing the flow through the pi
peline and selling used cars on the side.

  Carmine was dark, with a thin face and deadly eyes. He was the Mafia man, on the scene to make sure everything went off on schedule, and he answered to the former czar in Chicago for foul-ups. Consequently everything went down as it was supposed to in Denver.

  Until tonight, that is.

  When Bolan's turn for service came, he asked if he could have his rental Thunderbird looked at for engine trouble. The service writer suggested he should return it to the agency for an exchange. Bolan thanked him, drove through the dealership and back to his motel.

  In his room he checked his weapons case. He was running low on ammo. That meant a pit stop somewhere right after Denver.

  Once more he reviewed his plans for that evening. With everything clear in his mind, the Executioner stretched out on the bed to catch some badly needed sleep. He might not be getting any for a while.

  Just after nine-thirty that night, Bolan scaled a six-foot-high block wall at the back of Fairway Ford and picked his way silently through wrecked cars waiting their turn in the body shop. He found the spot he wanted midway between the service entrance and the new-car showroom and sat down behind a smashed Tempo.

  Twenty minutes later he saw two dark figures emerge from the showroom and station themselves out of sight on both sides of the service drive. That could be the point of entry. Why did Hudson think he needed protection in his own dealership?

  Two lights snapped on in the building, then a man walked out a dark doorway into the back lot area and leaned against the Coke machine. It was the Mafia contact from Chicago, Carmine Ricco. The guy pulled a handgun from his belt, checked the cylinder and snapped it shut. A revolver, six rounds. No contest.

  Five minutes later another figure came from the office. He was taller than Ricco. Hudson himself.

  At exactly one minute to ten, a white Ford maxi-van drove up the open service lane and stopped just outside the rolling metal gate. The headlights died and the driver turned off the engine. No one moved, then Ricco walked to the gate and rolled it open. The van's engine fired up at once and the rig rolled inside, then stopped in the open area between the service stall sheds and the new car rotunda.

  Delivery time!

  A man stepped from the van. He wore white coveralls and a white cap.

  "Joker," a voice said from the darkness. The voice was Ricco's.

  "Right on time with the goods," Joker said. "You have protection?"

  "Of course. Your load as advertised?"

  "Two hundred pounds pure. The truck is yours, too."

  Bolan's first shot took Joker in the heart and killed him instantly.

  Bolan rolled silently to a better vantage point. He could see the black shadow against a dark Ford where one of the protection gunmen crouched.

  The nightfighter fired twice at the shadow, and moved again.

  The garage had erupted with shouts. He heard Ricco's voice above the din. The door on the far side of the van opened. Bolan turned and sent a 3-shot burst through the rolled-down window of the driver's-side door and heard a scream of pain.

  The silenced Beretta 93-R continued to confuse the locals.

  "Get the son of a bitch!" Ricco shouted. "What are you bastards waiting for?"

  Two whispering slugs from the Beretta slammed into the wall where the Mob overseer was kneeling. He had his own.38 out but no target. He swore and crawled behind a parked car.

  Bolan waited for the second armed guard to show himself.

  A man rose from behind a Mustang convertible with the top up, which was parked in the center of the area. The figure stared in Bolan's direction.

  One 9mm hornet punctured the ragtop of the Mustang and plowed into the second hardman's skull.

  The Executioner jumped up and ran for the white maxivan. The driver's door still hung open. He had almost gained the driver's seat when a volley of handgun rounds peppered the side of the van. Bolan crouched lower as he ran, then leaped into the van. The keys had been left in it as he suspected. He fired the engine.

  He rammed the gearshift into reverse and tromped on the gas pedal. The rolling gate had not been closed. The maxivan hurtled backward along the painted lines of the service lanes. Bolan swung the wheel to make a sharp rear turn so he could head out of the dealership.

  Ricco swore and ran for his rig. The Windy City overseer slid into his Ranger pickup as the van completed its turn. Bolan found a string of six new cars blocking all but one small exit lane. The Ranger's engine fired to life and raced forward.

  Bolan's vehicle hunted the exit. Ricco raced his engine in low, then shifted to second. He was doing almost thirty miles an hour when he rammed into the van from the side. Metal screeched and tore. The smaller pickup pushed the heavier van sideways for six feet. It teetered upward on two wheels before it dropped back down.

  Ricco plowed into the back of the van, driving it forward into a brand-new Thunderbird, mating the two rigs into a solid mass of twisted steel. The Chicago connection opened the pickup's door and crawled out, seeking cover. It was not good enough.

  Bolan had exited the van a second before Ricco slammed into the back of it. He had rolled away from the impact and gotten to his feet. The Executioner was watching as the small pickup's door opened and Ricco came out.

  "Forget it, Carmine," Bolan shouted from ten feet away to the rear of the small truck. The Mafia guncock suddenly swung around, his.38 snarling.

  The 93-R coughed once and Carmine Ricco paid his final dues with a lethal 9mm slug ripping through his neck, smashing his spinal column.

  Behind Bolan, near the new car rotunda, a new player entered the game. Three shots hit the concrete near Bolan and whined into the cars beyond. The sound was familiar, an M-16 on single shot. It could be a civilian model so it would fire only single rounds.

  The Executioner rolled away, sprinted behind the small pickup, the rear wheel protecting his feet and legs. He could not see the sniper. Watching carefully for a reaction over the box of the pickup, Bolan pounded his hand on the rig's sheet metal.

  Two muzzle-flashes winked from the other side of the area. Bolan flicked the Beretta's selection lever to automatic and drilled two 3-round bursts in the direction of the ambusher.

  No reaction. The Executioner crouched and moved to the front wheels, keeping his eyes on the showroom rotunda. No return fire.

  Suddenly floodlights snapped on overhead, and Bolan took in the entire scene, the dead man on the concrete, the wrecked cars, the gate, the rotunda and the tall figure of Darrell Hudson frozen beside the Coke machine.

  He saw the last gunman with the black M-16 disappearing behind a car outside the service stalls.

  A minute later a bull horn blasted at them.

  "Attention, this is the police. Put down your weapons and lie flat on the concrete. The area is surrounded."

  The big guy cursed. Things should have happened faster than this; he should have been gone before the police arrived. Now it would be harder. He saw the man with the M-16 rush across an open space. Bolan fired at the fleeing figure, but the man dived behind a wrecked Mercury.

  The attacker was moving toward him. Let the police wait a while. Bolan pulled a hand grenade from his pocket. Worth a try.

  The gutsy Mob rifleman was working his way forward between parked cars along the front of the service-stall building. He was forty yards away now. Bolan saw a police searchlight stabbing into the compound. No problem, yet.

  The rifleman paused, then rushed to the next car. Bolan let him come in range. The Executioner pulled the pin and tossed the explosive. He kept the throw low so it would hit and roll on the concrete. The grenade bounced once, then rolled past the second car and under the third. It exploded six feet from the rifleman, ripping into his ankles and felling him.

  A second later the gasoline in the car's tank blew up in a gushing, fiery roar. The flaming fuel flowed to the next new model car and in seconds it, too, exploded. Bolan moved from his position near the pickup and rushed to the van
. He jumped into the cab and cranked the ignition. The motor of the partially wrecked maxivan spluttered to life and Bolan slammed into reverse and hit the pedal. The rig screeched as it pulled loose from the T-Bird.

  Another new car exploded, and he could hear more sirens. In the firelight he saw Hudson running one way and then the other.

  Bolan jerked the wheel, aiming the battered front end of the white van at the drug dealer. Hudson ran across the lot, but saw only the locked doors of the service bays. He turned and ran toward the opening at the end of the row of new cars that had blocked Bolan's first dash for freedom. As Hudson approached it a Tempo exploded, showering burning gasoline for fifty feet.

  Hudson stumbled into the deadly rain. His clothes caught fire and he tripped and fell into a raging pool of gasoline. His hair ignited and burned away in seconds. His shoulder hit the concrete where the burning gasoline flamed up, and his scream was choked off as the superheated air seared his lungs, snuffing out his life.

  Bolan turned the van toward the narrow exit hole in the line of demonstrator cars. More cars exploded as the newly filled gasoline tanks blossomed like exotic flowers.

  A cop stood in the opening between the cars holding up his hand. Bolan gunned the motor and raced for the opening. He beat the explosions there and the cop had second thoughts as he leaped out of the way.

  The Executioner penetrated the row of cars and bumped over a curb. He heard police bullets hitting the van. Bolan twisted the wheel sharply to the right, racing down the street. He had no lights. In his rearview mirror he saw two police cars pull out and give chase.

  He tore around a corner and through an alley. At the end of the alley he swerved to the right and up a dimly lit street. Suddenly he braked hard and turned into a driveway between two residential buildings. He killed the engine. A moment later both police cruisers screeched into the street and roared past his hiding place.

  Bolan started the engine, backed out and drove the opposite way to the police. As he drove into the night, he realized he was carrying a six-million-dollar cargo.