Resurrection Day

by Don Pendleton

  It was a small matter for him to buy a few more aircraft and to expand into this new venture. He established a department, staffed it with one man who was local, well connected and knew exactly what was going on. The rest of the workers either did not understand what they were doing, or were non-Mormon and were sworn to secrecy with money.

  Blanchard Construction Inc. owned and operated a large hangar on the edge of the Salt Lake City International Airport. In the huge building sat a twin-engine cargo plane, two sleek Lear business jets, a twin-wing replica of a Sopwith Camel that Blanchard himself flew for publicity and parades and a four-seater Beechcraft.

  Bolan parked his rented Chevy outside the hangar and walked in. A mechanic came up to him at once, a foot-long wrench in one hand.

  "Hey, you work here?" Bolan asked before the other man could speak. "I'm the new relief pilot on the Lear. Mr. Blanchard said I should take a look at it this morning, then do a test flight this afternoon with one of the other pilots."

  The mechanic shrugged. "You got a name?"

  "I'm Pete Barlow."

  The mechanic stared at the Executioner for a moment, then shrugged again. "Lear 64 there is open. Take a look, but don't work any of the controls. Got some testing to do on them."

  "Right."

  Bolan walked over to the sleek jet. Once inside he moved to the rear of the aircraft to one of the storage compartments. Out of sight he planted a quarter-pound block of C-4 plastique. Into the soft substance he pushed a pencillike, radio-controlled detonator. One radio signal from the transmitter in his pocket, and the whole tail section of the plane would be blown off. He worked around the rest of the jet, but could find no trace of drugs of any kind.

  Ten minutes later he left the jet, waved at the mechanic and said he had to go into town.

  The Executioner knew that cocaine was a high-profit, low-bulk item. It was easy to hide and carry, and a large dollar amount could be shipped in a small space. Business jets were ideal for transportation and cover.

  It was time to close the snare. Bolan's first call would be the Mafia connection man in town, Tony Campagna. Campagna had an office in the construction firm's new plant in the suburbs, but was seldom there. Today was his golf day.

  Typically Tony liked to play golf by himself. He was a perfectionist who demanded total silence, so he always played alone.

  Bolan found him on the fourteenth tee. Campagna had rolled up his golf cart and taken out a two-iron when the Executioner came up the slope behind the tee and spoke.

  "Morning, Tony, they said I could find you here."

  Tony spun, his hand going automatically to his chest but there was no shoulder rig there. He scowled. "Who the hell are you and whaddaya want?"

  "Manners, Tony. Manners. The south side of Chicago was never like this, was it?"

  Campagna's eyes flicked to his golf bag by the cart, and Bolan guessed he had a piece. But it was too far away.

  "Tony, you might recognize this." Bolan tossed him a marksman's medal. Campagna caught the metal disk and looked at it. This one had a pistol bar hung below it.

  Campagna dived toward his bag. Bolan got there first. Tony rolled and came to his feet, looking around wildly, trying to find an escape route, at least a chance. There was none.

  "What the hell you want from me? I went straight. I ain't even connected no more."

  Campagna swung the golf club and Bolan jumped back quickly. The Executioner recovered and, while the mobster was still off balance, leaped into the air in a flying dropkick. All of the fury and anger Bolan had been building up for two days exploded in the maneuver as his feet connected with the target's head. Bolan heard a snap as Campagna's neck broke and the man slid to the clipped turf.

  Bolan checked for a pulse. It was extremely weak, fluttering, then it stopped. The Executioner got Tony's cart, lifted the dead Mafia goon into it, let off the brake and aimed it down the hill at a pond.

  There was no one else in sight on the course. A fringe of trees protected the fairway and observation from one side, and the starkly dry desert of Utah showed across the boundary fence on the other side.

  Bolan faded into the line of trees as the golf cart bumped down the slope. The cart picked up speed and rolled into the water with a splash. Bolan watched as the rig sank, showing only the tips of Campagna's expensive set of woods sticking out of his bag.

  Bolan walked back to the clubhouse parking lot and eased out of there in his rented Chevy.

  Next stop, Blanchard Construction corporate offices.

  Twenty minutes later he parked next to the brick structure and nodded. It was a big operation that would soon get a lot smaller.

  A smiling receptionist said he didn't need an appointment. Mr. Blanchard made it a policy to see anyone who came to talk. His office was two doors down.

  Bolan opened the door to an office that held a desk, secretary and two wooden benches. The lady behind the desk was blond, attractive and smiling.

  "You're in luck this morning," she said. "It's a slow day. You can go right in."

  She opened a door and Bolan stepped inside.

  Dick Blanchard came around his big desk smiling, his hand outstretched.

  "Dick Blanchard," he said. "Who do I have the pleasure…"

  Bolan ignored the hand.

  "Blanchard, tomorrow morning everyone is going to know about you and your games with young boys in the Walnut Avenue house. I have videotapes taken with a special camera. There is only one way your secret remains with me. Tell me everything you know about the cocaine pipeline connection the Mob has with your company."

  Blanchard staggered back. It was as if he'd been hit in the head with a two-by-four. He sprawled in his big leather chair, one hand over his heart. He was no more than forty, short and balding with a reddish complexion and a potbelly hanging over his belt.

  "I don't know what you're…" He could not finish it.

  "You have two trucks of Mexican red tile due in here right now from San Diego by way of Tijuana, Mexico. You and I are going to meet those trucks and wash all that cocaine down the sewer."

  "They made me do it," Blanchard said.

  "Sure. They could force you to do anything, you slimy bastard."

  Blanchard recovered his composure and pushed a button under the desk. A moment later two men came in a side door. One was blond, his T-shirt bulging with muscles. The second man was smaller, darker, and carried a businesslike.45 automatic aimed at Bolan. He grinned and walked into the room, glancing from his target to his boss.

  "You ever fired that cannon?" Bolan asked.

  "Want to find out?" the gunman said.

  Bolan looked at Blanchard. The gunner also looked that way, and the Executioner's right foot pistoned upward. The kick caught the gunman's wrist, broke it and launched the.45 into the air. Before Muscles could catch the weapon, Bolan palmed his Beretta 93-R, covering the three of them.

  Bolan squatted to pick up the.45 auto and stuck it in his belt, his eyes never leaving the trio.

  He indicated the door with the gun. "You go first, Blanchard. And remember — be cool. I'm ready to kill."

  Bolan turned to the other two when he and Blanchard reached the doorway. "No one will follow us. This man will live if you do not follow us."

  A new Mercedes diesel sat at the end of the walk outside the side door. Bolan told him to get in the passenger side and slide behind the wheel.

  "Warehouse four, I believe it is," the Executioner said.

  "How did you find out?"

  "Doesn't matter, Blanchard. All you need to know is that Tony Campagna won't be here to help you. He got swamped with some problems of his own and right now he's in over his head."

  With Bolan's gun pointed at his crotch, Blanchard drove until they reached the large doors of the warehouse itself, half a mile across the huge storage area and equipment park. A tractor with a flatbed trailer was reversing into the building. Strapped down securely on the forty-foot flatbed were pallets of red Mexican tile.

>   "Get out and tell them to unload it as usual," Bolan said, concealing the 93-R.

  Blanchard nodded and went out to the truck.

  Two wooden boxes were taken from inside the stack of tiles. Workers moved the containers to a closed area at the rear of the big warehouse.

  After Blanchard ordered the workers out, Bolan opened the crates. Both contained cocaine. The Executioner slashed the plastic bags and set each box under a shower stall in the washroom and turned on the water, sluicing the evil poison down the drain into the Salt Lake City sewer system.

  As Bolan checked the last of the boxes he saw Blanchard charging into him. Bolan moved to avoid the tackle and slipped on the wet floor. By the time he was up, Blanchard had rushed out of the washroom and locked the only door.

  Bolan used the silenced Beretta 93-R to blast the lock apart. By the time he was out of the building, he saw Blanchard's car racing toward the highway. Bolan saw a company pickup sitting nearby with the keys in it. He jumped in and charged after the fleeing construction man.

  The pickup could not match the speed of the Mercedes, but Bolan kept the hammer down to keep the car in sight. It was evident Blanchard was heading for the Salt Lake City International Airport.

  They turned into the airport commercial section and Bolan was only a block behind by the time the Mercedes slid to a stop at the Blanchard Construction Inc. hangar.

  Bolan knew he had Blanchard. It would take several minutes to get one of the jets warmed up and ready to roll.

  Then he remembered the radio in the Mercedes. Blanchard had called ahead and the jet was already warmed up and waiting. Just as the Executioner pulled up to the hangar he saw the Lear jet roll past him on the way to the runway. Bolan caught a flash of the NC number. It ended in 64, the same jet he had examined that morning.

  The Lear taxied to the end of the runway, so it could take off toward the main part of the field. Bolan waited midway along the strip, and as the Lear lifted off the runway, he snapped the switch to Fire on the small black box he had taken from his pocket.

  Then he pushed the red button once and the Lear jet in front of him exploded. The whole tail assembly blew off, the suddenly nose-heavy jet aimed for the ground.

  It exploded again as it splattered into the concrete, fuel bathing the aircraft and turning the sleek plane into a jumble of smoking rubble in seconds. No one could have survived the crash, and any drugs on board would be vaporized in the explosion and the intense heat.

  Mack headed the pickup slowly back to the construction outfit. Already there were reporters and TV production trucks on the site. He slid into his rented Chevy and drove quietly out of the parking lot.

  The Executioner was on schedule, slowly disabling the Mafia drug monster. The next step was to hit the beast's mouth, where the drugs were brought into the country and sent on their destructive way.

  He would fly to San Diego. His target this time was Manny "The Mover" Marcello, the San Diego capo.

  28

  Mack Bolan stared down at the changing scenery below. The browns and grays of the desert mountains gave way to checkerboard green, then a splotch of bright blue reservoir water behind a canyon dam, and at last the man-made patterns of a few small towns.

  Soon the sprawl of the big city came into view and Bolan saw San Diego clinging to the shoreline of the Pacific Ocean.

  Bolan had mixed feelings and sad memories about this West Coast metropolis. His thoughts raced back in time to his combat visit to California's oldest city.

  He had gone there on a «rescue» mission on behalf of a deceased former commanding officer from his Nam days. Scandal had surrounded Bolan's ex-C. O. in San Diego, and all indicators had pointed to «Howlin'» Harlan Winters's death as suicide. Bolan had been there to rescue his former mentor's name and reputation.

  Now the Executioner smiled as he remembered how the men under Howlie's command in Nam had hated him. And loved him. No way could Bolan have swallowed the story of suicide. Not about the Winters he had known. And he had known the man like a second father.

  Winters was the man who had tutored and directed a young sergeant in Nam until he had become the original execution specialist. And it was around Bolan's specialized abilities that the first Penetration Team was formed.

  "There are no rules of warfare," the colonel used to say to Bolan. "The only rule of warfare is to win."

  Bolan acknowledged the fact that his old CO. had been knowingly involved with the Mafia. But the Executioner had not been ready to bury Winters without military honors, or without learning how much the Mob had coerced the old man into illegal, treasonous activities, before he balked. So they had set up his execution. And that was the way Bolan had read it.

  The reverse thrust of the descending plane broke into Bolan's thoughts. He watched the metropolitan center speed past.

  The only rule of warfare is to win!

  Well, this was war. He had names — he had the biggest name of all, Manny "The Mover" Macello, the San Diego capo.

  It was a little after three in the afternoon when Bolan landed at Lindbergh Field in downtown San Diego, along the bay. He took a cab to the new Intercontinental Hotel, registered as Mark Hill, then switched to another taxi to Philmore Industries. At the desk just off the elevator he flashed a card at a young receptionist.

  "I'd like to see your vice-president in charge of accounting."

  The woman studied the card. It looked genuine. Bolan had had it made in Chicago and it identified him by name and picture as Mark Hill, a senior field investigator for the Internal Revenue Service.

  "Oh, I'm afraid he's gone for the day. I could let you talk to Sydney McBride, our head bookkeeper."

  "Yes, if you please."

  She nodded, made a call and led Bolan to the right door. He walked into a room with a bank of computer terminals around the walls and a desk in the middle. Two operators worked at the machines. A small man with red hair, a mustache and half glasses looked over the tops of the specs at Bolan.

  "Yes, Mr. Hill, what can I do for you?"

  "I'm with the IRS, out of San Francisco. We make spot checks from time to time that our local offices know nothing of. I'd appreciate it if this could be kept confidential."

  "Come into my office, Mr. Hill."

  Once in the office, Bolan checked to see that no obvious recording devices were in sight or intercoms left on, then he pushed McBride against the wall and shoved the Beretta against the surprised man's forehead.

  "McBride, I need certain information from you quickly. If it's accurate you have nothing to worry about. If it isn't, you're dead meat." Bolan took the weapon away, slid it in his shoulder holster and smiled at McBride, whose face was still chalk-white.

  "Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr. McBride?"

  Ten minutes later Bolan took the elevator down and out of the building. He had the names, addresses and companies he needed. He had plenty. Nothing like a bookkeeper to know everything about a firm, especially one like Philmore Industries, which was one of the thin covers for the Marcello Family operations in San Diego.

  The Executioner found a rental agency and picked out a car, a new Pontiac. He gave the Intercontinental Hotel as his address, room 1804. Then he drove to a posh Italian restaurant in Mission Valley. The eatery featured Italian cuisine, but it was not known for the quality of the food or the service. The availability of the waitresses and the rooms upstairs were more of a hit with the general male population.

  There was also a move toward equality, and if a lady customer made the right moves she could entice one of the busboys through the beaded curtain to the stairs for a session topside. Despite police raids, the Italian Stallion restaurant flourished. For special customers there was a basement gaming room where only doubly checked-out clients were permitted. The stakes were extremely high. The profits higher.

  Bolan wore his traveling clothes, gray slacks, a blue sport shirt and lightweight blue sport jacket. He wore the shirt collar open.

  After a beer
at the bar, Bolan motioned to the barkeep.

  "I need to see Little Joe," Bolan said.

  "No one here by that name."

  Bolan folded a twenty-dollar bill and palmed it, handing it to the apron. "Friend, Little Joe Calabriese said I should come in tonight. I'm in from Phoenix. First time here. He said you could point me in the right direction."

  "Over to the far booth, through the door past the men's room. Knock twice when nobody's looking."

  The Executioner followed the bartender's directions and when no one was coming to use the john, he knocked twice. A small panel opened in the door.

  "Looking for Little Joe," Bolan said.

  The sliding panel closed and the door unlocked. The Executioner walked in and was met by a smiling bear of a man who blocked his further progress.

  "Buddy, this is a five-thousand buy-in night."

  "I know. When is the tally going up?"

  "When we get too crowded at five."

  Bolan took a packet of bills from his inside jacket pocket and handed them to the man, who riffled through the hundreds, then gave him a velvet bag filled with chips.

  "Good luck." He moved aside and Bolan stepped past him through a soft curtain into a casino room. Nowhere did he see anyone who looked the way Little Joe Calabriese should look.

  The Executioner worked the tables, placing a few bets here and there, winning now and then. The place was rigged for the house. He watched a man leave. The guy went to a small window to the rear of the big room, vanished behind a curtain and never came back. Rear exit.

  Bolan worked the roulette wheel, lost half of his five thousand and wandered to the back, then went to the window. He said he had to cut out and wanted to cash in.

  An Italian-looking face nodded, pointed to the curtain and Bolan went through it. Behind the curtain stood two men with side arms. Both had Mafia soldier written all over them. The glass booth from the inside was now a teller's-type cage window.

  Bolan put down his velvet bag and the weasel-faced man behind the window counted the contents. There was $2410 left. The Executioner took the money, shifted it into his billfold and when his hand came out from his jacket, he was holding the Beretta. He put a round into the wall beside the first guard's head. The silent cough alerted both men who stared at the 93-R.