Resurrection Day

by Don Pendleton

  "Dump it out!" the Executioner barked at the cage man. "All your cash! No alarm or you die first, asshole!" Bolan growled the last warning as the teller reached for a silent alarm.

  One of the guards clawed for his weapon. Bolan put a 9mm whizzer through his nose, dropping him silently in a froth of blood and brain tissue. The second goon lifted his hands and laced his fingers together on his head.

  The teller dug stacks of bills from a drawer and stuffed them in a big bank bag. He repeated the movement several times and looked up.

  "The rest of it or you join your friend over there," Bolan growled.

  The weasel-faced man dug out more stacks of rubber-banded bills and put them in the bank bag.

  "That's all of it, I swear!"

  "Good." Bolan turned deliberately, giving the cashier a chance to reach for his piece. He took the bait.

  When Bolan spun back, a small-caliber automatic was halfway up from the desk, the man snarling. Bolan drilled two rounds into his heart and watched him slump into the booth. The Executioner turned the knob on the outside door and took the bag of bills. He tossed a marksman's medal to the living guard.

  "Tell Manny he's a dead man," Bolan said, looked out the door, then ran to the front of the establishment.

  He walked to his car and drove away. Little Joe would not report the theft to the cops. And the two dead soldiers would be handled privately. Little Joe could not afford to scream about a robbery in a gambling room that did not exist.

  Bolan turned onto the freeway and headed back to the downtown area. He continued out to Pacific Beach where he stopped half a block from a small outfit that advertised itself as the PB Finance Company. It was one of Manny Marcello's outfits. The Executioner threw the bank bag in the trunk of the Pontiac, and walked past the finance firm. It seemed to be open. Lights blazed from the front office. He stepped inside.

  A bell rang as he entered, and feet shuffled in the back room through an open door. A moment later a man in his thirties wearing wire-rimmed glasses came out.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Hey, you lend money?"

  "That's the whole idea of a finance company."

  "Good. I lost my job last week. My damn wife left me and now people are screaming for their money for bills. I tried a bank, but they laughed at me. Can I borrow money on a signature?"

  "Maybe. We usually don't need collateral. How much you need?"

  "Oh, a thousand. I'm a computer programmer, see. And I draw down six to seven hundred a week, minimum. I'll get another job in a week or two. But I just need to get the collectors off my back for a while…" Bolan looked up with what he hoped was a confused, worried expression.

  "Live here in town?"

  "Sure, 1414 Fortieth Street, but I got my wallet swiped in a bar last night."

  "No shit? Drive a car?"

  "Yeah, Pontiac, brand-new."

  " License number?"

  "Hell, I don't remember. I'll drive it up here." Bolan jogged to the car, drove back and parked a space down from the store.

  The finance man read the license and went back inside.

  "Yeah, we can lend you a thou. Pay it back in three months and it costs you $100 for writing up the deal, plus three percent a month, or $30 a month. Total cost $190 for the three months."

  "Okay! Where do I sign?"

  The man pushed the pen toward Bolan. "Course, you don't pay it back in three months, there are some penalty charges."

  "Yes, yeah. Okay, deal. Get the cash."

  "Sign here, and here. Press hard."

  The man turned to go into the back room. Bolan gave him twenty seconds to get the safe open, then scaled the counter and landed jungle-cat quiet. The Beretta was tracking. He came around the door and saw another man cleaning a revolver. The salesman was just pulling open the door of a safe. He turned, saw Bolan with the Beretta up and fumbled for his belt-holstered revolver.

  Bolan shot him in the head, then swept the silenced 93-R toward the second man who had not moved after he saw the Executioner.

  "Please, I've got a wife and three kids!"

  That's what Pop said, Bolan thought, raw fury consuming him. "Dig out the money in the safe."

  The man left his gun on the table, reached over his dead co-worker and brought out the cash. He stuffed it in a paper sack and put it on the table.

  Bolan picked up the weapon, then handed him a marksman's medal. He stared at it.

  "What is this?" the guard asked.

  "You'll soon find out," Bolan replied. "Take that gift to Manny the Mover. But first I want you to set this place on fire. Drag your friend out if you want to."

  Bolan waited until the goon torched the finance company. Then the Executioner walked to his car, and drove away as the first people on the street ran to watch the burning building. The Mob soldier slumped on the sidewalk where he had carried the corpse. He was so glad to be alive he could not remember anything but the death of his friend and the terrible talisman he clutched in his hand.

  In his rearview mirror Bolan saw the jagged teeth of flames licking the night sky. Tomorrow Manny the Mover would be damn sure the Executioner was in town. The San Diego capo was running out of time.

  By the time Bolan was finished in San Diego, the Mover would be wishing he had moved — to another town.

  29

  Johnny Bolan sat at the breakfast table gazing at the Union morning newspaper. "HAS EXECUTIONER RETURNED HERE?" The two-column headline leaped at Johnny from the bottom of the front page. He read the story intently.

  "Law enforcement in San Diego may go on special alert today after the appearance of an Army 'marksman' medal on a murdered man in Pacific Beach last night. A witness to the killing who worked at the small finance company said only that a tall, dark-haired man burst into the firm early last night and gunned down his partner.

  "The tall man then forced the survivor to torch the office. San Diego firemen said the building was completely gutted, destroying all loan records and damaging small stores on each side.

  "Dead is Malcolm Wilson, 36, of San Diego. His partner, Roland 'Roxie' Valenti, who listed his address as La Jolla, said the man came in asking for a loan. When the safe was open, the stranger pulled a gun, cleaned out the lock box, shot Wilson and ordered Valenti to burn down the building.

  "When asked if the marksman's medal meant the return of the Executioner, Valenti said he had never met the man, so he didn't know.

  "Several years ago the Executioner came to San Diego and ran roughshod through organized crime figures here, resulting in many still-unsolved crimes and deaths. Some say the Executioner had declared a one-man war against the Mafia, defending those the Mafia take advantage of. He has never been known to attack or fire upon law officers.

  "Neither San Diego police nor the District Attorney's office would make any comment about the possibility that the Executioner has returned.

  "Reporters who covered the Executioner here before say the story sounds like his vintage work, especially leaving the marksman's medal, his trademark. The medal is an announcement and warning to organized crime members.

  "Off the record, police said they were girding for more violence, and that known members of organized crime were being watched."

  Johnny read it again. Sandy looked over at him.

  "What's so interesting in the paper?"

  He showed her. A cold sensation crept into Johnny's bones as he watched his fiancée.

  "We have to move out of here, Sandy."

  "Why?"

  "Because of Karl."

  "But…"

  "The Mafia might know who we are. They might figure that your dad told you what he saw. I hope it's not too late."

  Sandy's big brown eyes seemed to widen. Slowly she nodded.

  "Yes, you're right. But where can we go? I know — my friend Paula from work asked if I'd baby-sit her place while she's on vacation."

  Johnny and Sandy packed a suitcase and moved to the friend's condo in Mission Valley, then they both went
to their jobs. All morning at the office Johnny tried to figure out how he could get in touch with Mack.

  There was a break in a project he was working on with Mr. Killinger and Johnny brought up the problem in a roundabout way.

  "Mr. Killinger. If the police think that this Executioner guy is fighting the Mafia, why don't they contact him and work together on it?"

  Killinger shook his head. "Actually, Mack Bolan is a wanted man, probably even here in San Diego. There is no way the police could find him. He's like a shadow at midnight. I know there's one person who'll try to lure Bolan out into the open — Manny 'The Mover' Marcello."

  Johnny decided not to press the point any further, in case his boss wondered why he was so interested. Johnny was stumped. If it was his brother wreaking havoc, Johnny would certainly like to meet him.

  What about the trucking company and that other place, Philmore Industries, where he had first met Angela? That had to be a front operation. Maybe if he hung around them he could spot Mack.

  That afternoon after he left the law offices, Johnny sat in his Bug half a block from the entrance to Marcello Trucking. He slid low in the seat watching every car parked near the place. He saw nothing unusual, only the early evening traffic.

  Around five he decided to give it up and head back to the condo in the valley.

  "You look worried, John," Sandy said, when her fiancé walked in the door.

  "Yeah," Johnny mumbled bleakly. "I want to get in contact with Mack, but I don't know how. And I can't do anything that would allow the Mafia to use us for bait to get their hands on Mack."

  He told her about his wasted afternoon.

  "Could you logically try to figure out his moves?"

  "That's precisely the problem, logic. I'm not sure I know how he thinks. We'll probably hear about it on the news. He'll be busy somewhere. I've got a list of five outfits that Marcello owns. I'm going to be watching some of them tonight. The Free Legal Aid Center will to have to struggle along without me for a while."

  "John, please be careful."

  "Don't worry. I will. Shall we eat out?"

  They ate a light dinner at a Jack in the Box restaurant and returned to the condo.

  At seven Johnny left to begin his stakeout on the firms he knew the Family owned, staying from fifteen minutes to an hour, then moving on. Finally he drove out to La Jolla and parked three houses up from the mansion owned by the don of San Diego. He had found out Manny's address from Killinger's office and driven past just after he learned Angela's last name.

  He studied the concrete-block wall with the barbed wire on top and he guessed it had intrusion alarms as well. The place was huge and sloped off to the rear. He figured there must be a ravine or a steep drop-off. Another good defensive feature. There were a few trees, but all had been trimmed so they did not overhang the wall from either side of the property line.

  Few cars were parked on the street in this land of three- and four-car garages.

  As he sat there waiting, Johnny pondered the bizarre way the Mafia slime had contaminated his family. Could it be that the moment Sam Bolan had his first dealings with the Mob, the Bolan kin became a ripe host, ready to be tainted forever? Why was the Bolan clan chosen — or condemned — to be haunted by this evil cancer? And wasn't it enough that his parents and sister had died, victims of Mob violence?

  Even now it looked as if Johnny might cross paths with his brother after all these years, the events surrounding their encounter precipitated by that terrible, common link — the Mafia.

  It was almost midnight when Johnny sensed rather than saw a car glide to a stop a quarter of a block behind him. The rig's lights were off. Johnny slid lower in the seat and looked in his side mirror. He saw the dome light come on and off quickly as someone got out and closed the door with no noise.

  Interesting.

  Johnny watched the sidewalk.

  Nothing moved.

  He stared at the blackness of the shrubs along the walk and just behind a three-foot hedge. There he saw a figure working slowly forward.

  A burglar? If so, he must be from out of town. All of these expensive places would have electronic protection.

  An owner sneaking in to avoid his wife? Maybe.

  Suddenly a car's headlights penetrated the gloom. A vehicle swung around a corner a block down and rolled along the street. The figure froze behind the hedge. Johnny slid even lower in the driver's seat. The car passed.

  At once the figure sprinted forward inside the hedge and came to the end of the cover two houses this side of the Marcello mansion.

  His concealment gone, the dark shadow stood and walked casually past the Bug and on toward the Marcello place. At the near side of the Mafia fortress, the specter vanished into shrubs that half covered the wall. There were no security lights around either house.

  Johnny sat waiting.

  Had the man been Mack?

  He appeared to be the right size. He wore all black, had black hair. A muscle twitched in Johnny's cheek as he tried to relax. He felt a rising excitement. It could have been Mack. A tremor ran through his shoulders and down his spine. It could be a burglar. He'd make sure.

  He timed it on his watch. After five minutes Johnny stepped from the Bug. No light to worry about, the overhead bulb burned out months ago. He closed the door quietly, not latching it fully, then paced up the sidewalk away from the Marcello house, making no noise.

  When he came to the intruder's car at the curb Johnny saw it was a late model Pontiac. A small «C» decal was stuck on the right front of the windshield. A rental code.

  Johnny decided to wait next to the Pontiac. The instant he saw the black figure returning Johnny would move into the street and hide behind the rig. His hands were shaking, so he folded his arms tightly against his chest.

  That could be Mack out there! Johnny shivered and stood, no longer able to remain still. Nervous energy made his teeth chatter for a moment. Johnny took three deep breaths and walked away from the Pontiac, away from his own car.

  He walked half a block down, then back, never taking his eyes off the rig. He made the trip again and when he got back to the Pontiac he saw a black shadow moving toward him on the sidewalk. The figure had just left the darkness of the Marcello block wall.

  There was no attempt at stealth this time. It was the same man. Johnny could tell by the fluid, easy gait.

  He remembered Mack's athletic movements when he walked. Sudden emotion cut off the sound in Johnny's throat as he attempted to shout his brother's name.

  The dark-clad figure continued to move toward Johnny. The young man tried to take a step forward, but he was frozen in place behind the car, hidden he hoped.

  When he heard the man come to the driver's door, Johnny stood.

  "Mack?" Johnny asked.

  The man in black caught sight of him in his side vision and his head snapped up.

  Then the stern resolve that had been holding Johnny in place left him, and he bolted for his car. He dashed the forty yards, leaped into the Bug, started the engine and raced away.

  * * *

  Behind him, Mack Bolan paused with his key halfway in the door lock. He heard a tremulous voice call his name, jerked the key out and took two steps toward the sound, but as soon as he did the man ran away.

  The shock of hearing his name in this stygian gloom, followed by the strange actions of the caller, caught him off guard.

  In a heartbeat the Executioner's combat senses were back to full alert, as he jumped into the Pontiac to give chase.

  He saw the taillights flare ahead of him, then headlights as the car raced away.

  No problem. The VW's speed was no match for his rental car.

  The smaller car ahead charged down the block, took a left and headed down the hill toward La Jolla. Bolan eased in behind him, following at fifty feet, not ready to shoot out a tire, especially not in a quiet residential neighborhood like this. There would be time.

  They screeched around a corner and aimed for a lar
ger street, then another and another, until they were in downtown La Jolla. A few blocks later the Bug careened around a corner, heading for a freeway ramp.

  Bolan knew the play. Far enough. After they were on the freeway for a short distance, Bolan pulled alongside the Bug, waved Big Thunder and pointed to the highway's wide shoulder.

  The shadowy figure of the driver stared straight ahead.

  Bolan nudged the Pontiac ahead half a car length, then started moving into the Bug's lane. The driver hit the horn, his frightened face showing through the side window.

  Bolan continued to herd the VW and slowly it gave ground, moving into the far right lane. The big guy kept jockeying the Pontiac gradually inward toward the smaller car, not wanting to crush the Bug. He sensed no threat from the other driver, still his finger caressed the trigger of the silver hand cannon that lay on his thigh. The VW's wheelman braked hard, and Bolan stayed with him.

  The Volkswagen hit the shoulder and stopped. The Executioner pulled the Pontiac at an angle in front of the Bug, blocking any forward progress.

  For a moment neither man moved, both engines still running.

  Bolan jumped out of the Pontiac with the AutoMag, aiming it over the roof of the car at the other driver's window.

  Slowly the Bug's window rolled down.

  "Shut off your engine and step out, slowly!" Bolan thundered.

  A pair of cars swept by in the fast lane.

  The Bug's engine died and the door opened.

  Bolan reached in and turned off his car's engine, pocketing the keys. The snout of the.44 never wavered its head from the Bug's door.

  "Show yourself," the Executioner growled.

  "Mack, it's Johnny." The words were emotion-racked as the man in the VW stood up, hands held above his head.

  "Johnny?" The nightwarrior peered at the bespectacled youth across from him, trying to get a fix on the face.

  The big dude rammed the AutoMag into leather and ran around the Pontiac. Johnny met him halfway and they embraced each other.