Resurrection Day

by Don Pendleton

  After a few moments, Bolan gripped the young man's shoulder firmly and held him at arm's length, studying his face.

  "Sorry I drew on you, John-0."

  "It's… it's okay. You couldn't have known."

  Bolan patted his brother on the back, then brushed his hand across his eyes, grateful for the darkness.

  "You're a man now, John. Wish Mom and Pop could have been alive to see you."

  "Way it goes, I guess," Johnny said, his voice breaking again.

  "How is Val?"

  "Happy. Still lives in Cheyenne with Jack." He stared at his older brother. "You haven't changed much since I saw you in St. Louis, Mack."

  A transport truck roared past, drowning out Johnny's last words.

  "Let's get off the freeway and find somewhere to talk. We have a lot of catching up to do!"

  "Follow me. I know a place in Pacific Beach," Johnny said. He stared at his brother. "This is still hard to believe. I've been dreaming about this day for a long time."

  "So have I, John."

  30

  Johnny and Mack Bolan sat in the Pontiac in the diner's parking lot and talked for two hours. Johnny brought Bolan up to date on his Navy career, and the two years since then. He told his big brother about Sandy and their plans to marry in the fall.

  Bolan had little to say about himself. Johnny did find out that he had worked for the government, that he had been called Colonel John Phoenix and that he was on his own once more.

  "I'm on the run again, Johnny. The Feds, the CIA and the KGB are on my tail. I guess I've been lucky so far. My war has brought me back against my old enemy, the Mafia. I have a fix on one of the biggest narcotics pipelines into the States. The port of entry is San Diego."

  Johnny told his brother about Karl Darlow and what happened to him.

  "I've been trying to figure out how I can get back at the Mafia. The San Diego Family is run by Manny 'The Mover' Marcello."

  "I know. I picked up his name in Denver and Salt Lake City. Perhaps you won't have to do anything. Recall that talk we had in St. Louis some years back?"

  "Yes, but I'm not a kid anymore."

  "True. But I still feel you should stay out of it. These people are more dangerous than you could ever imagine."

  Johnny changed the subject.

  "Hey, we don't need to sit here. Let's go back to our place and talk. Sandy will skin me alive if I don't bring you home. She's our family now."

  Mack Bolan smiled but shook his head.

  "I have a job to do tonight, Johnny. Anyway, no lady I know likes to have visitors at two in the morning, especially when it's a surprise. Give me your phone number and I'll call you tomorrow."

  Johnny wrote down the number and passed the paper to Bolan. Then the young man shook his brother's hand, got out of the car and drove away. Mack Bolan shook a cigarette out of his pack and fired it. He felt strange, a new kind of family closeness that he had forced himself not to think about for years. It was the same kind of warm contented feeling he used to have when the family gathered for Elsa Bolan's Sunday dinner back in Pittsfield. Yeah, family, the right kind of family. What a good feeling. And one that he had to be careful of. He knew exactly what would happen if the Mafia ever found Johnny Bolan again.

  The Executioner flicked the smoke out of the window and started toward downtown San Diego. He had one more call to make tonight.

  The location of the hit was North Park, that section of San Diego just north of Balboa Park, in the middle of town. The area had long been a conservative, middle-class neighborhood, but had changed dramatically when blacks and Hispanics began moving in.

  Referral House was his next target. It was a halfway center for rehabilitating narcotic addicts, with a remarkable rate of success.

  The step-into-society center had been funded by one of the shadow Marcello enterprises, and it looked one hundred percent straight.

  No one in San Diego realized the true function of Referral House. The rehabilitation center was in fact a drug-pusher training base.

  Every former addict who showed that he could stay off drugs became a trusted pusher, with a car of his own and more money than he thought existed. He was on commission. If he performed well, the pusher had it made. If his sales slipped, he was threatened with what happened to those who had bad reports to their parole officers.

  Right now there were ten «students» at Referral House, and four instructors. In a special room the pushers did their homework, cutting or diluting the pure cocaine from Colombia with mannitol, a white crystalline powder.

  Bolan was ready to declare a recess at this particular drug school.

  The Referral House did a lot of night work. Lights were still on when Bolan cruised past the North Park house at 2:35 a.m. He parked a block away, then came up the alley. There would be protection, Bolan was sure.

  He found the first man leaning against a garbage can, smoking a cigarette and humming to himself.

  The nightstalker worked from shadow to shadow until he was within ten feet of the guard, whose eyes were closed as he lost himself in the tune.

  Bolan tossed a stone against a wooden fence on the other side of the guard. The singing sentry canceled his tune and jumped up, clawing for iron.

  Bolan charged silently across the gap as the guard stared down the alley in the other direction. The Executioner's strong right arm clamped around the guard's neck in a steely grip. He lifted the man off the ground and then dropped him, at the same time twisting the victim's neck.

  The snap resounded above the scuffling feet and Bolan let the corpse drop to the alley.

  The Executioner ran to a garage that abutted the alley. He saw a door leading into what he guessed would be a kitchen or utility room. He tried the knob and the wooden panel swung open to reveal an empty kitchen. The nighthitter nodded. The "training room" must be on the second floor.

  Like a silent black ghost Bolan glided through the cooking area, the Beretta's selector set in 3-shot mode.

  The warrior came to a living room with a stairway at the far side. He holstered the 93-R and strode confidently to the stairway. Sometimes no concealment is the best camouflage. Someone was descending the steps. Bolan nodded and went past the woman without a second glance. She frowned for a moment, shrugged and went into the kitchen.

  At the top of the steps the partition had been removed to form two large meeting rooms. Only load-bearing walls remained. He could look into both rooms. Lights were on in the one to the right and at the far end two blacks and a white man were talking. They looked up, suddenly alert.

  "Is Johnson here?" Bolan asked, as he stepped into the glare. "They told me to report to Johnson. This the place?"

  One of the blacks took a step toward Bolan.

  "Don't know any Johnson. I'm Bill Harris. I run the place. What you looking for?"

  "You, Harris, and the rest of the scum in this sewer. I want all your shit!"

  Harris's hand darted under a red-and-white print sport shirt. But the Executioner cleared leather and fired before the man could touch his piece.

  The 3-round burst caught Harris in the chest, hammering him against the wall. The 9mm parabellums created a new design on the Hawaiian shirt as the man slid lifelessly to the floor.

  The white guy dived to one side, seeking cover behind a heavy wooden desk. He almost made it when three rounds from the Beretta stitched new buttonholes up his shirt.

  The other black man fell to his knees, looking up at Bolan.

  "Where you coming from, man?"

  "Not important. But I know where you're going."

  "Please, I'm just looking to score, brother."

  "Not this time. Three strikes, you're out. Now beat it," the Executioner growled, ignoring the man, checking the other room and finding nothing.

  Downstairs. He took the steps three at a time, saw the front door open where he guessed the woman had gone. On the far side of the house he found a locked room. He had met no other people.

  With a pair of wel
l-placed kicks, the door splintered open.

  Inside, the Executioner found a cutting room as well as delivery point. Orders were tacked to a wall, and on a long table sat precision scales. Next to it was a box filled with squares of white powder with a label he could read: Mannitol.

  From his jacket pocket Bolan took a chunk of C-4 plastique, already rigged with a pencil timer. He set the timer for five minutes and placed the bomb under the middle load-bearing wall of the cutting room.

  On the other side of the house he placed a second lump of the puttylike charge. After making sure there were no innocents left in the building, he walked out the front door. Fifty yards away he triggered the detonator.

  The first blast tore a ragged hole in the night silence, followed twenty seconds later by the second detonation. The walls of the old frame house bowed outward for a second, then fell into the yard and the upstairs came crashing down to the first floor. Somewhere a small fire began. Electric wires fell and began sparking in a tree in the front yard.

  Up and down the block, residents in night-clothes ran out to view the ruins.

  "What the hell happened?"

  "Those nuts at the halfway house blew themselves up."

  "Just a matter of time. I told you they were screwy."

  "Anybody called the cops?"

  Mack Bolan had placed a marksman's medal on the front steps as he left. He was sure the police would find it with the morning light.

  31

  It was almost 4:00 a.m. when Johnny arrived at the condo in the valley.

  He shook Sandy's shoulder gently. She smiled and mumbled sleepily. He kissed her neck and she rolled over, reaching for him.

  "It's morning already?"

  "Sandy, wake up. I found Mack. We talked for two hours!"

  "Oh, Johnny, that's amazing. Why didn't you bring him here?"

  "Long story, but he's going to call later today."

  Sandy sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

  "Look, I'm so excited I think I'll have a shower and stay up," Johnny said.

  "Okay, I'll get breakfast."

  Johnny nibbled at his poached egg, trying to contain his elation. He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  He drove to work and got caught up in the job, waiting for Mack to call. At one o'clock he had a quick sandwich and went to the legal-aid center.

  It was almost seven that evening when his phone rang.

  "Mr. Gray?"

  "Yes."

  "This is your brother. No names. Where can we have dinner?"

  "My place, the condo."

  "No. I don't want to involve your lady. It would be risky. I'm in the San Carlos area, a little restaurant called Coco's, in Lake Murray Boulevard. Can you find it?"

  "Sure. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

  Johnny brushed past two people waiting to see him, told them he had an emergency, and rushed out to the Bug.

  * * *

  At the restaurant, Mack Bolan sipped coffee while he waited. He had spent the day scouting more of the potential locations of the drug pipeline. Now he thought about the freighter and the death of Karl Darlow, and the details surprised him. Most drug transfers took place at night.

  Why was a pickup made in daylight?

  Bolan decided it must have been an emergency delivery, not routine. They had risked only two men and a small boat.

  The Executioner thought about the La Jolla estate owned by Manny Marcello. It would be hard to attack because of its location on the steep bluff. A frontal assault or from one of the sides might work. Time for planning later.

  He knew the Marcello trucking company would be involved in the distribution. A carefully concealed package could be hidden in almost any cross-country shipment that only the driver would know about. Highway trucks could stop anywhere these days and make a delivery.

  Johnny came in the front door, saw Bolan in the booth and walked over. Several years had made a big difference in the skinny teenager Bolan had known. Johnny now was filled out, about five-ten and determined. He had grown into a fine young man. Bolan rose to greet him.

  "Hi, kid."

  "Hi, Mack," Johnny said shyly.

  They both laughed, then shook hands warmly and sat down. A waitress bustled up with menus and water.

  "Give us a few minutes please," Johnny said. The woman smiled and vanished.

  "Mack, I've been dreaming about this day for years. I want to help you in your crusade."

  Johnny held up his hand when Mack tried to protest.

  "No, I don't want to be in the trenches with you. What I have in mind is some kind of support. Last night you told me a little about Stony Man Farm and the backup group you had there. Now you have no one to help you."

  "But that's the way it was before Stony Man."

  "You had Leo Turrin, and a few others. Just think about the idea. Now, I told Sandy you were in town and she wants to meet you."

  Bolan smiled. "You did well, kid. I want to meet my future sister-in-law. Don't forget, you don't have family approval yet to marry the girl." Then he became serious. "Treat her well, John. For the memory of our sister."

  At the mention of Cindy Bolan, Johnny lowered his eyes and quickly changed the subject.

  "Tell me what happened behind the Iron Curtain. Did they really frame you for the murder of that labor leader? How did you get away?"

  They ordered and Bolan gave him a sketchy account of his trip through Russia and his escape.

  "It came at the point when I knew I was not an organization man. I didn't enjoy taking assignments, even from Brognola. I guess I'm too much of a lone wolf. When it all happened I was glad to be on my own again, though the death of my woman was the biggest blow since Pittsfield. April put herself in the line of fire and got hit by a bullet meant for me. She made the supreme sacrifice and I must live with that for the rest of my days. As for my work, it's best that I'm alone. People have hunted me before. I can live with that kind of pressure better than always worrying about 'policy. I like the President. We got along fine. But he represented all the rest of it."

  Johnny Bolan's eyes sparkled. "Don't you see? That's why you need me, right here in town, in a safehouse where you can leave messages, and…"

  "Not so fast. Let's talk about it later, Johnny. You said I had some time to think it over."

  Their food came and they ate. Johnny saw that Mack was not a lover of fine foods. He ate to stay alive and to keep the machine running.

  As they talked, the subdued conversation turned back to Karl Darlow.

  "Johnny, Karl saw something he wasn't supposed to. It must have been an emergency shipment of some kind to risk a daylight transfer."

  "We've moved to a friend's place," Johnny said, "because I suddenly realized they'd figure Karl would tell his daughter. It wouldn't take much suspicion for them to come after her, would it?"

  "You're learning quickly, guy. For them the slightest suspicion is enough for a hit. Yes, you were right to move her. This daughter of Marcello. Could she associate you with me?" Bolan asked.

  Johnny scowled. "I don't know. But Angela is a sharp girl. She just might make a connection."

  "She could be a problem."

  "I don't think so. From what she said, she's in a big fight with her father to get in on part of the Family action. He wants her to get married."

  "Sounds like he's the one we need to worry about."

  Johnny closed his eyes for a moment. "Mack, I can't shake this terrible feeling that Sandy is in trouble. I'm going to call her. If she doesn't answer or if there's a problem, I want you to come down there with me."

  He dialed the number and the phone was picked up on the first ring.

  "Johnny, is that you?"

  "Yes. You sound scared. Is something wrong?"

  "Somebody tried to get in the door! I had the bolt thrown the way you showed me. But this is the ground floor. I'm not sure I can keep them out if they break a window!"

  "Call the police. We're on our way!"

&n
bsp; 32

  The trip from Coco's to Mission Valley took ten minutes with Bolan driving the Pontiac. Johnny watched for cops and gave directions as the speedometer needle crept to eighty-five on the freeway. They zigzagged through the early-evening traffic, hit the off ramp and wound around to the condo complex on the north side of the expensive strip of land through the heart of San Diego.

  The huge subdivision was made up of two-story units in attached buildings.

  "Last one on the left!" Johnny shouted as they sprang from the car on a run. Bolan palmed the silenced Beretta as they ran, holding it close to his body.

  A car lunged away from the curb with the black snout of a pistol poking out the window. The two men hit the turf. The Executioner came up and triggered two 3-shot bursts into the rear of the fleeing vehicle, but it kept going through the parking lot and into the street beyond.

  "Inside!" Bolan yelled to Johnny.

  They ran to the apartment on the ground floor. The front door was unlatched. Bolan kicked it open, then jumped back, leaning against the outside wall. He waited a few moments, the 93-R pointed skyward, his left hand gripping his right wrist. Nothing happened. Slowly he edged into the condo.

  The living room was trashed, as if there had been a struggle.

  "God, no!" Johnny shouted. He raced through the rooms. No one was there. He came back to the living room where his brother was standing.

  "We've got to do something!" Johnny yelled.

  The Executioner holstered the Beretta, then grabbed Johnny by the shoulders.

  "Easy, take it easy. She's alive. They want her alive, or they would have killed her here."

  Johnny took deep breaths, trying to control himself. He was pale, panic in his eyes.

  He shook his head. "I should never have left her alone. I should have sent her to San Francisco. It's all my fault!"

  "Calm down, John. They might have left a message. Let's look."

  After three minutes, Johnny found the note taped to the telephone in the kitchen. He read it, then brought it to Mack.

  "John Gray. Sandy is with us. She is unharmed. How long she stays that way is up to you. Call the phone number below at nine o'clock."