Resurrection Day

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan looked at his watch. It was 8:50 p.m. "Call. Is there an extension?"

  Johnny pointed to the bedroom.

  "Okay, find out what they want. But tell them they get nothing until you're certain that Sandy is alive."

  Johnny slumped on the couch, torment racking his body. "They better not hurt her."

  "We wait until nine. It'll work out," Bolan said. But he felt a chill. He had to keep Johnny's hopes high, that was vital right now.

  "They probably want some assurance about what Karl told you. Legally you couldn't testify against them. It's only hearsay now."

  Johnny watched the digital kitchen clock flicker to 9:00. He dialed. The phone on the other end rang twice, then someone picked it up.

  "Yes?"

  "This is John Gray."

  "Good, right on time. We have a package you want, is that right?"

  "You son of a bitch! You hurt her, it'll be the last person you ever hurt."

  "You want to see the lady again, shut up and listen. We need to talk to you. Take down these instructions."

  Bolan was listening on the extension with his hand over the mouthpiece.

  Johnny wiped a line of sweat off his forehead, a pencil in his right hand, poised over a pad of paper.

  "At ten tonight, come to the upper circle road in Presidio Park. Come alone, unarmed, and do not contact the police."

  "Sandy remains, unharmed, or you get nothing. You threatened Karl and then killed him."

  "Relax, kid. I don't know anything about anybody killing Karl. Now be there!" The man on the phone hung up.

  Bolan came in from the bedroom. "We don't have much time. You make the meet. I'll be waiting there. I need something from the car."

  Moments later Bolan brought in a suitcase from the trunk of the rented Pontiac. He changed into the skintight blacksuit, then strapped on combat webbing. The big silver flesh-shredder hung on his hip, and the Beretta 93-R in shoulder leather.

  "I need a weapon," Johnny said. He picked up an Ingram Model 10 submachine gun from the suitcase and hefted it. "This will do." He picked up one of the magazines and slammed it into the handle. Loaded with the 30-round clip, the Ingram weighed almost eight pounds.

  Johnny stuffed another 30-round magazine into his pocket. "I'm ready," he said.

  The Executioner slid some surprises on his webbing and they headed for the door.

  "Careful how you use that thing," Bolan said.

  Johnny glanced up at his big brother. "Don't worry, I've killed men before."

  Johnny drove into the park from the bottom, coming down Highway 8 through the valley, then taking the Taylor Street off ramp and turning left into Presidio Park. He wound up the hill past the museum to the one-way lane on the left with picnic tables.

  The Executioner checked the cover and concealment. There was a downhill stretch to the south, a clump of bushes at the far end, and less than a block to the north were residences across the street.

  He found a big pine tree and some brush that would offer the most protection. Bolan showed Johnny where to park when he came back. They had driven the Pontiac because Johnny's Bug was waiting at Coco's restaurant in San Carlos. Johnny drove down the hill and out of sight.

  The nightwarrior found some better cover just below the picnic area on the other side of the road. He settled in and waited.

  Promptly at ten o'clock, Johnny drove along the one-way road and parked near the large pine tree, the Pontiac pointed out of the park for a quick exit.

  The Executioner figured the Mafia would have a lookout to the north.

  At ten minutes past ten, a dark-colored car cruised down the dark lane with its lights off. It came in the lane the wrong way and nosed up to the rental car. For a moment no one moved. Then the Executioner saw Johnny look over the top of the Pontiac. He had been standing behind it waiting. Now he exposed himself only for a second.

  A door on the Lincoln opened and three men got out.

  Gunners, Bolan thought.

  One walked to the rear of the crew wagon. The second soldier jogged to the far side of the Pontiac and waited. The last man was smaller, better dressed. He walked around the car and approached Johnny.

  "Where is Sandy?" Johnny asked.

  "You didn't expect me to bring her here," the smaller man said. "She's okay. I need information."

  "Not until I see Sandy."

  "Afraid you might think that way." An automatic appeared in the man's right fist. "So I brought along a persuader."

  Johnny could not reach the Ingram. He had forgotten to unzip his jacket as he waited. From the shadows along the laneway came a cough, and the gunman holding the automatic yelped in pain as his wrist developed a hole and his weapon dropped to the ground.

  Johnny dodged behind the car again, unzipping his jacket and bringing up the Ingram. The gunman at the far end of the Pontiac began to move. The Model 10 spit fire as a 5-round burst razored the night.

  The gunman was tracking on Johnny when the leaden hail ripped through his chest, jolting him backward into a palm trunk before his lifeless body tumbled to the grass.

  Johnny was swinging the SMG on the second guard when a muted cough from the Beretta pinned the second guy against the grille of the car.

  "Coming in!" Bolan said, running toward Johnny.

  "This one is alive," Johnny said. "Let's get out of here."

  They threw the wounded Mafia lieutenant into the rear of the Pontiac. Johnny picked up the hood's.45 and slid in beside him, the automatic aimed at the Mafia negotiator's belly.

  "Your turn, bastard!" Johnny spit at him. "Is Sandy okay?"

  "I don't know. My orders were to get you, bring you back, alive or dead."

  Johnny brought the butt of the.45 down across the hoodlum's face, breaking his nose, gouging a big flap of flesh off his cheek. The man screamed and cowered in the far corner of the back seat.

  Bolan wheeled the Pontiac north into the maze of streets in Mission Hills, merging with the other traffic in the area. Behind them they heard sirens.

  "Okay, hotshot," Johnny said to the goon. "Start talking, unless you enjoy pain."

  The mobster looked up in the darkness. He saw only the crazed eyes of the young man holding the automatic.

  "Where's the girl?"

  "Safehouse. Best one is in the San Carlos area."

  "Good," Johnny said. He jammed the.45's muzzle into the man's kidney. The hoodlum bellowed in agony. "What's the address?" Johnny demanded.

  "Don't know the address, but I can show you."

  The battered face shook in the dim light as the car came out of the hills toward the freeway.

  33

  Bolan gunned the Pontiac along the freeway, watching for the California Highway Patrol. Ten minutes later the gray-faced Mafia hostage whispered, "This is it."

  The street was only a block long and dead-ended into Beaver Lake Drive.

  "Turn right, it's the second house on the left."

  Bolan eased past the house and slid to the curb two houses down. Lights showed in the front rooms.

  "How many guns there?" Bolan asked.

  "Usually two, one outside, one inside."

  "John, you stay here and watch him. I'll nail the outside man."

  The nighthitter slipped out of the car and moved across the street, fading into the shadow of a large tree in front of the house next to the target. A redwood fence surrounded the building. Bolan crept up to the wooden barricade and peered over it into the front yard.

  A shadow moved on a small porch near the door. The silhouette moved again and Bolan saw the guard where he sat in a lawn chair, his feet propped on a low iron railing. A pinpoint red glow brightened for a moment as the man took a drag on a cigarette.

  The Executioner waited until he saw a red arc as the sentry flicked the butt into the yard. The guy stood and looked around, then lifted his arms to stretch his muscles, looking like a cardboard cutout in a police shooting gallery.

  The Beretta 93-R sneezed once as the 9mm
parabellum caught him dead center. There was an audible sigh and the man sat back dead in the chair.

  The Executioner ran to the Pontiac.

  "Out, hero," he said to the Mafia leadman. "You're going to run interference for us. Your big chance."

  Bolan held the man by his good arm as they left the car. The warrior in black turned to his brother.

  "Cover us from the fence about ten feet away. Don't shoot unless you have to."

  He propelled the prisoner forward, across the street and up the driveway. "Knock on the door the way you're supposed to," Bolan growled. He jammed the Beretta in the man's kidney and left it there as a deadly reminder.

  The hostage glanced briefly at the body slumped in the chair on the porch. He groaned under his breath, then looked at the white painted door. He rapped twice, once, twice again.

  Nothing happened.

  "Again, harder," Bolan prompted.

  The second knock brought the sound of footsteps. Bolan heard the sound of three locks being turned inside, then the door swung open.

  "Henry, what the hell you want this time?" a short, thickset man asked.

  Bolan never saw the enemy weapon. He heard a gun go off and felt his hostage shudder. The Executioner pushed the dying man forward, slamming him against the gunman and they both went down in a tangle on the floor.

  Bolan stepped hard on the gunner's weapon arm and brought his left boot heel down on the man's skull.

  Johnny had rushed to the door, the Ingram up and ready. He took one look at the bodies on the floor, then ran into the living room.

  No Sandy.

  Johnny charged down the hall, checking each bedroom. Nobody. He rushed back to the kitchen, spotted another door and started to open it when Bolan came up near him.

  "Be ready. There could be guns in there."

  Johnny jerked the door open, dropped to a crouch, the Ingram SMG sweeping the room. A light burned brightly inside.

  In the middle of the ten-foot-square room stood a metal table. Something was lying on the table.

  Bolan also saw it and rushed in front of Johnny, trying to block his view.

  "Don't look, kid."

  Johnny shook free and walked into the grisly room. Blood was splattered everywhere. Johnny trembled and dropped the Ingram on the floor as he stared at the bloody mass of bone and tissue on the metal table.

  It was Sandy Darlow.

  She was still alive.

  Her waist-length hair had been burned away. She lay naked. Her arms and legs had been broken, the limbs askew at impossible angles. Her entire torso was slashed and still bleeding. There was not a square inch of flesh that had not been cut, leaving red bleeding gashes.

  Johnny screamed and leaned over, staring at her face.

  One eyeball had been gouged from the socket and dangled on her cheek, held there only by white tendons. Only splinters of teeth were left sticking out of shattered gums.

  "Please…" Sandy whispered. Johnny sobbed. He knew what she meant. She had only misery and unspeakable agony left for an hour, perhaps two. The Mafia turkeymeat specialists had struck again. Johnny shook with a terrible, agonizing fury.

  Sandy pleaded with him silently for a quick and merciful death.

  Johnny bent and touched her bloody lips with his own.

  "Johnny… don't let me live," she whispered hoarsely, as blood flowed from her mouth.

  Tears tracked down his cheeks.

  "We can save you!" he cried. "The Lifeflight helicopter! I'll have them here in fifteen minutes!"

  "I'm hurt too bad." She stiffened and her scream of pain came out garbled, and more blood gushed from her lips.

  Mack Bolan stood grimly behind Johnny, watching the horror. He had seen it before, sure. And with hideous inevitability the sadness enveloped him. Johnny had witnessed it firsthand, after all Bolan had tried to do to protect him.

  The big guy felt a burning behind his eyes. He blinked back the tears.

  Johnny looked at his brother, holding out his hand for the 93-R.

  "Darling Sandy," the young man whimpered, chocking back the sobs, "maybe someday we'll meet again."

  Sandy twisted in pain. Her body shuddered, a stream of blood trickled from her mouth.

  John Bolan Gray took the Beretta from his brother and raised it. He moved the weapon so Sandy could not see it, aimed it over her heart and fired once…

  34

  The final battle had begun!

  The Pontiac hit the freeway and the Executioner looked over at his brother. He knew that Johnny's blind anger would result in the kid's quick death.

  "This can't be a wild vengeance trip," the Executioner said. "The Mafia in San Diego can be blown away, but we'll have to do it by careful planning and with cool detachment."

  The Executioner kept talking. It was two hours before Johnny said a word. Then he looked at his elder brother and nodded, accepting the terms of war. He took a deep breath.

  "They must all die, Mack," he said.

  They rode in silence a while, through downtown, along Harbor Drive toward Point Loma.

  "Johnny, this is a one-time blowout, you have to understand that. I'm not taking you on as a full-time field partner. This time you can work with me, but that's the end of it. Revenge can go only so far if you value your health."

  "I understand. I never thought I'd kill another human being again. I did in Lebanon. I was scared to death. That was enough combat for me. I don't know how you guys did it day after day in Nam."

  "It was a job that had to be done," Bolan said.

  "Mack, after this I won't fire a weapon again in anger, I promise you that."

  They drove around the edge of the bay, onto Point Loma and down to the man-made Shelter Island off Scott Street. The island was covered with parks, restaurants, marinas and several private clubs.

  Bolan drove into the parking lot of the Kona Kai Klub.

  "The Marcello yacht is not in its slip," he said. "She was supposed to go out tonight on a supervising run. From what I heard there's going to be a sizable drug pickup at sea tonight. I've made some arrangements."

  They drove back to a small shipyard repair facility between Shelter Island and the shore. Bolan used a key on a gate and they both slid through. Johnny still carried the Ingram.

  Bolan walked to a dock and checked out a thirty-two foot powerboat. "This is our transport."

  It was a Stamas 32 with plenty of power and range.

  "Hey, swabbie, remember how to cast off mooring lines?"

  Johnny nodded and let off the bow line. When the motors started he let off the stern line and stepped on board.

  "I have some surprises inside," Bolan said.

  Johnny looked at the arsenal and whistled. There were six large magnetic limpet mines. Each weighed about twenty pounds. Three had been fixed with flotation collars of Styrofoam. Beside them was a weapon Johnny knew well, an Armbrust disposable antitank weapon and three extra tubed rounds.

  "Where in hell did you get these?" Johnny asked.

  "Old friends," the Executioner said. He guided the little boat out of the dock area into the bay and headed for the channel that led to the open sea. He had all running lights on.

  "Another freighter?" Johnny asked.

  "As near as I can figure, or maybe a large fishing boat. Around midnight there's going to be a drop."

  A short time later they cleared the channel buoys and headed in a more southerly direction.

  "The transfer point was supposed to be somewhere around the border area between U.S. and Mexican waters," Bolan said. "So we've got a ten- to twelve-mile run. It should take us half an hour at twenty knots. What time is it?"

  "Eleven-fifteen."

  "Take the wheel. Point her at those Tijuana lights."

  Bolan entered the small cabin and came out with scuba mask and tanks. It was warm enough not to need a wet suit.

  "The small boats will be hardest to find if they get away," he said. "I expect them to use a fishing boat and the Marcello yacht. He c
alls it the Angela II. We better turn the running lights off. No sense advertising our arrival."

  They cruised south for a half hour. Bolan lifted a Startron nightscope and scanned the water.

  The black hulk materialized out of the night. The freighter had to be at least four hundred feet. The Executioner made a quiet circle to the right. On the seaward side of the big vessel they saw a smaller ship.

  Bolan lifted the nightscope again and studied the craft. "It's a fishing boat, a forty-footer, rigged for commercial trolling. They're moving packages down ropes."

  Bolan turned the Stamas quietly and cruised in a circle a mile wide outside the tanker. Nothing. He nosed the sleek powerboat back toward the freighter, which was doing ten knots even during the transfer.

  "No yacht. He must be in radio contact, but I don't know what channel they're using. We hit the fisher, then the freighter. We'll look for the yacht later. They have the hot goods all on the small boat now."

  The cruiser was idling five hundred yards off the fishing boat. Three minutes later she let go the lines and pulled away.

  Bolan had been edging north as he waited, and now the fishing boat turned toward him to clear the freighter, aiming for the San Diego harbor entrance.

  Johnny checked out the Armbrust weapon. It was in perfect condition and ready to fire. Johnny himself was hardly in such good shape. He was still in shock, still reacting to events like an automaton. But he was an automaton ready to explode. He aimed through the scope and found if he concentrated he could keep the sights on the bobbing boat.

  "We'll swing around her and come in from dead ahead," Bolan said. He was all too aware of his young brother's drastic state; he had to keep the kid involved, constantly, with no letup.

  He negotiated a wide turn and opened up the 340 HP MerCruiser power plant to twenty-five knots. The thirty-two-footer tried to stand on her tail as they slammed through the calm seas.

  Bolan eased back on the throttle, swinging the Stamas around, waiting for the fishing boat to come within hailing distance. The boat seemed to change course for a moment, then came back on the run for San Diego.