Executioner 027 - Dixie Convoy

by Pendleton, Don

  "It should look like a gentle bust—soft and easy, nothing big, but with plenty of presence. You could run into a hot lead curtain damn quick unless you finesse it."

  "I'm going in to serve papers, or something." "Something like that, yeah. But you're taking your force along, just in case."

  "I have it. I'm going to be a very diverting fellow."

  Bolan chuckled solemnly. "Yeah, you have it. I'll need, at minimum, five minutes of presence from the time you hit the property."

  "You'll get it, Striker. Rely on it."

  Bolan left the guy on that note and began his preparations for a daylight strike into hard territory.

  Diversionary force or not, it was not going to be easy. Ease, of course, was not the name of the game.

  The name of the game was war against the Mafia—to the very bitter end.

  Indeed ... to the final faltering heartbeat.

  Bolan was in faded blue denims, chambray shirt, dungaree jacket—black, feather light sneakers on the feet. He wore the .44 thunderpiece at the right hip and lashed to the leg. Whispering death rode the shoulder harness. A few accessories occupied a small belt pouch at the belly.

  He was poised and ready for a soft penetration of a very hard territory. The surrounding vegetation had helped but not much. He had allowed himself twenty minutes of quiet approach, and it had required every second of that. It was not that there were so many patrols; it was simply that what was there was so effectively positioned.

  In addition to the guy on the roof, who had 360-degree surveillance capability, the rear approaches were controlled by a triangulation of outlooks that commanded the entire turf from three isolated posts. The apex of that triangle was farthest from the house. Behind that was some pretty wild country, densely thicketed, hilly terrain, sloping away to the rear with dry gulches and winding ravines. The two posts marking the base of the triangle were positioned just inside the cultivated "lawn" area. From that point on to the house, a distance of some sixty yards, it was no-man's land—totally open, no trees, patchworks of lawn and garden, patio and pool area, a couple of small utility buildings.

  The sentries had walkie-talkies and shotguns, and each was in constant view of the other.

  In a way, that made it nice for Bolan; he could keep them all in sight himself. At the other side of things, though, it was going to require some damn fancy footwork and precise timing to breach that defence.

  And, then, there was that final problem.

  Where the hell was the kicker?

  These people always used one. The guys up on the outlooks were so much staked meat, waiting for a hit. They were not headmen and they would not be aware of that aspect of the game unless they had survived other sets such as this. Somewhere down there in that sprawl of lawn and gardens lurked a headhunter with an unrestricted view of all three outlooks plus the approaches to the house, like a spider poised at the top of a web, waiting for some unwary customer to come and nibble at the meat stakes.

  Easy, no. Simple, no. It was a game for professional gladiators, and Bolan was thankful that he'd earned his stripes in the jungles of survival.

  Thankful, yeah, because he'd finally spotted the guy.

  It was no more than a flicker, a shadow movement as the guy shifted cramped limbs toward a more comfortable position, but Bolan caught it.

  The kick man was in a cabana at the far side of the pool. The sun was west, and the open doorway was east toward Bolan. It was a perfect drop, difficult to see into because of the lighting situation, on high ground and commanding all rear approaches to the house.

  Bolan sighed and checked the time.

  It was six minutes past the hour.

  He made a quick decision to go for meat. Any other move would subject him to an immediate crossfire and, if nothing worse, they could pin him flat and wait for reinforcements.

  So, it was to be meat. He selected the target most distant from his position and took a quick range reading, mentally translating that to a ballistics course for the Beretta. The silencer complicated things at such a range, because so much muzzle velocity was lost to the sound-suppressing function.

  Nevertheless, he would go with the Beretta and the whispering attack.

  Wind was no factor. Trajectory drop, though, would be critical. Range velocity would fall sharply; he could not even depend on a knockdown without hitting a vital spot.

  Trick-shot time again, yeah.

  The trick-shot specialist took it from the prone and a two-hand hold, further steadying the firing platform atop a smooth rock and "holding over" the target a full two feet. He took a breath and released it slowly, squeezing with the sigh. The Beretta Belle whispered her soft note as she spat the Parabellum hi-shocker onto that difficult course.

  Seventy yards downrange, the meat stake dropped everything and grabbed his belly, sinking to his knees and crying out with a frightened shriek: "I'm hit!"

  The guy at twenty yards let out a grunt and whirled toward that with his shotgun at the ready. The guy must have been at top tension for a long time. The piece ba-loomed in sheer reflex, adding to the unhappy circumstances of his fallen buddy.

  The guy up at the apex yelled, "No, Harry! There's nothing in sight back here!" He was off his post and running toward the house.

  Bolan was up and moving himself, taking full advantage of that heartbeat's worth of confusion. He danced into a garden stand of high sunflowers and dived behind a mound of fertilizer, as the kicker thrust a muzzle through the doorway of the cabana and laid on him with a burp gun.

  Powdered manure and heavy sludge sucked up that first burst. And the kick man would not get off his second kick. The guy with the tense shotgun had whirled back at the first sound of chattering gunfire and emptied his magazine at that disturbance as fast as he could jerk the trigger.

  It did not require a marksman for effectiveness with a shotgun. And, although the choke was undoubtedly a bit wide for that range, three quick charges of spraying pellets could saturate any target zone in a rather demoralizing manner—even for an in-the-know kicker.

  The burp gun clattered to the tiles beside the pool as the headhunter sprouted multiple leaks and staggered into the open, hands at his face and pumping blood everywhere. He screamed, "You crazy! ..." and tumbled into the water.

  It was poetic, in a way, but Bolan had no time to appreciate the poetry of the turnabout. A heartbeat was all he'd asked for, and it was likely to be all he would get. He came to one knee with the thunderpiece at full extension and bellowing.

  Two hundred and forty grains of splattering death reached out to touch first the stunned gunner with the runaway trigger finger and then the rear man, who realized too late that he was running in the wrong direction.

  The rear was clear.

  And the roofman had not shown himself since shortly before the shooting began.

  As Bolan jogged past the cabana, he received a possible explanation for that. A walkie-talkie positioned just inside the door was squawking the urgent message: "Cease fire; cease fire! We got Feds here! All you boys stand down and be cool; be cool!"

  The time was seven minutes and five seconds past the hour.

  A heartbeat, yeah.

  It was enough.

  She'd gone to the window as soon as the shooting started, but she could see nothing except a line of cars trying to get into the drive and several of Mr. Domino's men flitting about the grounds.

  A group of other men seemed to be blocking the drive, preventing entry of the cars.

  A nice-looking younger man with a briefcase had stepped out of the first vehicle and was talking something over with the guards.

  The gunfire seemed to be confusing everyone, even the men in the cars. Several of them had stepped to the street and were gazing warily about, their own guns coming into view. The man with the briefcase turned back to shout something. The men in the street returned to their cars.

  The shooting was over.

  One of Charles's men was walking rapidly down the dr
ive, loudly explaining, "It's okay! Nervous guards! They thought it was something else!"

  The cars were moving toward the house now.

  She heard a sound at her door and whirled about to see a large man in denims standing in the open doorway. He was quite a remarkable-looking man and armed to the teeth. The face was coldly ferocious, but the voice was incredibly soft as he told her, "Don't be frightened, Suzy. I've come to take you to Jenny."

  She said, "I haven't left this room for two years. I can't leave."

  "Why not?"

  She said, "Come here and I'll show you why not."

  The man seemed hesitant, a bit tense. He cocked his head as though listening for something, then came into the room and closed the door.

  "Over here," she said.

  He joined her near the window and took both her hands. "This is life and death," he told her. "We have to go."

  "Do you know Mr. Domino?"

  He replied, "In a way, yeah."

  She pointed to the men in the yard, below the window. They were grouped around the young man with the briefcase. Charles appeared from the portico and walked toward the group.

  "Do you see Mr. Domino?"

  "I see him. Come on, Suzy."

  He was gently tugging at her.

  She resisted. "The three men standing behind Mr. Domino They are John, Paul, and James. Isn't that queer?"

  Her visitor quietly told her, "I know all about John Paul James. Let's go!"

  She stamped her foot and told him, "Then you must know why I must not leave this room!"

  "Are you going to stay here the rest of your life, Suzy?"

  "I suppose so," she sadly replied.

  She saw the fist coming, but not quite in time. She did not feel the blow, only numbness and a sudden weakness. She knew the sensation of floating weightless in space, and then she realized with a vague sort of understanding that she was hanging upside-down.

  She was draped over the man's shoulder.

  He was carrying her, taking her, taking her away!

  She tried to scream, but nothing happened. It was another horrible nightmare! She relaxed. Soon she would awaken. Yes. She had learned how to defeat these awful dreams.

  The dream continued, though, and she was moving along the hallway.

  She saw two upside-down men appear at the head of the stairs. Something spun her as something else streaked very closely across her fogged vision—a hand, maybe.

  Then, something sounded like goof, goof—and the upside-down men dived backward along the upside-down stairway.

  She was moving through Jenny's room now. She floated through an open window, along the side of the house somehow, and onto the roof of the back porch.

  A moment later she was drifting across the backyard, toward the woods. The upside-down house was growing dimmer, and she was primarily aware now of a pair of soft-clad feet moving in a steady rhythm above her head.

  There were no sounds now in this dream. It was an eerily silent one—and, yes, she had defeated it.

  It was pleasant, almost erotic.

  Strong arms were holding her, and she had not felt so safe in years. She was no longer upside down. She was being embraced, carried, and hugged like a precious child—and a sound of some sort had edged into the dream.

  It sounded like the thump thump thump of a strong and steady heart.

  She snuggled to that presence, clasping it in her arms and hanging on for dear life.

  "Daddy," she sobbed. "Oh, Daddy!"

  "It's okay," declared an incredibly soft voice beyond that heart, that incredibly strong heart. "It's okay now."

  And she knew that it was true.

  14: Blowing It

  Domino gave the hard stare right back to the gangbusters kid as he told him, "I said you can't serve him and that's it. Mr. Sciaparelli is now in protective custody of the First U.S. District Court of New York. He has been granted full immunity against prosecution in a case now pending before that court. Any legal demands served on him in this jurisdiction could prejudice his testimony. You'll have to hold your subpoena until disposition of the New York case."

  The kid wasn't backing down, though. He asked, "Are you his lawyer?"

  "No. I'm an officer of the court." Domino handed over the paper work. "At Mr. Sciaparelli's own request, we are providing protective escort to New York. I'm sure you're aware of the present situation here in Atlanta. The man's life is in grave danger."

  "When are you leaving?" the kid asked as he scanned the papers.

  "We were just leaving when you came up."

  "Sounded to me like you were just target-practicing when I came up," the Fed said cutely. "Special United States Marshals, huh. Do you mind if I check this out?"

  "Suit yourself," Domino told the smartass. "Sciaparelli will probably grant you the use of his telephone."

  The kid handed back the papers. He also shoved the subpoena at the Ship.

  The idiot took it.

  The kid said, "There's nothing here to prejudice any New York case. We've already taken the action. The service is a mere formality. Good day, Mr. Sciaparelli. I'll see you in court."

  Ship took a quick step forward and blurted, "Wait, I'll go with you! Now, right now."

  The kid looked at Domino—startled questions rising there, in that gaze.

  A cold hand was squeezing down hard on Domino's heart. He winked at the young Fed and shook his head in a condescending manner. "He can't do that. He has a court date in New York. I'm here to see that he keeps it. Our plane is waiting."

  The gangbusters kid looked at Ship. There was a whole new quality to that voice as he asked the Atlanta boss, "Do I understand that you are volunteering to accompany me to my offices? Do you wish to give a deposition?"

  Perspiration was oozing down Sciaparelli's forehead. He patted at it with a handkerchief, as he replied, "That's right. I believe in meeting these things head on." He glanced nervously at Domino. "The plane can wait another hour. I don't want to leave with a lot of stuff hanging over me here."

  He started moving toward the cop's car.

  The guy was blowing it. More than that, he was blowing out completely. The thing was falling apart, and it was falling straight into Domino's clutching guts.

  "Sciaparelli!" he barked. "Do you understand that I can't be responsible for your security if you persist in this? Do you understand that the repercussions in New York could be extremely grave?"

  Ship muttered, "Yeah, yeah, I understand." He went on and got into the car.

  The gangbusters kid gave Domino a shrug and a mirthless grin. "You can't win them all, Special Marshal," he said smugly.

  Like hell he couldn't!

  He marched to the vehicle and penetrated the defector with a knowing gaze. "It goes for Mrs. Sciaparelli," he said coldly. "She just lost her immunity, too."

  The guy just sat there, looking uncomfortable.

  Gangbusters nudged the Domino aside and slid in beside Sciaparelli. "Let's go," he commanded his driver.

  What the hell could Domino do about it? It had caught him flat-footed and cold in the belly. The kid was still wet behind the ears, yeah, but he had a hell of a strong eye and plenty of guns to back him up. This was no place for a shoot-out with the Feds, all the goddamn dazzling front papers to hell.

  He stepped back, and the car moved away.

  The other cars joined the procession, and the boss of Atlanta rolled away from there with a bona fide Federal escort.

  James called over to him, "You going to let him do that?"

  "Course not," Domino replied. "Send Paul. And tell Paul I don't want him coming back here alone."

  James said, "Right," and moved away.

  John came back from a parley beneath the portico to report: "It was Bolan, all right."

  "Sure it was Bolan." The Domino was feeling sicker and sicker. "What could we do? We'd have had those gangbusters swarming all over us. You handled it right, John. Don't worry."

  "The boy on the roof says he carri
ed a woman out the back way. He's long gone by now."

  "Of course he is," Domino replied calmly, belying the volcano in his belly. "What does the roof boy say about our rear guard?"

  "They're all down," John reported unemotionally.

  "Spider, too?"

  "Spider, too. Plus two of Ship's inside boys."

  The Federal procession had hit the road and was passing back westward.

  Domino told his lieutenant, "I sent Paul to bring Ship back. You take some trackers to the rear. I want that boy and I want him heavy. It's twice he's made a monkey of us. It's twice he's used cops to do it. I don't like the smell. I don't like the way he always seems to know everything that's going down. I want him alive, even if it's no more than a talking head. I want that boy screaming turkey. I think we'll solve a lot of problems all over the outfit when we get that."

  "Right," John said. "What do we do about the women?"

  "Find Bolan, you'll find the women. Don't come back without them, John."

  John said, "Right," and moved away.

  Domino was left standing alone in the grass.

  He could not believe it. He simply could not ... For the first time in a long time, the headhunter felt like tearing his hair and yelling—at anything, at anybody.

  Bolan! He was the guy! He was behind it all!

  How did the goddamn guy pull such shit as that? How did he do it?

  All the legends, all the stories, and the reputation of the guy had sounded like typical street-soldier romantic bullshit all this time But now it all was like swarming bees trying to use the Domino for a hive. It was not just a lot of romantic ...

  For the first time, Domino knew fear. Not that kind of fear—that kind of fear you lived with all the time. But for the first time in his impressive career, Domino knew the fear of failing.

  How could he return to the headshed, on such a sensitive mission, without the goods?

  A mild shudder travelled his full length.

  To hell with Bolan! Bolan wasn't the mission—he was just an obstacle that no one could blame Domino for anyway. He wanted the guy, sure, but that was secondary.

  First, he had to collect Ship and the two women. In the process, or after the process—it mattered not—he would collect Mack Bolan's talking head.