Wild Card

by Don Pendleton

Suddenly his whole future seemed to be hanging on this deal tonight. He dialed Carmine's number again and tapped his fingers nervously on the hood of the Cadillac until it was answered. "Something's gone sour," he said in a controlled voice. "Georgie's not answering his car phone. I want you to get some guys inside that record shop and shake Thornton out of it. If you have to do it publicly, do it. You and the other boys can take a nice long vacation stateside afterward. Just make sure you earn it." He replaced the phone in the car and stared down Yonge Street, wondering what secrets the neon lights hid.

  He glanced back at the Heimdall Freight Lines truck that was parked around the corner on Gerrard Street East. The two Swiss soldiers delivering the goods sat motionlessly in the cab. They were bookends, both with overdeveloped bodies and long, stringy blond hair hanging to their shoulders. Rudolf and Edouard, he'd been told. No last names. They'd also volunteered the information that they weren't willing to wait long.

  Corsini paced tensely, aware that every minute that passed could allow things to get that much worse.

  And when it came, the sudden sound of gunfire almost stopped his heart.

  * * *

  Thornton moved through the Plumrose Passion carefully, feeling the press of time. Scattered all around him were racks of albums, 8-tracks and posters of rock-and-roll singers from the 1960s and early 1970s.

  The clerk behind the counter wore purple-tinted octagon-shaped glasses, love beads and a leather vest over a lavender T-shirt. He looked easily old enough to have lived during the Make Love — Not War generation as an adult.

  It wasn't easy being surrounded by so many things from the past. They all called out to him, offering memories if he would only look closer, perhaps touch an album cover, even listen on the earphones provided at the end of the middle rack.

  He shut himself off from them, willing the memories away. He had enough to do without getting lost in the thunderous roll of yesterdays that threatened to suck him in. He concentrated on the hard lines of the .45 under the fringed leather jacket. This was his reality. The threat of sudden death.

  "Something I can help you with, man?" the clerk asked.

  Thornton shook his head. "Just looking."

  "It's cool, jack, just trying to be helpful."

  Thornton turned away from the man and started to flip through a stack of LPs without seeing any of the titles.

  Then the back door exploded inward. Two men carrying shotguns stepped inside, aiming at his waist. "Touch the piece, asshole, and you're history," one of them said.

  Thornton dived to the ground, raking the .45 from its leather, grunting painfully when his wound hit the floor. There was a sudden boom, then the top of the stack of albums he'd been looking at turned into streamers of confetti.

  He rolled, getting to his feet, using his free hand to help him scramble across the floor toward the door. More gunfire tracked him, smashing into the walls and shredding posters.

  Then he was out the door and face-to-face with a memory that brought all the nightmares tumbling into bright focus. Piper. Piper was here. He reached for her, confused, not knowing what was real and what wasn't. He saw the gun in her hand, and tears in her eyes and heard his name on her lips.

  Then a subsonic whoosh rushed by his ear, and the bullet hit her high in the chest and knocked her away from him.

  He looked at her, lying unmoving on the sidewalk, and felt the scream well up in him from far way. "Nnnnooooo!" He wheeled, bringing the .45 up in a two-handed grip, spraying fire at the man across the street who was already firing again. He felt something bite into his flesh, on the same side as the earlier wound but refused to go down.

  * * *

  Bolan strode through the darkness in silence, keeping the Uzi tucked under the trench coat. Silverman had gone around the front, leaving the back door for him. A sedan wheeled into the alley with its lights out, cruising to a stop behind the record shop as he took refuge behind a corner one building down.

  Two men with shotguns got out of the sedan, making no effort at all to conceal them. One of them raised his weapon to his shoulder and fired, blowing the lock off the door, then kicked it open before the sound of the shot faded from the alley.

  The Executioner was in motion at once, whipping the Uzi out as he ran for the back door. He'd given brief consideration to the possibility that the men were Toronto cops, but their actions ruled that out.

  He closed in on them unseen, getting a brief glimpse of the carnage they were wreaking inside the shop even as he swung into action. He slammed the fold-out stock of the Uzi into the neck of one, sending him crumpling to the ground and the shotgun sliding across the floor.

  The other shotgunner tried to turn, whipping the sawed-off barrel of his weapon around.

  Bolan blocked the shotgun with the Uzi, sweeping the man's feet out from under him with a leg, then kneeling quickly as he went down to knock him out with the submachine gun. The shooter relaxed instantly.

  More firing came from outside on the street.

  Bolan moved through the tattered racks of albums and 8-tracks and cassette tapes, ignoring the clerk, who was holding his empty hands out. He looked through the plate glass window and saw Ryan Thornton firing round after round across the street just as the window collapsed into jagged shards of glass that rained down onto the tiled floor.

  Thornton staggered, and Bolan knew the man had taken at least one bullet. Instead of retreating or trying to find cover, Thornton stood his ground in a wide-legged shooter's stance, his weapon still spitting death.

  Bolan thudded into place behind the concrete section of the wall framing the door and the gaping space of the empty window. He ducked around the corner, spraying the 32-round box of the Uzi dry at the gunners across the street, sending them fleeing for cover. Then he reached forward and grabbed Thornton by his leather jacket and polled him down. Bolan rammed another clip into the Uzi and glanced up in time to see two men trying to cross the street as the others provided covering fire.

  Slithering across the broken glass of the window, Bolan came up suddenly, the Uzi's stock tucked neatly into his shoulder. He touched off two 3-round bursts that stripped coordination from each man and left them lying like discarded heaps in the middle of the street. An oncoming car swerved to miss the bodies, then sped away.

  Bolan looked back at Thornton, seeing the blood spreading down his side. The undercover man had the .45 aimed at the Executioner. "How bad is it?" Bolan asked.

  "Who are you?" Thornton demanded, grimacing with the pain. He tried to stand up, but his foot slipped on the pooling blood and he went back down.

  "Mike Belasko," Bolan replied. "I'm the guy that just saved your ass."

  Thornton seemed to consider that for a moment, then let the .45 drop across his thigh. "They got Piper," he said lifelessly.

  Bolan pushed his feelings away, forcing himself to stay locked in the military mode. He raked a blast of fire across the street, dispersing the gunners again as the 9 mm rounds pummeled the brick facing of the building behind them. "Where is she?"

  "Outside." Thornton's eyes inside the dark hollows looked dead and empty. He made another attempt to get up and managed to pull himself unsteadily erect.

  Bolan ignored the man for the moment, feeding another clip into the submachine gun. It wouldn't be long before the Toronto police arrived on the scene, even with the bomb scare he'd dropped as a diversion on the security guard at Corsini's hotel. The action here was too hot to hold.

  He hazarded a glance around the corner, looking for Silverman, saw nothing but a smear of blood on the sidewalk. "She's not there."

  "She gotta be," Thornton insisted. "I saw her go down." He started to go past Bolan, but the Executioner held him back just as a handful of bullets from the gunners exploded wooden splinters from the door frame. He forced the man against the wall, feeling the numbers spill out of his control, knowing he's never really had a chance to contain the situation once it hit the streets. He felt bad about Silverman and hoped she was al
l right. At least she was still on the move.

  "Where is the cocaine?" Bolan asked as he stripped out of the trench coat.

  Thornton dropped the magazine out of his .45 and checked the rounds, then switched magazines, placing the half-empty one in a back pants pocket. He looked at Bolan and said, "Thad's dead. Alice is, too."

  "I know, Ryan," Bolan said softly, realizing the man was hovering between realities, between the firefight taking place here and now and the nightmares he'd been avoiding for weeks. He'd seen men slip into shock in Vietnam and knew it took time to come out of it — time he and Thornton couldn't afford. "I need to know where Corsini is."

  Thornton spoke in a whisper. "Down at Gerrard Street. That was the plan. He was going to make the trade with the Swiss munitions people there." He swallowed with effort. "The bastard double-crossed me. Talked Skeeter and Hooter into trying to kill me. The dumb sons of bitches. They should have known he was lying to them." He chuckled. "Hell, I should have known he was lying to me. But I didn't, did I? I got them killed, got Alice and Thad killed, got Piper killed." He winked at Bolan. "You might be better off shooting me yourself, pard, before I get you killed, too."

  "I've got to go after Corsini," Bolan said. "That leaves you to look for Silverman. Are you up to it?"

  "She's dead."

  "No, she isn't. But she's hurt pretty bad, judging from the blood. She might not make it without help."

  "She went down so goddamn quick. I thought she was dead."

  "She's alive." Bolan wanted the man to focus on the thought, hoping it would be enough to keep him going.

  Thornton fisted the .45 and nodded. "I'll find her."

  Bolan gave him a quick smile. "Way to go. When you do, there's a Jeep Cherokee parked in the alley. The keys are on the floorboard. Use the car phone to let the Toronto PD know there are undercover officers on the field. Got it?"

  "Got it."

  Bolan plucked a grenade from the harness he wore. "When this goes off, run like hell and don't look back."

  Stepping around the corner, Bolan tossed the grenade in an easy underhand throw that sent it skittering up under the sedan most of Corsini's men were hiding behind. He ducked back inside as bullets chipped at the entrance, commencing a silent countdown.

  The grenade erupted, splashing orange-and-yellow lights across the doorway.

  "Go!" he yelled to Thornton, spinning around the corner to offer covering fire.

  Thornton sprinted for the back door, favoring his wounded side.

  Flames spilled from the destroyed sedan sitting on its side, sending bright-colored talons scratching for the night-dark sky. Silhouettes, some of them on fire, scattered from the sedan.

  Bolan took the fight to the street, charging into the hell-zone, hoping that Thornton could carry through long enough to find Silverman and that she was going to be okay.

  Two gunners went down immediately under the Uzi's withering line of fire, dropping to their knees and falling forward. Then he squeezed off mercy bursts that took care of the burning shadows and silenced the screams of agony.

  Bolan crossed the street, circling around the burning wreckage of the car, securing the area before moving on, feeling the press of time push him mercilessly. He rammed a fresh magazine up the pistol grip of the Uzi and pounded down the sidewalk, seeing frightened faces peering at him from the windows and doors of the shops he passed.

  Bullets streaked toward him from a gunner hiding in the alley between the buildings, pounding sparks and stone splinters from the sidewalk.

  The Executioner wheeled, changing direction, dropping into a roll as he stretched the Uzi out before him, seeking the man. He triggered a long burst, sweeping it across the gunner's position as he rolled, coming to a stop on his elbows and firing a final burst that ripped the man from the wall and spilled him like a stringless puppet in the alley.

  Then he was up again, running, watching the mouth of Gerrard Street as a truck bearing the name Heimdall Freight Lines roared onto Yonge. His lungs burning from the exertion, he forced his body to break into full stride, closing the gap between himself and the truck, swinging the Uzi by its strap over his back. The truck rumbled with effort, its transmission straining to pick up speed, then clanking as the gears changed. The chain-covered tarp beat at the back door soundlessly, the noise lost in the grinding of the engine.

  Bolan stretched, gaining on the freight truck, his legs aching with the effort, the boots feeling too heavy to lift another step. Finally he reached, curled his fingers in the chain, felt himself pulled off stride as the truck shifted into a higher gear. He hoisted himself, tucking his body against the truck, feeling the agony shift from his legs to his arms, willing himself to hold the grip. The only chance he had of shutting everything down was here. Now. He gritted his teeth against the pain as his body beat against the truck.

  Corsini's Cadillac whipped around the corner of Gerrard Street, its headlights splashing against his legs. He saw a muzzle-flash come from the passenger side of the luxury car, followed by a handful of others. Then the truck started swaying from side to side, letting him know the driver was aware he'd clambered onto the truck. Bolan tried to lift himself higher, then felt something burn along his leg. He missed his handhold and went swinging wildly away from the truck.

  * * *

  Memories washed over Thornton as he stood in the alleyway. God, he wanted away from them so desperately. His .45 felt like a lead weight at the end of his arm, dragging him down into a torrent of immobilizing guilt.

  He forced himself to think about Piper despite the pain her memory brought. She was out here somewhere, needing him.

  He pushed away from the back of the record shop, stumbling in the darkness, never sure how far away the ground was. Every time he took a step, his legs seemed to spring back up at him, moving independently.

  As he passed an alley, strong arms reached out to seize him, knocking the gun out of his hand as they pulled him close. He felt fetid breath burn along his cheek, felt the metal flange of a gun sight prod under his chin.

  "Don't move, Thornton," Frank Judson's voice whispered hoarsely in his ear, "or I'll take your goddamn head off." The arm around Thornton's neck tightened, shutting off his wind.

  "You understand me, cowboy?"

  Thornton nodded weakly.

  "I want the cocaine, Thornton. You and Silverman and that big bastard in black have cost me everything else. I was damn lucky Vinnie didn't shoot me, but he was too interested in getting the guns from the Swiss people to stop when I jumped out of the car."

  Thornton coughed.

  Judson screwed the flange of the gun sight into his chin tighter, bringing increased pain.

  "You were with Corsini?"

  Judson chuckled as he shoved Thornton forward. "Gee, you're a regular whiz for a burnout, aren't you?" He pushed again. "Now, let's go get that cocaine and, if you're lucky, I'll put you out of your misery."

  * * *

  Silverman pressed a hand over the wound in her shoulder, feeling blood ooze over it immediately. She listened to the gunfire and squealing tires coming from the street. The last thing she remembered was seeing Ryan, seeing the confusion on his face, seeing the hollowness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin.

  She struggled to her feet, vaguely remembering pulling herself back into the alley, sure Ryan would have followed her. There was nowhere else for him to go. The record shop was full of shooting men, too.

  Where was he? Had he been shot?

  Her left arm dangled uselessly at her side, numb from the shoulder down. She bent over to pick up the pistol Belasko had given her, feeling the blood coating her fingertips stick to it. The effort almost sent her to her knees. She fought the sickness, willing herself not to black out again. There was too much to be done.

  She forced her head to clear and listened to the shooting vanish down the street, then heard voices coming from the alley in back of the Plumrose Passion. Voices she recognized.

  Ryan's.

>   And someone else's.

  Using the wall, she made her way back to the alley, elbowing her way down while keeping the Beretta up.

  Slivers of moonlight fell across the two men when she peered around the corner. She saw Judson standing behind Ryan, holding a gun at his throat, then memory of the voice clicked into place, as well. Warm blood continued to soak into her blouse under the jacket.

  She stepped out into the alley, pointing the pistol at Judson's back less than fifteen feet away. She tried to steady her hand, blinked her eyes in an effort to clear them, hardened her voice and said, "Put the gun down, Frank."

  "Is that you, Piper?" the man asked, freezing in place.

  "Yes. I'll shoot if you make me, Frank."

  "Will you, now? Somehow I don't think you will, Piper, because before you get the chance, I'll blow your boyfriend's head off." Judson twisted his head, shifting slightly with Ryan. "See, Piper, I don't have anything left to lose. In fact, killing me would probably be better than putting me in prison. A faster death, for sure. You know what they do to cops in there."

  Silverman's arm trembled with the continued strain of holding the Beretta up. She wanted to shoot. God, she wanted to shoot. But she wasn't Belasko or Annie Oakley. The alley was dark, she was in bad shape, Ryan was too close and she couldn't remember if the pistol was on single-shot or 3-round burst. Peering over the sight, she watched Judson turn around completely, placing Ryan between them.

  "Put the gun down, Piper," Judson said, "and I won't kill him. I just want the cocaine and I'll take my chances with getting out of here before the police come."

  She kept the pistol leveled.

  "Don't do it, Piper," Ryan pleaded.

  "Drop it," Judson ordered, thumbing back the hammer on his pistol.

  "Shoot the son of a bitch, Piper!" Ryan screamed.

  Silverman let the Beretta fall from her fingertips. "I can't."

  Grinning, Judson removed the pistol from Ryan's neck and pointed it at Silverman. She didn't have the strength to evade the approaching bullet.