Eventually “the system” had caught up with the maverick colonel. Quietly and with notable absence of ceremonial honors he’d been relieved of his combat command and rotated to a desk job in the Saigon headshed. All his troopers had known, though, that his rotation orders had come from the highest Pentagon sources. “Howlie” had become too much of a colorful personality; war correspondents had latched onto the guy and had, in effect, written him out of the war. The Vietnam thing had become a hot issue in the American press, and Howlin’ Harlan Winters represented too much of a potential embarrassment to the men in Washington.
Several months later, Bolan himself had come up for routine rotation. He took a month’s leave in the states, then requested reassignment to his old outfit. The request was promptly granted and Bolan returned to the war zone for another full combat tour with the PenTeams. He had never again seen Harlan Winters, however, until that confrontation with sudden and complete retirement in the general’s study in Del Mar.
Bolan had not always agreed with everything Harlan Winters stood for. He had not always approved of his C.O.’s official conduct. But he had loved and respected the man for the soldier that he was and now, in San Diego, resolved to give the memory of a valiant warrior a decent burial.
He was fully prepared to acknowledge the almost certain truth that his old commander had been knowingly involved with the Mafia.
There were indications, even, that this involvement extended back into the general’s GHQ stint at Saigon, during the post-combative period.
But he was not ready yet to bury Harlan Winters without military honors.
“So where do we go from here?” Blancanales wanted to know.
Bolan quietly replied, “We go into enemy territory, Pol. Into the sanctuaries. We go in there and drag the colonel out. Okay?”
The other two veterans of Able Team exchanged glances, then Gadgets Schwarz cleared his throat and said, “Right. It’s a rescue mission.”
“For a dead man,” Blancanales sighed.
“For the memory of a good soldier,” Bolan corrected him. “Howlin’ Harlan deserves an Able Team effort. Right?”
“Right,” Schwarz echoed.
“But no false reports,” Blancanales said quietly.
“We just bring him out,” Bolan agreed. “The man that was there can speak for himself.”
“Agreed,” Blancanales replied. “We’ll give it one good rattle for the man.”
The tentative siege of San Diego had not been lifted.
On the contrary, it had suddenly undergone massive intensification.
Able Team was on the job.
3: ON NOTICE
The first gray fingers of dawn were pushing into the cloudless Southern California sky and darkly silhouetting the rugged rise of mountain peaks to the north and east.
Montgomery Field, a suburban airport favored by private and charter pilots, lay quietly brooding upon the approaching daylight.
Several men in white coveralls, employees of the flying service which operated the airport facilities, moved slowly among the small craft in the tie-down area in a routine inspection.
Runway lights and the field beacon were still in operation, and brightness spilled from several open hangars.
From the base operator’s private terminal could be heard the clacking of a flight-advisory teletype.
Manuel “Chicano” Ramirez and Jack “School-teacher” Fizzi occupied a late-model LTD, parked near a service ramp in the shadows of the terminal building. The windows were down and Fizzi was lightly drumming his fingers on the roof of the vehicle, keeping time with a country-music tune from the car radio.
Ramirez, the wheelman, a heavy man with a lumpy face and shaggy hair—expensively attired but rumpled and obviously disrespectful of $200 suits. He was about forty and well known in the police files of several nations. At the moment, the Chicano was slumped behind the wheel of the car, eyes closed, seemingly dozing.
Fizzi was in his late twenties. He had attended a small eastern college for two years, then traveled west to seek his fortune. One year to the day after his arrival in California, Fizzi began a one-to-five tenure at Folsom Prison for Grand Theft—Auto. For the next twenty months he had worked in the prison’s rehabilitation program as a teacher of illiterate cons. Apparently he had learned more than he taught at Folsom. His “connection” with Ben Lucasi, overlord of Southern California organized crime, was arranged within a few weeks of his release from confinement.
The Schoolteacher was always sharply dressed, almost tensely alert, his hair longish but carefully groomed in the new mod look. The image projected was the new look in junior executive. It was a false image.
The big man behind the wheel lifted his head sluggishly from the back rest and growled, “Wha’ time is it?”
“Time enough,” Fizzi replied. “He’s ten minutes late.”
“Hate these fuckin’ milk runs,” the other complained.
“Me too.” The handsome one sighed, adding, “This will be the last for awhile.” He turned off the radio. “Maybe they hit some bad weather.”
“Go ask the guy inside,” Ramirez suggested.
“Aw no. He’ll be here.”
Two men wearing the white coveralls of the flying service rounded the corner of the terminal building and approached the vehicle.
“Ask these grease monkeys.”
“What the hell do they know?” Fizzi growled. “He’s been late before. Just cool it.”
The men in white were making a casual approach, laughing softly between themselves until reaching the LTD, then they split and came down opposite sides of the car.
The one moving along the driver’s side was about medium height, somewhat thickset, dark hair and skin, smile-wrinkles setting the expression of the face.
The man at the other side was tall, broad-shouldered, athletically built—a bit younger than his companion—with chiseled features and eyes that dominated the entire appearance.
“Ask ’em,” the wheelman insisted.
Fizzi growled a profanity and thrust his head outside just as the tall man drew abreast. “Hey, jock, what’s the weather report for the mountains?” he asked in a snarly monotone.
“Stormy,” the big guy replied in a voice of sheerest ice. A silencer-tipped black auto appeared in his hand from seemingly nowhere, to graft itself to Fizzi’s outthrust forehead.
A gasp from the other side of the car signalled that the same unsettling event had occurred over there. The young triggerman very carefully relaxed his tightening muscles and his tone was entirely respectful as he said, “Okay, all right, okay. Let’s cool it. What’s the beef?”
The tall man issued another quiet single-word response: “Outside.”
It was like a voice from some deepfreeze, not calculated to encourage inane argument.
The guy backed off, just a little, the ominous tip of that black pistol unwaveringly remaining on target though, his free hand opening the door and swinging it wide.
Fizzi slid carefully to the outside, keeping his hands in clear view. As though acting out a conditioned reflex, he then turned his back on the big guy, spread his feet, raised his hands, and fell forward against the roof of the car in a “frisk” stance.
Somewhat the same scene was being enacted at the opposite side of the vehicle.
Ramirez was growling, “Where’s your warrant? I wanna see a warrant.”
“What’re you guys—feds?” Fizzi wanted to know as the tall man relieved him of his weapon.
That same icy voice replied, “Sort of.”
Before he quite realized that it was happening, Fizzi then found that his wrists were securely taped together at his back and the guy was applying a wide strip of adhesive to his mouth. An instant later he and Ramirez were curled into the trunk compartment and the guy was shoving something into his fist—something small and metallic with irregular edges.
Then the trunk lid was closed and he was sharing the cramped darkness with Ramirez.
He also knew who the big bastard was.
And he knew, with a flooding sense of relief, that he was one lucky goddam triggerman if he was really going to get off this easy.
Not many guys ever met Mack Bolan and lived to brag about it.
Yeah. Jack the Schoolteacher was one goddam lucky son of a bitch.
But why? for God’s sake why had the guy left him breathing?
A sharp little red and white Cessna came in just ahead of the sunrise to execute a standard landing approach in the Montgomery Field traffic pattern. It touched down smoothly on the main runway, completed a short landing roll and crossed over to the service area, halting at the gas pumps just uprange from the waiting automobile.
One Sammy Simonetti, the lone passenger, stepped outside, then leaned in for a final instruction to the pilot. “After you’ve gassed up, put her away. We won’t be going back until tonight late.”
The pilot nodded. “You’ll know where to find me.”
“Right.”
Simonetti was a “courier.” He even looked like one, complete to the wrist-manacle attache case which was chained to his right hand.
Two men in airport service-white moved out of the lengthening shadows of the terminal building and intercepted him halfway between plane and car.
“Mr. Simonetti?” the thickset one pleasantly greeted him.
The messenger frowned, but broke stride and replied, “Yeah?”—his eyes flicking toward the waiting vehicle.
The tall man quietly informed him, “Trip ends right here, Sammy.”
The ominously-tipped black Beretta showed itself, the muzzle staring up into the courier’s eyes.
The other man reached inside of Simonetti’s jacket, took his weapon, then nudged him on toward the LTD.
“You guys out of your minds or something?” he asked them in a choked voice. “You know who you’re hitting?”
“We know,” the tall one assured him. He opened a rear door and shoved the flustered man into the back seat.
The other guy was sliding in from the opposite doorway. He grabbed Simonetti’s hand and went to work on the wrist-lock with a small tool.
The captive’s eyes were showing panic. He groaned, “Hey, Jesus, don’t do this to me. How’m I going to tell Mr. Lucasi about this? I can’t go walking in there with a naked arm.”
“You’ll think of something,” the pleasant one replied.
“Look, boys, no shit now. You want to make a score? I mean a real score? Look, leave it alone. There’s nothing in here to do you any good. I can steer you to a real score. I mean, millions maybe.”
The icy one commanded, “Shut up, Sammy.”
“Look, you’re never going to be able to enjoy it. You know what I mean. You can’t just walk up and hit the combination this way. You’re dead men the minute you walk away from here. Get smart, hell man. I can steer you—”
The Beretta’s silencer had steered itself right into Sammy Simonetti’s hardworking mouth. He froze, then made a pleading sound around the new pacifier.
The big guy gave him a moment to get the feel and taste of oral death, then he withdrew the weapon and told the shaken courier, “Not another word.”
Simonetti’s eyes promised total silence and a moment later the other guy defeated the lock at his wrist.
The guy chuckled and told him, “Count your blessings, buddy. I was about ready to take arm and all.”
The hard one placed the car keys in the courier’s freed hand and told him, “Look in the trunk. But not right away. You wait awhile.”
Simonetti nodded his head in thoroughly cowed silence and the two men in white turned their backs on him and walked around the building and out of sight.
He’d been on the ground less than a minute.
Who would ever believe this?
That slick and that easy, those guys had just clipped the combination for more than a hundred grand.
Nobody would believe that … especially not Ben Lucasi!
The shaken messenger rattled the car keys in his hand, wondering vaguely what the guy had meant by, “Look in the trunk.”
What would he find in there? The remains of Chicano and the Schoolteacher?
Simonetti shivered.
Nobody would believe this.
Then he became aware that something was mixed in with the keys in his hand—he’d thought it to be part of the keyring or something.
But it was definitely not a part of the key ring.
They didn’t put marksman’s medals on key rings.
A chill ran the entire length of Simonetti’s spine and his guts began to quake.
Jesus!
They’d believe it, all right.
Goddammed right they’d believe it!
4: THE TRACK
The San Diego territory had long been considered a tenderloin area for La Cosa Nostra. This “key” territory—bounded on one side by one of the world’s ten greatest natural harbors and on another by the Mexican border—until recently had functioned as an “arm” of the DiGeorge Family, the Los Angeles mob which had already tasted the Executioner’s war effort.
With DiGeorge’s death and the dissolution of that “family,” the national ruling council, La Commissione, stepped in to administer the syndicate’s interests in that area.
Ben Lucasi had been a DiGeorge underboss. He and “Deej” had been longtime friends. He’d hated to see Deej have to go that way … but in his secret moments, Lucasi would admit that even the darkest cloud usually carried a silver lining.
Under the new setup, Big Ben was practically autonomous—reporting directly to the Commission of Capo’s at the national level of government.
San Diego was no longer an “arm” of anything or anybody. San Diego now belonged to Big Ben Lucasi, period. And, yeah, Big Ben (who measured 5’4” even in elevator shoes and weighed-in soaking wet at 120 pounds) liked things a hell of a lot better that way.
He was not, of course, a full-fledged Capo. Not yet. But that honor would come, just like all the other good things had come. The whole California territory was reorganizing itself around San Diego.
One of these days the boys all around the country would be referring to this arm as The Lucasi Family. And why not? Where the money was, that’s where the power was—and now that he was no longer getting a lot of jealous bullshit from L.A., Ben Lucasi was mining the San Diego gold like it hadn’t been mined since the forty-niners.
What with Agua Caliente a few minutes south and with Las Vegas just a hop over the mountains by plane—hell, a guy would have to have his mind in his balls not to make a goldmine out of that happy circumstance. And the whole goddam fuckin’ U.S. Navy sitting out here at his right hand, running back and forth to the Orient—what kind of a lamebrain wouldn’t turn a thing like that to his profit?
Some of the locals were starting to snicker about his “seagoing Mafia.” Which was okay. Let them make jokes. Lucasi owned also a “khaki Mafia.” Let ’em laugh—that was okay. As long as everybody was laughing there’d be no worry. Meanwhile San Diego was fast becoming the underground capital of the western world, and Ben Lucasi was becoming the most powerful non-Capo anywhere.
The Lucasi home was an unpretentious but modern split-level situated in one of the new neighborhoods near Mission Bay Park. He lived there with his third wife, Dorothy—a 23-year-old ex-showgirl from Las Vegas. Lucasi was 56. He had a daughter, 35, and a son, 32, from his first marriage. The son worked in a casino in Nassau; the daughter, at last report, was somewhere in Europe “with another lousy gigolo.”
The first Mrs. Lucasi had died under mysterious circumstances while the children were still quite young, during that era when Bennie was scrambling everywhere for the buck. His criminal record from those early days reveals arrests for pandering, rape, felonious assault, theft, gambling, arson, extortion, intimidation, blac
k-marketeering, manslaughter, and murder. The official FBI report on this very busy criminal enumerated 52 specific charges … with but 2 convictions and 2 suspended sentences.
He had spent a combined total of 66 days behind bars.
His last arrest had occurred in 1944, on a black-marketing charge.
Lucasi had come west at the end of the war, settling first in Reno, Nevada for a few years, then on to Las Vegas when the boom began there. In the late fifties he relocated to San Francisco, later gravitating to Los Angeles for a lieutenancy under Julian DiGeorge, who eventually sent him on to San Diego to boss that arm of the family.
So, sure. Except for a few nervous moments here and there, the world was looking rosy indeed for this late-blooming syndicate boss. The nervous moments came from increased anti-crime activity at the federal level—the damned Strike Forces—and a growing awareness among local citizens regarding the interconnections between the straight and the kinky communities.
And, of course, there was that Bolan bastard.
Bolan had almost torn things for good when he went on the warpath against Deej. The repercussions from that conflict had been felt clear down into San Diego … and to points beyond. Lucasi himself had been enroute to Palm Springs when Bolan finally lowered the boom on DiGeorge there. And he’d seen, at first hand, the aftermath of a Mack Bolan hit. Yeah, he still had nightmares sometimes over what he’d seen at Palm Springs.
Goddamn how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east.
Lucasi had thought he was rid of the bastard.
The son of a bitch had been everywhere. He’d hit Miami. He’d hit, for Christ’s sake, even over in France and England—and for damn sure Bennie had thought the guy would stay over there somewhere and lay low.
Like hell he did. He hit the five family area, New York, like some crazy avenging angel, and just tore the living shit out of that place. All five families!
San Diego Siege Page 3