Cortale fired another long burst at the bastard who was slaughtering his men, and then his own damned magazine was empty. Running for the nearest cover, a weed-choked roadside ditch, he dived headlong into its dusty sanctuary, the Kalashnikov digging into his ribs. Cortale rolled onto his back, feeling the seconds slip away as he released the empty magazine, discarded it, replaced it, and then jacked a round into the carbine’s chamber.
Ready!
But for what?
Out in the open, Ruggiero Aielo was stalking their prey, shouting taunts and insults to provoke him. Terranova and Malara were still alive, after a fashion, though Cortale could not count on either one of them right now. The woman could be anywhere, escaping while he lay there in the dirt, his Armani suit a filthy mess of dust and briars.
“Curse her rotten soul,” he muttered.
And what about the neighbors? They had telephones, no doubt, but would they risk a call to the authorities? Speaking to the police was dangerous in Italy, but some high-minded citizens still clung to what they thought of as their civic duty. If the cops turned up with the firefight still in progress, Cortale was prepared to kill them, too.
Why not? They should know better than to interfere. If they hadn’t learned that much from history, or on the job, they were too stupid to survive.
Cortale raised his head, risking a glance across the roadway, looking for his enemy. Instead, he saw Malara rising slowly, painfully, using his Uzi as a prop while struggling to his feet, blood drizzling on the pavement from his wounds. Behind him, fifty feet or so away, Terranova was crawling toward their car, dragging one limp and twisted leg behind him, teeth clenched in a snarl of agony. Aiello was still hunting, edging closer to the Alfa, his slacks now pale with dust from the knees down. He’d stopped calling to their enemy and clutched his pistol in a good two-handed grip, ready to fire at the first glimpse of movement.
Suddenly embarrassed, Cortale rolled out of the ditch and rose, moving to join his men.
* * *
THE FOUR ’NDRANGHETISTI were legitimate tough guys; Bolan conceded that. One shot, another knocked ass over teakettle at fifty miles per hour, and they both had fight left in them yet. The other two were coming on as if they didn’t have a worry in the world: no fear of bullets, witnesses, police, nothing. Some mobsters he had known—and killed—would have been running for their lives by now, but the Magolino goons were going out with style.
So let them go.
First, Bolan focused on the soldier who’d been stalking him, trying to lure him out with insults, firing random shots to cover his approach. That method had a fatal flaw, which the mobster discovered when the slide locked open on his pistol’s empty chamber and he had to swap magazines out in the open, with nowhere to hide.
Bolan rose and hit him with a 3-round burst at center mass, knocking him backward. This one was a solid kill, no doubt about it from the thrashing of his legs, then the stillness as he lay sprawled on his back.
And that left three.
The other one still fit to fight was coming hard at Bolan, firing from the hip with a Kalashnikov. No one who’d ever had an AK fired in their direction could mistake its sound or minimize the danger of exposure to its raking fire. Bolan went down as if he’d been hit, lay prone and fired from that position, knowing he might not score a fatal shot but doing what he could with what he had.
Two of his three rounds ripped into the shooter’s pelvis, drilling guts and shattering the heavy bone to break him down. Legs folded, and the screaming mobster slumped into his line of fire to take the next burst through his jaw and throat, face shattered, brain stem severed as he dropped.
Two down and out.
Bolan had fired five bursts, which meant he still had six rounds left to go. Rising, he saw the gunner he’d wounded moments earlier trying to raise an Uzi with his one functioning hand. Barely functioning, apparently, because it wasn’t working out for him. The skinny gangster saw death coming, cursed it and went down as Bolan shot him in the chest.
Last up, the man who wasn’t quick enough to dodge his Alfa at the start of their engagement, crawling like a crippled beetle on the blacktop. Bolan sent him mercy from a range of thirty feet and watched him slump facedown, no longer dangerous to anyone.
Reloading on the move, Bolan surveyed the battleground and couldn’t see the woman. She’d escaped, and he could let it go at that, if it was what she wanted. He retreated to the bullet-riddled Alfa, knew it wasn’t going anywhere and got his bags out of the car. Bolan turned back to the undamaged black sedan still idling where its passengers had bailed to start the firefight.
“I’m going now,” he called out, speaking in Italian. “Good luck.”
He made it to the mobsters’ car and had stowed his guns and settled in the driver’s seat before she called out to him from behind a bristling roadside hedge. “Please wait!”
He waited while she made her cautious way to the sedan and peered in at him through a window. Overcoming fear at last, she asked, “Can you take me somewhere?”
Bolan holstered the Beretta as he said, “All right. Get in.”
Catanzaro
ALDO ADAMO LISTENED to the caller’s words, feeling his stomach clench. “What do you mean, you haven’t seen them yet?” he asked.
“Just what I said,” his man aboard the Mare Strega answered. “There’s no sign of them, and Cortale hasn’t called.”
“They should have been there—” Aldo studied his Movado TR90 watch, scowling “—almost an hour ago.”
“It’s why I’m calling.”
“All right. Wait there. I’ll call you back.”
Adamo cut the link and tried Cortale’s cell phone, waiting through five rings before it went to voice mail. Knowing that his number must have been displayed on Cortale’s phone and that his soldier was not fool enough to miss the call deliberately, Aldo switched his phone off without leaving a message.
Something was wrong.
Adamo began to consider reasons why his people had not reached the boat. The first that came to mind was logical enough: they might have stopped somewhere along the way to play a little with the woman. He had not forbidden it, specifically, but Cortale should have been intelligent enough to do his business with her after they were all safely aboard the Mare Strega, out at sea. They would have privacy and all the time they needed.
But even if his soldiers had been stupid and had stopped along the highway leading south, Cortale would not turn off his phone or dodge a call from his superior. A santista, Cortale was on call around the clock. His time—indeed, his very life—was not his own.
Adamo’s cell phone chirped at him, a soft sound, but it almost made him drop the instrument. Recovering, he answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Signore Adamo? This is Lieutenant Albanesi.”
One of their men within the Guardia di Finanza, Albanesi never called unless there was some trouble in the offing—an indictment, for example, or a raid pending against some Magolino enterprise.
“Yes, Lieutenant. How may I assist you?” Aldo was going through the motions, as if they were simply friends and he was there to serve the fat little policeman.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Albanesi said. “We have found four of your men outside Le Croci. They’re dead.”
“Dead? All four?”
“Regrettably. Yes, sir.”
“What happened?”
“They were shot. It also seems that one of them was struck by a vehicle.”
Adamo knew he must be careful with his next question. “Were they alone?”
“Yes,” the officer confirmed. “Were you...expecting someone else?”
“No, no. I only thought, if there was shooting...”
“Ah, of course. They did return fire, but we’ve found no evidence so far that it a
ccomplished anything. I wonder, sir, if you could say what sort of car they had?”
“Their car?” Adamo had to think about it for a moment, thrown off base by Albanesi’s unexpected question. “It was a black Lancia Delta.”
“And would you know the number of its license plate by any chance?”
“I couldn’t say. It’s registered commercially,” Adamo answered. “To our winery, if I am not mistaken.”
“Never mind,” the lieutenant said. “I can check that myself.”
“Why do you ask about the car?” Adamo pressed him.
“Ah. Because we found one at the scene, damaged by gunfire. It’s a rental, from the airport at Lamezia Terme. It was hired out today, in fact, to someone named...um...Scott Parker. Is that name familiar to you, sir?”
“It is not,” Adamo said. But it will be, he thought.
“An American, it appears, if we may trust his operator’s license and the credit card he used to hire the car. We will be tracing both.”
“Of course. Please keep me informed of any progress, and advise me when the bodies may be claimed for burial. Their families...”
“Under the circumstances,” Albanesi said, “I’m afraid the magistrate will certainly demand autopsies. The delay in their release may be substantial.”
“Do the best you can,” Adamo said. “Your efforts are appreciated, Lieutenant.”
Meaning that he owed the little troll another envelope of cash, with more to come if Albanesi could identify the killer and deliver him to the family.
But the main headache for Adamo now was the missing woman.
A headache he was about to share with his padrino.
Bracing for the storm to come, Adamo made the call.
Chapter 4
“I need to ditch this car,” Bolan informed his silent passenger. “As soon as possible.”
“Of course.” She answered dully, as if they were discussing the weather.
The police would find his rental car sometime within the hour, if they weren’t already at the shooting scene. That meant they’d trace it to the airport and discover his I.D. An all-points bulletin was sure to follow, with a photocopy of his driver’s license and a tight watch on his credit card in Scott Parker’s name.
Bad news, but he was not prepared to call it a catastrophe.
The I.D. was disposable. Once he’d placed a call to Hal, inquiries into Scott Parker would collide with cold stone walls, all record of the man erased, leaving police—and anybody else who tried to trace him in the States—without a clue. As far as money went, he had enough on hand to see his mission through, and he could always pick up more by ripping off the ’Ndrangheta.
But his enemies would be looking for the car he’d borrowed. Whether they passed on its description to the cops or not, all eyes beholden to the syndicate would be wide open, watching for the black Lancia Delta.
Too bad, Bolan thought. It was a nice ride, but every minute he spent behind its wheel brought him closer to danger. Losing the car in Catanzaro shouldn’t be a problem, but his best bet for a quick replacement was the long-term parking lot at the same airport where he’d rented the Alfa Romeo. Maybe he could put the woman on a flight out of Calabria at the same time.
“You saved my life,” the woman said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
“Happy to do it,” Bolan replied.
“But why?”
“Why not?”
She hesitated. “Are you...’ndranghetisto?”
“No,” Bolan said. “Not even close.”
She tried again. “Police?”
“I’m strictly unofficial,” he said. She looked confused. “You are not Italian.”
“No.”
“ American, I believe.”
“Does it matter?” Bolan asked.
“No, I suppose not. I simply want to understand.”
“I saw an opportunity to help and took it. Let it go at that.”
“What happens now?”
“First, I find another set of wheels, and then I make arrangements that will keep you safe.”
That brought a bitter laugh. “Where on Earth will I ever be safe?”
“I have some friends. They’ll think of something.”
“Oh, yes. That’s what they told my brother. Now he’s dead and I am hunted like an animal.”
“Your brother?”
“Rinaldo,” she answered. “Rinaldo Natale.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Bolan said. “He was—”
“An informant, yes. He brought shame onto all of us.”
“And you were being punished for it.”
Bolan knew the ground rules of a classic vendetta. No survivors could be tolerated.
“Not only me,” she replied. “My mother, aunts and uncles, cousins. Everyone. Gianni will not rest while any of them are alive.”
“Gianni Magolino.”
She was staring at him now, eyes narrowed. “You know of him?”
He rolled the dice. “I’m here because of him. Because he killed your brother in the States.”
“I asked if you are police,” she said, her tone accusatory.
“And I’m not,” Bolan assured her.
“What, then?”
“Someone who solves problems when the law breaks down.”
“What will you do with me?”
“I told you. Find someplace where you’ll be safe.”
“There’s no such place in Italy. No such place in the world.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She laughed at that. “I’ll be surprised if I wake up alive tomorrow, Signor... What should I call you?”
“Scott Parker,” Bolan said. At least for now, he thought.
“And I am Mariana.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“How will you save me then?” she asked.
“First thing, we find new wheels. Then I need to make a call.”
Le Croci
CAPTAIN NICOLA BASILE stepped out of his Fiat Bravo, surveying the crime scene on Via Solferino. Off to his left, a bullet-riddled Alfa Romeo sat in a farmer’s field. The pavement before him was bloodstained, with police trying to step around the evidence while taking measurements and photographs. Basile frowned as he saw Lieutenant Carlo Albanesi approaching, face cracked by a smile.
“Captain, you’re here.”
“Where else should I be, Lieutenant?”
Albanesi blinked at him. “I simply meant—”
“I understand four dead ’ndranghetisti. True?”
Albanesi took the interruption in stride. “That is correct.”
“Their names?”
Albanesi took a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Ruggiero Aiello, Gitano Malara, Fausto Cortale and Dino Terranova.”
“So, the Magolino family,” Basile said. “And no one else?”
“No one.”
“Their car?” Basile nodded toward the Alfa in the field.
“No, sir. We think theirs was stolen. This one is an airport rental, hired by an American.” Albanesi’s eyes went back to the notebook. “A Scott Parker of Baltimore. Examination of flight records is proceeding at Lamezia Terme as we speak.”
Basile would have praised most any other officer for that report, but he could not bring himself to congratulate Albanesi. The lieutenant was a dirty cop—reputed to be a bagman for the ’Ndrangheta. He’d been untouchable so far because the cash he collected flowed to higher-ranking officers within the Guardia di Finanza. Even so, Basile—who had never touched a bribe in twenty-seven years—refused to treat him with respect and was constantly on watch for ways to bring him down.
“What about the dead men’s vehicle?” Basi
le asked.
“We’re looking into it,” Albanesi said. “No description yet.”
“Have you asked Gianni Magolino?”
Yet another blink from Albanesi as he answered, “No. Why would I?”
Smiling vaguely to himself, Basile answered, “Why? To question him about his poor santisti, cut down in their prime. Why else?”
“I thought it more important to get after the American,” Albanesi said. “And I did not wish to trespass on your territory.”
“Mine?”
The fat lieutenant shrugged. “A man of Magolino’s stature. Surely he deserved a captain, eh?”
“Perhaps you’re right, Lieutenant. Why insult him by sending a lackey?”
Albanesi stiffened, color rising in his jowls, but whatever tart response had come to mind, he wisely kept it to himself.
Basile eyed the cartridge casings scattered around the scene and said, “The dead were armed, I take it?”
Albanesi nodded silently, still simmering.
“With automatic weapons, it appears.”
“An Uzi, a Kalashnikov, some pistols.”
“Good. Perhaps Signore Magolino can explain where his employees got that kind of hardware in Calabria.”
A scornful snort. “You think he’ll tell you?”
“I hope not,” Basile said.
He’d confused the fat lieutenant once again. Not difficult, but satisfying.
“You hope not?”
“When he refuses, or pleads ignorance, I may have grounds for a search warrant. Possession of unlicensed firearms is a serious offense. Distribution of such arms to others, much more so.”
Albanesi shrugged, as if to say Basile was free to waste his time should he choose to. Both knew his application for a warrant might well be rejected by one of the several magistrates who banked on Magolino money for a posh retirement. In any case, Basile thought, the odds of finding Magolino personally in possession of illegal arms were slim to none.
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