Basile sighed. “In which case—”
“But I know the warehouse where Gianni keeps his product.”
“Ah.” Basile turned to Parker. “If this proves true, I’m certain we can strike a deal.”
“With full security,” Bolan said. Telling him, not asking.
“On my honor.”
“Then I’m out of here,” the American replied.
“Before you go...might I convince you to abstain from any further bloodshed in Calabria?”
“Sorry,” the tall man said and let it go at that.
“In which case,” Basile said, “I shall hope we do not meet again.”
“Likewise.” And he was gone.
* * *
BOLAN LEFT MARIANA and the captain, fairly certain he could trust Basile but less convinced about the rest of his department and the overall bureaucracy he served. Corruption was the grease that kept most government machinery working, though it sometimes clogged the system. In Italy, the problem was endemic, but many servants of the state did not consider it an issue.
It was simply part of life.
Now that Mariana was safe, Bolan could pick up where he’d been interrupted, starting with the hit list he’d compiled in transit from D.C.
Aldo Adamo’s office would be closed by now, and Adamo himself was presumably engaged in hunting “Scott Parker.” That would take him nowhere, and although his access to a touched-up photograph of “Parker” was unfortunate, it had no impact on Bolan’s game plan.
When you want to hurt a mobster, hit him in the wallet. The economic lifeblood of the ’Ndrangheta flowed from human vice and weakness: drugs, gambling, debt and prostitution. All of those were cracks in the cartel’s façade, where Bolan had an opportunity to drive his wedges deep.
He would begin with gambling. Slot machines, roulette, dice games and other common forms of casino gambling were ripe for exploitation by the mob.
The place he had in mind was a nightclub called La Fiamma—The Flame—that included a full-scale casino upstairs. Access to the casino was via invitation only, but the Executioner thought he could find a way inside without much difficulty.
Gianni Magolino’s ’ndranghetisti, however, might have a hard night coming up.
Luck of the draw, Bolan thought as he motored toward his target, leaving Villa Margherita in his rearview mirror.
Simeri Crichi, Calabria
DON PEPPINO LANZA reviewed his troops like a general preparing for battle—which, in fact, was close.
At best, he was a captain in the larger Bevilacqua family, and his “army” wasn’t much to look at either. Twenty-seven men, all told, more like a platoon in the real world, but he would trust any one of these men with his life.
To a point.
Beyond that, in the best tradition of a fractured underworld, it was every man for himself.
Lanza’s soldiers were a motley group, all the more so for having been summoned at such short notice. Still, they had shown up as ordered, armed and more or less ready for battle, with no one complaining. If spirit counted for anything, Lanza would match them against any force in the world.
And they were well armed. Their invasion of Magolino territory, ordered by Don Alessandro Bevilacqua himself, had been a not-so-subtle act of war and thus required a show of force. Each man carried an automatic weapon, mostly stolen military arms: Beretta AR90 rifles or the newer ARX-160 and a few Kalashnikovs. They also had a handful of submachine guns, including two Uzis, a Spectre M4, and a Beretta M12. In addition to those weapons, each soldier was armed with a pistol or two and assorted other toys, including grenades, garrotes and stilettos. Every man had brought all the ammunition he possessed, prepared to fight until the last round had been fired.
In other circumstances, Lanza would have been satisfied. Yet...
He had retreated to the town of Simeri Crichi, northeast of Catanzaro, where the Bevilacqua coche owned more property. With any luck, his small force would be unmolested until he forged a plan for retaliation. Don Bevilacqua had already learned of the latest insult to his family’s honor and had made it plain that payback was required. Each soldier in the field must do his part.
And for Lanza’s personal reputation, there was no time to waste. He had received criticism already for his failure to punish Gianni Magolino for the early attempts on his life. Their back-and-forth skirmishing was a topic of some discussion—not to say derision—among his brothers in Palermo. He had survived three near misses before tonight’s explosion, and the best he’d offered in return was the drive-by execution of Gianni Magolino’s main accountant.
A lousy bookkeeper.
It was embarrassing, and Lanza knew if he ever hoped for a promotion in the family—actually, if he simply wanted to survive—he must do something more. Don Bevilacqua had been explicit on the telephone tonight. This was his final chance. If he did not succeed, the family expected him to die in the attempt, expunging the dishonor with his blood.
Lanza, of course, preferred survival.
After a quick examination of his soldiers and their weapons, Lanza briefed them on the bombing of his rented house. By then they’d heard the news in one form or another, likely garbled, but his speech was meant to motivate them for the coming battle. All of them were loyal—to the family, if not to him specifically—but their padrino’s do-or-die commandment was the final, surefire motivator.
Any man who let the cosche down should not expect to live.
“Now, men,” he finished strong, “these Magolino scum would happily destroy us. Each and every one of you is marked, the same as I am. They hate you, and would steal the bread out of your mouths if we permit it. Shall we?”
Most of them responded with a rousing “No!” A few added profanities to emphasize their defiance. Three or four of them stood silent, grim-faced, hands white-knuckled where they clutched their weapons. Lanza took that as a sign of anger, not fear. Cowards did not survive long in the Bevilacqua family.
“Three of you will stay with me,” he said. “The rest will be divided into four-man teams for hunting. Take the maps assigned to you and strike the targets you find marked. Destroy each one in turn, and leave none of our adversaries standing. The whole family depends on us to vindicate their honor. Are you with me?”
This time, all of them responded with a shouted “Sì” that filled the parlor of his rented home. Lanza picked out the three who would remain with him, then left the other twenty-four to form their teams as they saw fit.
Gianni Magolino had more soldiers. In Catanzaro proper, Magolino had at least a dozen for each of Lanza’s men, with more dispersed throughout the countryside, but Lanza would have bet that none were superior. In fact, he was about to bet precisely that.
In this game, he would bet his life.
La Fiamma, Via Francesco Crispi, Catanzaro
THE FLAME WAS burning bright when Bolan made his drive-by. He found a nice dark place to park the Fiat Panda and took stock of his gear before he left the yard.
His normal M.O. was to be prepared for anything. In this case, that meant dressing well to pass inspection at the club’s front door but packing enough heat to carry out his mission once he got inside. Bolan had brought the Spectre M4 SMG. With its stock folded, and minus the suppressor, it fit nicely beneath his right arm on a shoulder sling. Two extra casket magazines in each of Bolan’s outer pockets balanced out the coat while giving him two hundred spare rounds.
Arriving on the nightclub’s doorstep, he was casually vetted by a husky bouncer and admitted to the ground floor after payment of a modest cover charge. A sign inside the lobby warned him of a two-drink minimum, but Bolan didn’t let it slow him.
The hostess who arrived to seat him frowned when Bolan told her he was headed for the second floor. “Do you have an invitation?” she asked.
“Right here,” Bolan said, drawing back the right side of his coat. She gave a little gasp but didn’t argue as he steered her toward the stairs off to their left.
Another guard was waiting there, standing behind a velvet rope that drooped across the bottom of the staircase. Magolino’s watchdog frowned at their approach, raising one eyebrow at the hostess as he asked, “Who is this?”
Before the hostess could reply, Bolan showed him the Spectre, stubby muzzle pressed against the mobster’s rock-hard abs. Knowing his six-pack wasn’t bulletproof, the soldier scowled but offered no resistance as his pistol was removed and deposited into one of Bolan’s pockets.
“Lead the way,” Bolan commanded, staying one step back as his two hostages proceeded up the stairs. When they had almost reached the second-story landing, yet another guard appeared and asked, “What the hell is going on?”
Bolan showed him, blasting a 3-round burst through lookout number one that sprayed his pal with blood, then triggering a second that erased the shocked look from his crimson-spattered face. The hostess screamed and folded, dropping to all fours. Bolan left her where she was and swept past the two fresh corpses into the casino.
Whether the players had missed the gunfire or mistook it for some kind of racket from the bank of slot machines, Bolan would never know. He removed any doubt as soon as he cleared the threshold and triggered a burst into the ceiling that released a rain of shattered glass and phosphorus over one of the roulette tables.
That set the gamblers scampering for any exit they could find as two more guards rushed forward, drawing pistols from beneath their blazers. Bolan dropped each one in turn, then scanned the room for any other challengers before he went to work on shutting down the place.
It wasn’t difficult. A frag grenade dropped in the middle of the room would set off fire alarms and bring authorities with sirens screaming, but he took a moment first to sweep a couple of the nearest tables, scooping up as many euros as the inner pockets of his long coat would accommodate. It never hurt to supplement his war chest.
When he had harvested a hundred grand or so, he palmed the OD/82-SE grenade, released its pin and left the bomb sizzling away as he headed back downstairs. The blast came seconds later, followed by an alarm blaring from hidden speakers, emptying the bar and dining room downstairs.
Bolan followed The Flame’s retreating customers into the night, bound for his next stop on the hellfire trail.
Guardia di Finanza Headquarters
LIEUTENANT CARLO ALBANESI put the cell phone to his ear then instantly regretted it as shouted curses made him wince. He rose and rushed to close his office door, waiting until Aldo Adamo paused to draw a breath before speaking.
“Please, sir, if I may suggest—”
“Shut up and listen!”
Albanesi closed his mouth.
“You’ve heard from La Fiamma, I suppose?” Adamo asked.
Heard from a flame? The question puzzled Albanesi until his thoughts cleared and he recognized the name of Magolino’s main casino. “What about it?” he replied.
“What about it? Are you trying to be humorous?”
“No, sir. If you would kindly—”
“Idiot! It’s been raided and ransacked, four men killed.”
“By the police? Surely, I would have heard—”
“Not the police. One man shooting my people and setting off explosives. Are you saying you’ve heard nothing?”
“No, I swear!” Albanesi’s mind was racing, leaving his thoughts a tangle. “Perhaps the fire brigade has not called for assistance yet?”
“You’re asking me? I pay you well to know these things!”
“I understand, sir. I shall make inquiries and—”
“Wait! I’m not finished.”
“There’s more?”
“Mariana Natale. I want her returned to me,” Adamo said.
“Yes, sir. But I—”
“For what I pay you, I expect results, Lieutenant, not excuses.”
“Certainly, but—”
“If she comes into your hands—by which I mean official hands of any kind—you will inform me instantly and take steps to secure her for me. Yes?”
Albanesi felt a catch in his throat as he replied, “Of course, sir.”
“If you fail me, I shall have to reconsider your employment status. Your longevity may well be jeopardized.”
“I understand completely, sir.” Cold sweat had broken out on Albanesi’s face. “But if she does not come to the authorities—”
“Then you must help me find her elsewhere. You are a detective, are you not?”
“Well—”
“Do your damn job!”
“Yes, sir!”
He would not attempt to correct Adamo’s misconception of a poor lieutenant’s normal duties. Those went out the window when a leader of the ’Ndrangheta called, reminding Albanesi that he could be crushed like any other insect if his masters give the order.
Adamo had signed off without a good-bye, and Albanesi cradled the telephone receiver as if fearing it might explode. He felt lightheaded, and his stomach churned from hearing both his life and livelihood threatened in no uncertain terms. He cursed Adamo, now that he was safe from being heard, but the rejoinder only made him feel more impotent.
Action would save him. Nothing else would do.
First, he must find out what had happened at The Flame and whether any witnesses were willing to talk. One man taking on the ’Ndrangheta? The idea struck Albanesi as preposterous until he thought about the massacre outside Le Croci and remembered Scott Parker. The American.
Could it be? Who else would tackle such a risky job alone?
Don’t leap to a conclusion, Albanesi thought, but he was there already. Reaching for the phone once more, he thought about the other task Adamo had assigned to him and wondered whether it was even feasible.
He’d never met Mariana Natale. Would not, in fact, have recognized her if she walked into his office and sat down at his desk. But now she threatened his existence. Was it possible to hate a total stranger, sight unseen?
Yes, Albanesi found. It absolutely was.
Chapter 7
Via Monte, Catanzaro
Lending cash at extortionate interest—better known as loan-sharking—is a staple of crime cartels worldwide, and the ’Ndrangheta was no exception. Its other businesses, particularly gambling and street sales of narcotics, commonly leave patrons short of cash to pay their rent and other bills, a problem ’ndranghetisti are happy to solve. Mob loan sharks had shattered Bolan’s family, during another life, and he was always looking for a chance to tap the nearest gangland till, spreading the misery around.
The loan sharks he was looking for tonight operated as Power Finance. Their office was an unobtrusive building with a small sign in front—no need to advertise when word of mouth directed needy borrowers to their facility. And—unlike legitimate S&L firms that kept banker’s hours—Power Finance burned the midnight oil, accommodating hungry night dwellers.
Perfect for Bolan’s needs.
Loan sharks are big on personal security, and Bolan calculated Power Finance would’ve doubled up tonight after the recent losses suffered by the Magolino family. He came prepared, with the Beretta ARX-160 slung beneath his lightweight raincoat. Bolan walked through a drizzle from his Fiat to the lighted entryway. Pushing through the unlocked door, he met a stocky male receptionist who looked him over and demanded, “What do you want?”
Try everything.
“I need to see your boss,” Bolan replied.
The slugger frowned, grunted and asked, “Who are you?”
Bolan showed him the assault rifle and answered, “I’m the guy who’ll kill you if you don’t get up and take me to the man in charge.”
The front man made a point of moving slowly, whether showing some defiance or trying to avoid getting shot—it made no difference as long as he was going in the right direction. Bolan watched the man’s hands and kept his distance as the scowling thug led him along a narrow hallway toward a private office in the rear. His escort paused outside the door labeled PRIVATO and raised his eyebrows, as if expecting more instructions.
“Do whatever’s normal for you,” Bolan said, keeping the gun’s muzzle pointed at his chest.
The stocky mobster knocked, no special code, and said, “Hey, boss.”
“What?” came from within.
The scowler pushed on through, then broke off to his right, but Bolan tagged him with a 5.56 mm round between the shoulder blades then swung around before he hit the floor to cover two men at the desk. One sat behind it; the other stood off to Bolan’s left. He’d been reaching for a hidden sidearm when the ARX-160 found him, freezing him in place.
“I’m making a withdrawal from your bank,” Bolan informed the pair of them.
“Say what?” the boss demanded.
Keep it simple, Bolan thought. He answered, “Money. Sack it up.”
The top man cut a glance toward his deceased receptionist and asked, “What if I don’t.”
“It’s simple,” Bolan said and shot his sidekick through the forehead from a range of ten feet, giving him a crimson halo as he toppled over backward, landing heavily beside the desk.
The boss was nervous now, weighing his options, likely trying to decide if it was better to die now or tell Gianni Magolino he’d handed off a sack of euros to a bandit who’d walked in from the rain.
He chose to live, rolling his desk chair back in the direction of a safe that occupied one corner of his claustrophobic office. Bolan followed, staying safely out of reach in case the loan shark tried to leap at him. When the safe’s door opened, he saw stacks of paper money—and a pistol the boss lunged for, snarling like a rabid jackal.
Bolan let him reach it and turn, then shot him in the chest at point-blank range, slamming him over in the rolling chair with arms outflung.
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