The fear, perhaps combined with pain, made Mariana roll her head away from him, retching.
“Now, look,” he said. “You’ve soiled the carpet. What a sad, pathetic creature you’ve become.” Kneeling beside her, bending closer, Magolino dropped his voice until it was a whisper. “But you haven’t reached the bottom yet, my beauty. The worst is definitely still ahead for you.”
Chapter 10
Via Scuola Agraria, Catanzaro
The Società Calabrese Sociale was, at least ostensibly, a sporting club open to any man of Calabrian birth. In fact, it was an ’Ndrangheta hangout where made members of the Magolino family killed time and partied between assignments. Bolan did not expect a large crowd to be present in the predawn hours of this hectic Wednesday morning, but the club was on his route to one of Magolino’s high-class restaurants, and he was stopping by to put it out of business.
Perched on a rooftop opposite the club, across two lanes of sparse traffic, he used the ARX-160’s thermal sight to zero in on the club’s air-conditioning unit—or, more specifically, an air-intake vent the size of a street-corner mailbox slot. The Qioptiq VIPIR-2 put him up close and personal as Bolan stroked the launcher’s trigger, sending a thermobaric round toward impact.
It made a clean drop through the aperture, into the a/c system’s guts, and detonated far enough inside to send flames gushing out of vents along the whole top floor, lighting the walls, the acoustic ceiling tiles and the carpets on fire. He couldn’t hear the fire alarms begin to clamor and wondered if their circuits had been fried, but when the upstairs windows shattered, there was no mistaking the black smoke escaping through their empty frames to foul the night.
Bolan waited, trusting the club to burn with no more help from him, pausing to see if any Magolino soldiers tried to flee the spreading conflagration. Sixty seconds later, the front doors opened and a pair of sleepy-looking mobsters lurched onto the sidewalk, followed shortly by three more. They milled about, gesticulating as they jabbered back and forth, while Bolan watched them through the sight.
Enough.
Bolan shot the soldier farthest to his left, punching a 5.56 mm tumbler through his lungs from eighty yards. Before the first one dropped, he had his next mark lined up through the VIPIR-2, a clean shot through the forehead just above his right eye, taking out the whole rear quadrant of his skull.
That set the others scrambling, one breaking to Bolan’s left, two to his right. He tracked the lonely runner, overtaking him before he reached a nearby alley’s mouth, and drilled him with a shot between the shoulder blades.
That left two, both clawing pistols out from underneath their loose shirttails as they kept running. Bolan swung around to follow them, scoping the leader first and putting a hot round through his armpit as he ran. The mobster dropped and rolled, tripping his young friend midstride. The last survivor of the five fell heavily, losing his pistol in the process, then sprang up and scrambled after it, determined not to face his death unarmed.
It didn’t help.
The fifth round out of Bolan’s rifle burned a tunnel through the panting mobster’s slack-jawed face and slapped his head back like a solid uppercut. A scarlet spume erupted from the dying target’s mouth as he fell over backward, sprawling on the sidewalk like a rag doll.
Finished.
Bolan retraced his path across the office building’s broad, flat roof, then down the fire escape. Two minutes later he was in the Fiat Panda and away from the scene before the first distant whooping of sirens was audible.
Progress? Not yet. But Bolan had to think he was getting closer.
Every businessman, legitimate or otherwise, kept one eye on the bottom line. Gianni Magolino knew he was bleeding cash. The only question now was how much he would sacrifice while trying to save face.
Guardia di Finanza Headquarters
CAPTAIN BASILE LISTENED to the radio behind his desk, as one report after another charted carnage in his city. He was tired of going out on calls, no longer cared to stand before a burned-out edifice with corpses lined up on the sidewalk, waiting for their last ride to the morgue. He’d seen enough and was oppressed by a conviction that the bloodshed was, at least in part, his fault.
He had not summoned the American to Catanzaro, it was true, but they had made a bargain, and Basile hadn’t kept his side of it. And failing that, he had reached out to Scott Parker, set him loose upon the Magolino family, in full knowledge of what his call for help would mean.
Arson and murder. Slaughter in the streets.
But now, some of the crackling bulletins told another story. There had been three reports, so far, of raids staged by a group of several gunmen, who’d strafed Magolino properties and in one case lobbed hand grenades. Basile knew Parker was alone in Catanzaro—or believed he was, at any rate. Who were the other gunmen prowling through the early morning darkness, striking with precision and vanishing as swiftly as they came?
Basile was accustomed to the violence that sputtered between criminal cartels. ’Ndranghetisti fought with mafiosi, and at times, both skirmished with intruding camorristi. In their cutthroat world, there were no courts to settle family disputes, no arbitration board to rule on squabbles over territory. Jungle law applied to every situation, save for rare occurrences when one group condescended to perform some service for another at a price. War was the norm, and although it generally claimed its victims singly and more or less discreetly, public outbreaks weren’t unknown, by any means.
A gang war? At the very time the American stalked Gianni Magolino’s men?
What were the odds?
Basile had informants, but no one was presently available for comment. He’d spent the past half hour reaching out to them, but all his calls went straight to voice mail and he left no messages, fearful of leaving someone fatally exposed. Frustrated, he’d flirted with the thought of ringing up Lieutenant Albanesi and asking for a private meeting well away from headquarters. The urge was strong, but in his heart, Basile was not sure he could trust himself to keep from pounding Albanesi’s fat face.
It was not the time for that. Not yet.
But if the grim American could not recover Mariana—if she was already dead or had been caught up in the expanding violence—Basile thought he might require a taste of retribution before he could sleep at night. He had no way to prove his suspicion, no real hope of prosecuting Albanesi under law, but could Basile face himself again if he did nothing?
He was still at least ten years away from full retirement with a pension he could live on, more or less. A false step now, much less a criminal offense, could mean the end of his career, his reputation, everything. But when he thought about the satisfaction it might give him, he couldn’t help smiling to himself.
To make the toady squirm and spill his secrets, blubbering in fear...
Something to think about, Basile told himself and turned back to the crackling radio.
Zona Industriale I, Calabria
UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, Gianni Magolino considered the drive from Catanzaro to Tropea a relaxing distraction.
His home away from home was not located in Tropea proper but a short kilometer outside of town, atop a hillside with a grand view of the sea. He’d taken Mariana there on several occasions to unwind, and they’d enjoyed themselves.
This time, she would not be so fortunate.
It had been tempting to just kill her and be done with it, but once the damned American became involved, it raised too many questions. How had he appeared so serendipitously, aiding her escape from execution? Had she been conspiring with her brother all along?
Before she died at last, he would have answers.
And revenge.
He’d phoned ahead to the doctor—not a pleasant man, but useful in a situation such as this one. He was twisted, certainly, and Magolino would have said his bedside
manner was garbage, but he did the work required of him without complaint. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it, most particularly when the subject was a nubile creature such as Mariana.
What a waste! Magolino thought. If her brother had been loyal, she would have faced no danger. Even then, however, she should still have done the honorable thing, accepted his decision to eliminate her without raising all this fuss and bringing strangers into it.
The shame was hers, not Magolino’s. He would make her understand soon enough.
It would not be like old times, but he might enjoy it all the same.
Magolino palmed his walkie-talkie as he spoke to the car behind his. “Any sign that we’ve been followed so far?”
“None, padrino.”
“Very well,” Magolino said. “Stay alert.”
“Affirmative.”
One good thing about the coastal drive: they should have ample opportunity to spot a tail and deal with it in the open country, without interference from police or witnesses. It might be convenient if the damned American did chase after him. They could settle their dispute like men, leaving more time for Magolino to enjoy his final hours with Mariana.
Or, the mobster thought, he might kill us.
It was certainly unnerving how a single man—if he was truly on his own—had carved a bloody swath through Magolino’s territory, striking where and when he chose, as if impervious to harm. And then, as they were pulling out of Catanzaro, Magolino had received the first phone call reporting other outrages, these traceable, he thought, to Don Peppino Lanza.
Piece of shit!
If the Mafia chose this time to attack him, thinking Magolino had gone soft, that he was reeling from the injuries he’d suffered, they were in for a surprise.
They would regret that choice when they were drowning in their own life’s blood.
Via Nuova, Catanzaro
“A CAPTAIN?” PIETRO NARDI ASKED. “You want me to lie to your captain? I don’t understand, Lieutenant.”
The all-night café near Villa Margherita was almost deserted. A weary waitress was sharing it with one man at the counter while Nardi sat at a corner table with Lieutenant Carlo Albanesi. The little weasel was a drug dealer and thief who occasionally served as one of Albanesi’s confidential informants to earn extra money or keep himself out of Catanzaro’s overcrowded prison.
“You don’t need to understand it,” Albanesi said, leaning toward Nardi till the round edge of the table pressed into his stomach. “All you need to do is follow orders.”
“But a captain... I don’t know. If anything goes wrong...”
“Remember the cocaine you were carrying at your arrest last month? I have not filed that charge yet,” Albanesi said, “but I can turn the papers in at any time. Is that your fourth or fifth offense?”
“Only the third!” Nardi protested.
“Never mind. You will draw the maximum, a six-year sentence, plus a fine.”
“I want to help, Lieutenant, truly. But a captain...well, if he finds out....”
“He won’t find out, I promise you,” Albanesi said. “It is just a little joke, in any case.”
“He won’t be angry?”
“I can guarantee it.”
He’ll be dead, Albanesi thought, sipping coffee to shift the lump in his throat.
“Ok,” the weasel said at last, as if he’d ever had a choice. “What should I say?”
“Tell him you’re one of Sergeant Coppola’s informants. You have important information but you can’t reach him. He left the captain’s name and number to be used in an emergency.”
“What if the captain checks with this sergeant?” Nardi asked.
“He can’t. The sergeant is on holiday in France. You see, I’ve thought of everything.”
“I guess so.”
“There is no guessing to it,” Albanesi hissed at him.
“And what about the meeting?” Nardi asked.
“Idiot! There is no meeting! All you do is call, and then forget about it, if you know what’s good for you.”
“No meeting?” Nardi’s aspect brightened. “I misunderstood.”
As usual, Albanesi thought. The lieutenant forced a smile and said, “You see? There’s nothing to it.”
“But my name...”
“Make up a name, for the love of— He’ll never know the difference.”
“Ah, now I see. What should I tell him that’s so important?”
“No details,” Albanesi said. “You don’t trust the telephone.”
“That’s true enough,” Nardi agreed.
Ignoring him, the officer pressed on. “Tell him you have information about Mariana. Got it? Perhaps say you know where she is.”
“Mariana?”
“Don’t worry about it. He’ll know what you mean.”
“So, I know where she is?”
“And you know it’s worth money.”
“But he won’t be paying me?”
“Because the two of you will never meet, Pietro. Remember?”
“Oh, right. And that’s all? What if he starts to ask questions?”
“Just give him the address and hang up the phone.”
“Suppose he tries to trace it?” Nardi asked.
“Don’t use your own phone, idiot.”
“Ah.” Embarrassed, Nardi flashed a nervous smile and chuckled at his own stupidity.
“And the address where I’m supposed to meet him?”
Albanesi rattled off a number on Via Vittorio Butera, waiting while Nardi repeated it.
“You have it, then? No other questions?”
“Um...”
“What is it now?”
“As for my payment...”
“Is your freedom not enough?”
“A man must eat, Lieutenant. He must pay the rent.”
Despite his show of anger, Albanesi had expected this. He slid an envelope across the narrow table separating them.
“Two hundred euros, not a penny more. Fail me in this, Pietro, and the prison door will slam behind your scrawny ass before you know what’s happening.”
“Don’t worry. It’s simple, as you explained it.”
“Just keep it that way, and you’ll come out all right.”
Albanesi tossed money on the table for their coffee, and left Nardi sitting by himself. The little worm would do as he was told, and when his job was done, no one would see his ugly face again. Another miserable dealer wouldn’t be missed.
But a captain?
Albanesi thought that might turn out to be a different story altogether.
Via Azaria Tedeschi, Catanzaro
ALDO ADAMO OCCUPIED the penthouse of the Hotel Gualtier, a five-star establishment renowned for its fine service and cuisine. It offered privacy, convenience and a measure of security—although tonight, nothing would save the Magolino cosche’s underboss.
Bolan entered the hotel through a side door and crossed a deserted cocktail lounge, thereby avoiding the lobby staff. He wore a slouch hat to conceal his features, more or less, from the CCTV cameras he assumed were covering the corridors and elevators. On his way to the service stairs, he encountered one guest and one maid. Neither spared him more than a passing glance, dressed as he was in reasonable style, his Spectre M4 submachine gun and grenades concealed beneath his raincoat.
Bolan chose the stairs on the off chance that Adamo’s soldiers had their own CCTV installed and were watching the elevator traffic. Meeting defenders on the top floor of the hostelry was one thing; being trapped inside a steel box while they riddled it with lead was something else.
On the top floor, Bolan took a moment to peer through the fire door’s double-glazed, wire-mesh window into an empty hallway. When he’d satisfied himself that no
ambush was waiting in the corridor, he left the stairwell, SMG in hand, and started toward the entrance to the penthouse.
He approached the door directly, head down for the cameras, and hit the dead bolt with a short burst from his Spectre, kicking through to find himself inside a large, unoccupied living room. Bolan swept the other rooms in seconds flat, found no one home, then spent another moment pondering where he might find Gianni Magolino. Stony Man’s intel had given him a working list of ’Ndrangheta properties in Catanzaro and environs, but continuing to hit them in a search for il padrino meant a long slog for results that might be minimal at best.
Retreating hastily before hotel security showed up, he focused on the new game: finding Magolino’s hideout and discovering whether his prisoner was still alive.
Two likely sources came to mind, and Bolan flipped a mental coin while he was jogging down the stairs. One or the other might be useful, and he should have time to check them both.
But could the lady still afford to wait? Or was she dead already?
Rescue mission or revenge?
Bolan could play it either way, and neither was a healthy prospect for the Magolino family.
Via della Lacina, Catanzaro
DON PEPPINO LANZA loved to hear the screams of dying enemies, but time was running short now and he had no more of it to waste on personal amusement.
“I will ask you one last time,” he told the bloody ruin of a man who lay before him duct-taped to a tabletop. “If you cannot tell me where your padrino has run off to, I will feed you your left eye, then the right and then your testicles. So, what shall it be?”
His men had snatched the young ’ndranghetisto from a brothel near Nicola Ceravolo Stadium on Catanzaro’s north side. They had planned on burning the place after gunning down two of its guards, but the third had fumbled with his weapon and they’d taken him alive instead of running up the body count. Lanza had thanked the team leader for his initiative and made a mental note to authorize a bonus for him in his next month’s salary.
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