BROTHERS IN ARMS
While investigating a missing person’s case, Mack Bolan’s brother Johnny uncovers a link between the Buffalo police department and the Mafia. But when he’s forced to kill one of the cops moonlighting for the mob, the stakes suddenly go through the roof. Both sides want him to pay—in blood. But they’re not the only ones looking for payback.
Bolan, with his little brother at his side, is determined to bring the Mafia and their partners in the police force to justice before more innocent lives are taken. The Mafia don is about to get a lethal message—delivered personally by the Executioner.
Precision was the hallmark of a master sniper
Once a target was selected, hesitation lasted no longer than was needed to frame the mark, steady the weapon and send death to keep its rendezvous with fragile flesh.
Bolan targeted the gunner closest to his brother and sent forty-two grams of destruction hurtling toward impact. The mobster never knew what hit him. By the time his face slapped the pavement, the Executioner was sighting-in his next target.
Chaos was in the ranks now, as the hunters realized they had become the prey.
And there was nothing left to do but die.
The Executioner
#346 Vigilante Run
#347 Dragon’s Den
#348 Carnage Code
#349 Firestorm
#350 Volatile Agent
#351 Hell Night
#352 Killing Trade
#353 Black Death Reprise
#354 Ambush Force
#355 Outback Assault
#356 Defense Breach
#357 Extreme Justice
#358 Blood Toll
#359 Desperate Passage
#360 Mission to Burma
#361 Final Resort
#362 Patriot Acts
#363 Face of Terror
#364 Hostile Odds
#365 Collision Course
#366 Pele’s Fire
#367 Loose Cannon
#368 Crisis Nation
#369 Dangerous Tides
#370 Dark Alliance
#371 Fire Zone
#372 Lethal Compound
#373 Code of Honor
#374 System Corruption
#375 Salvador Strike
#376 Frontier Fury
#377 Desperate Cargo
#378 Death Run
#379 Deep Recon
#380 Silent Threat
#381 Killing Ground
#382 Threat Factor
#383 Raw Fury
#384 Cartel Clash
#385 Recovery Force
#386 Crucial Intercept
#387 Powder Burn
#388 Final Coup
#389 Deadly Command
#390 Toxic Terrain
#391 Enemy Agents
#392 Shadow Hunt
#393 Stand Down
#394 Trial by Fire
#395 Hazard Zone
#396 Fatal Combat
#397 Damage Radius
#398 Battle Cry
#399 Nuclear Storm
#400 Blind Justice
#401 Jungle Hunt
#402 Rebel Trade
#403 Line of Honor
#404 Final Judgment
#405 Lethal Diversion
#406 Survival Mission
#407 Throw Down
#408 Border Offensive
#409 Blood Vendetta
#410 Hostile Force
#411 Cold Fusion
#412 Night’s Reckoning
#413 Double Cross
#414 Prison Code
#415 Ivory Wave
#416 Extraction
#417 Rogue Assault
#418 Viral Siege
#419 Sleeping Dragons
#420 Rebel Blast
#421 Hard Targets
Hard Targets
For Major General Smedley Butler
The greatest danger there is today is resignation in the tendency to view the Mafia as an unavoidable evil in our time. We need to react. We need to make young people in particular understand that the Mafia, with its manufacture and sale of drugs, has exceeded itself in the criminal power that has always been its trademark…. There’s a need for citizen responsibility.
—Rocco Chinnici, Former Chief Prosecutor,
Palermo, Italy
You can’t beat evil. You can only beat it down, then wait until it turns up somewhere else. The fight goes on. Involved? Hell, yes!
—Mack Bolan
The
Legend
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Prologue
Niagara Thruway, Buffalo, New York
The job should have been done by now, wrapped up and put to bed. He should have been halfway to California, having a beer in business class and trying to forget. Another less than happy ending. He was used to them. So what?
So, nothing.
Simply knowing what had happened wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t just fly home and tell his client—friend, whatever—that the worst she’d feared was true. He’d promised a solution, which meant details. There were ways to do a thing like this.
And doing it the right way meant collecting evidence.
Okay.
He’d done the legwork, made the contacts, asked the proper questions. It was paying off now, slower than he’d hoped for, but a person couldn’t always run this kind of operation on a schedule. There were people to persuade, seduce, intimidate or bribe. A person had to cut through the crap by one means or another. Get it done.
One step remained.
Driving north, with the Niagara River on his left, he watched the signage for LaSalle Park coming up. It would have been a decent spot for his first meeting with a stranger, nice and public in the light
of day, with lots of witnesses around.
At midnight, not so much.
No matter.
He was used to working in the dark, seemed to have lived in shadows for the best part of his life. He’d honed the necessary skills and knew a good Scout was always prepared.
Flying with guns, since 9/11, was a no-go if you didn’t have a badge or private plane. But there were ways around airport security: reserve a hotel room and send a parcel to yourself via overnight courier. Pick up the package on arrival, at reception, and you’re good to go. No reason for a hotel concierge to poke and pry, much less go looking for an X-ray scanner.
Simple.
What he’d shipped ahead was one Glock 22 semiautomatic pistol chambered in .40 Smith & Wesson, plus two spare 15-round magazines. Extra ammo was easy to come by, outside New York City, but the customized sound suppressor he’d packed with the pistol broke all kinds of state and federal laws.
The quick solution: don’t get caught.
LaSalle Park fronted on the river, all seventy-seven acres of it. He’d done his homework when the meet was set, knew all about the park’s pavilions, bike and walking trails, baseball and soccer fields, its off-leash dog park and memorial to veterans of World War II. He’d scoped the layout in advance and had it memorized.
While survival skills were mandatory in his business, they could take a guy only so far. The rest was instinct and determination, ramped up by audacity.
He passed the park, went on to Porter Drive and turned left, toward the river. Five hundred feet in from the thruway, he turned left again, onto DAR Drive. Daughters of the America Revolution, that would be, honored at this particular spot for no apparent reason. He drove past some kind of factory, tall smokestack on his right, into the park itself, seeking the information center, where he was supposed to meet his contact.
There it was, closed now, spotlights burning on the outside for security. He made a slow approach, the rented Camry’s headlights picking out one other car. It was a newish Ford Explorer, one of the “crossover” SUVs, no one around it now, as far as he could see.
Drive on, or stop and take the risk?
I didn’t come this far to take a pass, he thought, as he pulled in and killed the Camry’s lights.
* * *
“HE’S HERE,” Greg O’Malley said.
“I can see that,” Carmine Romita answered.
“So, get ready.”
“I was ready when we got here. Jesus.”
“Let me take the lead,” O’Malley stated.
“It’s what you’re here for.”
“And be careful with that chopper.”
“Nervous, are you?” Romita queried.
Goddamn right he was, O’Malley thought. A stranger rolling in who’d made all kinds of waves in record time, and Carmine here for backup, standing behind him with a Smith & Wesson M76 submachine gun. An old weapon, sure, but it still had plenty of kick to it, with thirty-six 9 mm Parabellum rounds in its magazine. One twitch, if Carmine started firing, and his ass was grass.
“Just watch it,” O’Malley said, half snarling so his companion knew he meant it.
“Yeah, yeah.”
O’Malley couldn’t draw his own piece yet. He had to put on a poker face and play his part: a stoolie who’d give up the goods for cash. It played all right—at least, he thought it had—but if the stranger came out shooting he’d be caught flat-footed, pinned between two guns.
The stranger pulled into a parking slot four spaces from the Ford, switched off his lights and engine, waiting. It was O’Malley’s turn.
He stepped into the light.
His contact’s hands were empty as he stepped out of the shadows, moving like a former athlete who’d been out of training for a while. He wore a navy blazer over gray slacks, with a tie loose at the collar. The blazer was unbuttoned, large and loose enough to hide a gun or two.
Careful.
The new arrival stepped out of the Camry, standing with the open driver’s door between him and the man who’d set the rendezvous. He’d switched off the dome light before he left the hotel parking lot, so there was no glare to distract him from inside the rented car.
“You brought it?” he inquired.
“I did. You got the scratch?”
“A grand, like we agreed.”
His contact moved a little closer, frowning slightly now. “Ya know, I started thinking that it might be worth a little more.”
“You said a grand, that’s what I brought. There isn’t any more.”
“No wiggle room?”
“Well, I can get back in the car and wiggle out of here.”
“Okay, already. No harm in trying, right?”
He let that pass and said, “I’d like to see it.”
“Sure. It’s on a CD, like a told ya.”
He stood easy as the contact reached inside his blazer, braced for anything, his Glock with the suppressor screwed onto its threaded muzzle hidden by the Camry’s open door. If what he saw next was a CD in its jewel case, they were cool. If not...
The hand came out, exploding with a muzzle-flash. Too hasty, and the slug zipped past him with a foot to spare. He ducked into a crouch and gave his adversary a double-tap to put him down, two hits at center mass, and he was going over backward with a stunned expression on his face.
The second shooter popped up then, blazing away full-auto with some kind of lightweight SMG. It wasn’t time for dueling, so he dropped below the shooter’s line of fire and let the Camry take it, aiming for his adversary’s ankles, rapid-firing at a range of twenty yards or so.
The backup gunner yelped and went down hard, kept firing as he hit the pavement, but he couldn’t manage aiming as he rolled, thrashing in pain. Low-flying aircraft might have been at risk, but he was open for the head shot and it silenced him at last.
Or maybe he’d burned through his weapon’s magazine before the lights went out.
A lot of racket, but the park was empty and he had to check the bodies. Giving up on hope that either one of them was carrying the information he needed, he started with the first man down. He rifled the guy’s pockets, quick to find a billfold that felt wrong, somehow.
He opened it and saw the badge.
“Oh, hell.”
He checked the other stiff, got nothing but a driver’s license. He put it in his pocket as he jogged back to the Camry. Bullet-scarred. He’d have to ditch it, thankful that he’d used an alternate ID.
He had big trouble now, and it was time to make a call.
Chapter 1
Allentown District, Buffalo, New York
The neighborhood was old, settled in 1827 as Lewis Allen’s farm, but it had drawn the powerful and famous over time. Mark Twain had lived there, as had President Millard Fillmore. Another chief executive, Theodore Roosevelt, had been inaugurated at the Ansley Wilcox mansion on Delaware Avenue, in 1901, after anarchist Leon Czolgosz shot President William McKinley at the Pan-American Exposition. Known more recently for its annual art exhibition, Allentown was a neighborhood of historic houses, trendy bars and artsy shops.
None of which interested Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, in the least.
He was fresh off the red-eye from Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, mopping up the remnants of a triad pipeline running heroin and sex slaves from the Golden Triangle to “civilized” society. There’d just been time to shower off the smell of gun smoke, make some calls to pave his way on landing, and he had been airborne, hoping that he wouldn’t be too late.
And if he was? Then it became a very different game.
His flight was twenty minutes late to Buffalo Niagara International Airport, third busiest in the Empire State, but still barely awake when he landed. Customs yawned him through without a look inside his carry-on
. The car rental clerk wasn’t a morning person, he could tell, but she put on a reasonably sunny face for Bolan’s benefit—or, rather, for the sake of Matthew Cooper, whose credit card had put a midsize car on hold.
His ride turned out to be a Mercury Milan, silver or gray, depending on the light, with a six-speed automatic transmission. It was common enough to pass unnoticed on most city streets, yet classy enough to fit in a posh neighborhood. He thought about rentals he’d trashed in the past, and bought full insurance to cover the car.
Next stop, the hardware store. Not nuts and bolts, but guns and ammo.
He was getting dressed to kill.
For what it was worth, New York State had some of the country’s strictest gun laws. Permits were required to buy or own a handgun, and state police received a shell casing fired from each pistol the day that it was sold, to match against future crime scenes. Civilian ownership of automatic weapons or “assault” weapons—defined by their appearance, rather than their function—was banned entirely. That wasn’t to say that any outlawed weapons were in short supply.
The opposite, in fact.
One of his quick calls from Vancouver had disturbed the sleep of Eddie Reems, a pawnbroker on Buffalo’s East Side—Polonia, specifically—who moved specialty items on the side. It was a risky business, but he’d been around for years and hadn’t been arrested yet. The price he charged for hardware was inflated to ensure the onset of amnesia if he took a fall. He’d put two sons through Harvard Law and kept their numbers on speed-dial.
Reems’s shop, Polonia Pawn, was situated south of Market Street, close by the New York Central Terminal. On any normal day, he wouldn’t have been open at the time Bolan arrived, but they’d done business in the past and Reems had always come out smiling, with a roll of cash in hand. His greeting was the same as ever, jovial but still respectful, showing off a set of dentures tanned by his devotion to cigars.
They made small talk for ten or fifteen seconds, then got down to business. Reems had the items Bolan had requested in the vault where he stored jewelry after hours. The soldier followed him in back, past showcases chock-full of everything from saxophones to faux switchblades, watches to gaming consoles. The vault was something else, bank quality, with Bolan’s merchandise atop a table in the middle of the armored room.
Hard Targets Page 1