Hard Targets

by Don Pendleton

  Looked at in a different light, he thought that trouble was another word for opportunity. If Cavallaro caught a break or two, he could remind the boss that he was valuable to the Family, advance himself while he was saving Vinnie Gallo’s bacon. And if Gallo had some bad luck of his own—if he should catch a bullet, say, before the dust settled—that could be a blessing in disguise. Clear out the top spot for a man who’d proved himself in crisis, when a cool head and a steady hand were what mattered the most.

  Why not? Call it a battlefield promotion.

  Cavallaro thought it couldn’t hurt to keep his fingers crossed.

  Niagara Square, Buffalo, New York

  THE SQUARE MEAL was a place where Mahan could relax for half an hour, generally without seeing any other cops or having to talk shop while he was trying to digest a hasty lunch or dinner. He was known there—well enough to rate a smile, at least—but no one from the staff loomed over him, obsessively inquiring if his food was hot enough, tasted all right, et cetera. He always tipped a little more than usual, just for the privilege of being left alone.

  Of course, he always sat facing the door, a cop thing, so he saw the tall man enter, glance around, then head directly for his table. He could be FBI, the way he dressed and carried himself, Mahan thought. He braced himself for the intrusion, putting on a sour face to greet the stranger.

  “Sergeant Mahan?”

  “Who are you?”

  The stranger sat across from him, not waiting for an invitation. When the waitress passed their way, the tall man shook his head and she kept going.

  “Sergeant—”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Only from our conversation on the phone,” his uninvited guest replied.

  Mahan wondered if he could reach the Glock 19 on his right hip, and noted at the same time that the stranger wore some kind of pistol in a shoulder rig, beneath his right armpit. The jacket was unbuttoned, as was Mahan’s, but he didn’t feel like setting off a quick-draw contest in the middle of a busy restaurant.

  “So, that was you,” he said.

  “I figured we could speak more freely where the walls don’t have so many ears.”

  “And I can’t call for backup.”

  “You’re at no risk, Sergeant. That’s a promise.”

  “Right. And I should trust you, since we go way back and all.”

  “I don’t shoot cops. It’s just a rule I have.” He tossed it out, like someone else might say they disliked broccoli or mayonnaise.

  “Okay,” Mahan replied. “Who do you shoot?”

  “Depends. Today, it’s soldiers from the Gallo Family.”

  “And you’re confessing to me...why?”

  “Wrong word. ‘Confessing’ indicates a sense of guilt. I’m warning you that what’s been happening around your city isn’t finished yet. Advising you that certain people on your squad are playing for the other team.”

  “And you know this because...?”

  “It’s obvious. But if I need to spell it out, let’s start with Gregory O’Malley. He was killed trying to carry out a hit for Vinnie Gallo. I imagine you’ve already worked that out, even if you’re afraid to say it publicly.”

  “I’m not afraid of—”

  “Michael Strauss and Leonard Kelly kidnapped Zoe Dirks from her hotel.” The stranger plowed ahead, cutting him off. “They would have murdered her and planted her somewhere, but I persuaded Gallo to exchange her for his underboss.”

  “Joe Borgio in the park. You did all that?”

  “Somebody on their side forgot the terms of our agreement. There’s a price for that.”

  “And more to come,” Mahan said.

  “Absolutely. What you need to do is clean your own house, or the Feds will do it for you. You already know they’re building cases, but rats like Strauss and Kelly could destroy the PD from within, if they decided to go down fighting. Maybe telling tales.”

  “They’re not alone,” Mahan replied.

  “In a department this size? Not a chance. Smart money says you have the others pegged.”

  “I’m not a rat.”

  “No. You’re a law-enforcement officer. Time to decide if that means anything.”

  The stranger rose. Mahan leaned toward him, saying, “Hey! I can’t just let you go now, after all this murder talk.”

  “Do what you have to do,” the tall guy said, turning his back.

  Mahan sat watching, meat loaf soured in his stomach, as the stranger left the restaurant and disappeared.

  * * *

  KELLY HAD NEVER met the assistant D.A. his partner claimed was taking payoffs from the Gallo Family. He was surprised to hear the name—Seth Kantor—and discover that the guy wasn’t an Eyetie, but so what? Money corrupted everybody, right? Kelly was living proof of that.

  He’d called ahead, made an appointment with the assistant D.A., and went alone, leaving Strauss out of it. His partner was a big help when it came to muscle work, but making nice with strangers definitely wasn’t his strong suit. The last thing Kelly wanted, seeking information from the prosecutor’s office, was to piss somebody off.

  Seth Kantor’s office was a fourth-floor cubbyhole with no receptionist. He’d have to share somebody from the steno pool with other assistant district attorneys, maybe file writs and motions on his own. The harried look on Kantor’s face told Kelly that he wasn’t happy to be meeting with a cop who knew his dirty little secret.

  Tough. They all had things to hide, right? That was life.

  “Detective Kelly?”

  “Mr. Kantor. Thanks for making time.”

  “It sounded urgent.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So?” Meaning, Get on with it and stop wasting my time.

  “We’ve had a witness in a missing person case drop out of sight,” Kelly explained. “Before she took a powder she was acting crazy, going on about conspiracies, accusing the police of being in on some big plot against her family. I need a heads-up if she contacts anybody from your office, so that we can get her proper care. Before she hurts herself, you know...or someone else.”

  “And this affects our mutual acquaintance?”

  “He’d be one of those she’d finger, definitely,” Kelly said.

  “And you, I take it.”

  Shrugging that one off, he said, “No telling where it might wind up.”

  Kantor grabbed a pen. “Name?”

  “Zoe Dirks.”

  “You want to spell that for me?”

  Kelly did, adding, “She’s out of Dago.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “That’s San Diego. California?”

  “I’m familiar with it. And she’s gone back there?”

  “Beats me. She didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  “Are you expecting her to call some other agency?”

  “I couldn’t rule it out.”

  The prosecutor grimaced. “If it comes to that, you realize I can’t be any help to you.”

  “I figured that. But if you get a lead...”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Kelly rose to leave. The assistant D.A. delayed him, saying, “And it goes both ways, right? If you hear something pertaining to this office, or...”

  “I’ve got your number,” Kelly said, and left the cubicle.

  Strike two, he thought. If Zoe Dirks called anybody, it would likely be the FBI. The first he heard about it would be when they showed up with a warrant to arrest him. Maybe it was time to put his papers in, put out some lie about the stress wearing him down, and get the hell away from Buffalo while there was time.

  If there was time.

  But that meant leaving Vinnie Gallo in the lurch, which was mo
re dangerous than dealing with the Feds. If nothing else, Kelly knew he should tidy up his mess before he hit the road. And if he couldn’t manage that, he’d have to find someplace to hide where even Gallo couldn’t find him.

  Greenland, maybe. Or Antarctica.

  South Buffalo, New York

  “THE IRISH MOB? Getting distracted, are we?” Johnny asked.

  “Not even,” Bolan answered. “Gallo gets along with them, but only just. They kick back tribute and the wheels go ’round—until today.”

  “We’re monkey-wrenching?”

  “That’s the ticket. Leave them pissed off at the Family. It’s one more headache for the godfather.”

  “Okay,” Johnny replied. “So we’ll need witnesses.”

  “At least one, fit to carry tales.”

  The Shamrock Social Club stood on Abbott Street, northwest of Cazenovia Park. It was the main hangout for members of an outfit run by Kevin Shaughnessy and Brian Devlin, minor but ferocious lords of crime within the confines of their turf. The Mob wasn’t a large one, but it didn’t need to be. Each member was a stone-cold killer in his own right, and a simple warning normally persuaded any opposition to depart for safer climes.

  Officially, the Shamrock Social Club accepted any members who could demonstrate a solid Irish ancestry, but no one from the straight world ever bothered to apply. They’d pass by, smiling, nodding to the hoods out front, but no outsider crossed the threshold without a specific invitation from one of the men in charge.

  Again—until today.

  Bolan parked a quarter block west of the club and walked back, Johnny at his side. They both had silenced weapons underneath their light raincoats, their right hands clutching pistol grips through pockets opened with a knife blade. At twenty yards and closing, Bolan saw the three punks standing guard push off from where they had been leaning on the wall, turning to block the entrance with their bodies.

  “Coppers, is it?” one of them inquired, going for a hidden weapon.

  “Not even close,” Bolan replied, and shot him in the face.

  Johnny caught the second reaching for a gun he’d never have a chance to use, then both of them shot number three as he was bolting for the Shamrock’s entrance, to alert the customers inside. He struck the door face-first, with force enough to hurt if he’d still been alive, and bounced back for an awkward landing on the pavement.

  Bolan stepped across the bodies, pushed in through the door with Johnny at his heels. A dozen faces turned in their direction, male without exception, their expressions caught somewhere between surprise and anger. Staring down the muzzles of a Steyr AUG and Bolan’s Spectre, no one risked a move.

  “Where’s Brian Devlin?” Bolan asked the room at large. “And Kevin Shaughnessy?”

  A balding heavyweight to Bolan’s left sneered, “Never heard of them.”

  “Too bad,” Bolan said, and his M4 spit three rounds that turned the fat man into lifeless suet on the slide.

  “Let’s try again!”

  “Feck off wi’ yeh,” another Shamrock patron snarled, rising and reaching for what had to be a sidearm under his jacket.

  Johnny handled that one with a tidy double-tap, the second round impacting as his target toppled over backward, spilling pints of Guinness beer from the table he shared with two more goons. That pair sat frozen, murder in their eyes.

  “Nobody wants to talk? Then listen,” Bolan told his captive audience. “You mess with Vinnie Gallo, there’s a tab to pay. Collection starts right here, right now.”

  The nine or ten survivors lunged for cover as he raked the room, firing a foot or so above their ducking heads, with Johnny’s assault rifle joining in. Nobody tried returning fire. They were too busy scrambling for their lives.

  A minute later, jogging toward the Mercury, Johnny said, “That should stir things up.”

  “Open another front, at least,” Bolan replied. “Now we just need a little color in the mix.”

  Buffalo Police Headquarters

  “THE IRISH NOW? What sense does that make?” Rudy Mahan asked.

  “What sense does any of it make?” Eugene Franks replied.

  Mahan could have explained it to him—most of it, at least—but that would open up too many doors. He wasn’t sure what lay behind some of them yet, and wanted no more rude surprises added to the crap already on his plate.

  “No comment from the Shamrock, I suppose?”

  “They’d rather eat ground glass,” Franks said.

  “That’s wishful thinking.”

  “Was it Gallo’s people, you suppose?”

  “Could be.”

  And that was true. It could be Vinnie Gallo lashing out at Shaughnessy and Devlin, maybe blaming them for all his recent troubles, but if Mahan had to bet, he would’ve put his money on the guy who’d spoiled his lunch and left him with a killer case of heartburn. Mr. No-name with the graveyard eyes, roping the Irish in on his vendetta... Why?

  “You ever see this kind of shit go down before, Sarge?”

  “Nope. This is a new one, and I hope I never see the likes of it again.”

  The worst part, what he couldn’t say to Franks, was having dirty cops right in the middle of it ready to drag the whole department down. That kind of scandal never went away. Losing the people’s trust like that could do irreparable harm.

  “I want the boy-os in here,” Mahan ordered. “Devlin, Shaughnessy, ASAP. They won’t say squat, but if we keep them tied up for a while, maybe they won’t contribute to the body count.”

  “More wishful thinking, Sarge?”

  “Why not? It’s all we’ve got to go with.”

  “Right. I’ll roust them, if they haven’t gone to ground already.”

  Just what I need, thought Mahan. Add a real gang war on top of Mr. X and his vendetta tearing up the town.

  Mahan wished he had a number for the stranger, worried at the same time by the big guy’s knowledge of his conversations with the FBI. There was a leak somewhere, and if the word got back to headquarters, Mahan would find himself on everybody’s shit list, whether they were clean or dirty. If he got a rat jacket, he might as well pack in the job and go out shopping for a new career. A Walmart greeter, maybe, with the flair he had for making people feel at ease.

  As if.

  “Hey, Sarge!” Leland Wilkey called as he double-timed down the hallway toward where Mahan stood. “You hear what’s poppin’ on the East Side?”

  “Spill it, Lee.”

  “Somebody just kicked the hell out of the Clinton Street Commandos. Four, five dead, and counting.”

  “Crips? Bloods? Who?” Mahan demanded.

  “None of the above. Word is, it was a couple white guys, claimed to work for Vinnie Gallo.”

  “Jesus jumping Christ!”

  The young detective blinked at him. “You all right, Sarge?”

  “Ask me tomorrow,” Mahan said. “If both of us are still around.”

  Clinton Street, East Side, Buffalo

  “I GUESS YOU meant it,” Johnny said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Adding some color to the mix.”

  The district wasn’t quite a ghetto, but its complexion had changed over time, from predominantly Polish to largely African-American. Ornate nineteenth-century churches shared the streets with modest wood-frame cottages, many a story and a half, with smaller rear additions that produced a telescope effect. Say 95 percent of East Side’s residents were law-abiding citizens; that still left 5 percent engaged in crime that ranged from petty theft to drug-dealing, extortion, hijacking and murder. Six or seven gangs claimed turf around the East Side. Bolan needed only one.

  The toughest he could find.

  “Looks like the place,” Johnny observed.

  A smallish corner house had been fo
rtified. The front door, underneath its layer of paint, was steel. Ditto the window shutters. Inside, he guessed there would be sandbags, maybe mattresses around the walls, for insulation against drive-by shooters. Patchwork on the outer stucco walls commemorated strafings from the past. No lookouts were apparent, but that didn’t mean they weren’t on duty.

  “No way we can fake it in this neighborhood,” Johnny said.

  “Straight up the middle, then,” Bolan replied. “You set?”

  He got a nod in answer, made a U-turn in the middle of the block and stopped outside the Clinton Street Commandos’ clubhouse. Both of them were on the pavement in a heartbeat, Johnny with his Steyr, Bolan with the Milkor MGL in hand, his Spectre M4 slung. He had a 40 mm HE round up first, and sent it hurtling toward the steel door while they stood at curbside, hunched and waiting for the blast.

  It took only the one round, but he followed up with two more, blowing in the two front windows, choking the bungalow with smoke and plaster dust. It was a short run from the sidewalk to the yawning doorway, with people in the house dazed and cursing, some down, some stagger-lurching for the nearest weapons. Bolan switched guns as he entered, stuttering short bursts of Parabellum rounds, aiming to wound more often than he killed.

  “You mess with Vinnie Gallo, this is what you get!” he shouted, firing as he moved from room to room. “Remember it!”

  Some would. The living, anyway.

  A few rounds of return fire crackled through the battle fog, suppressed when Bolan or his brother sighted on the muzzle-flashes. Anybody who could run was headed out the back way, scattering. Bolan ignored them, let them go, bearing the word. Within the hour, everyone in East Side would be talking up the raid, most of them horrified, a few plotting revenge against the Gallo Family.

  “We done?” Johnny asked.

  “Almost.”

  Bolan raised the Milkor, aimed it toward the ceiling and released a pyrotechnic round into the half-attic above. Flames blossomed instantly, smoke pouring from the ragged vent he’d opened. He retreated, then, toward the exit, yelling at the fallen as he passed.

  “Get up!” he bellowed. “Hit the bricks, before you’re toasted! It’s a fire sale, courtesy of Vinnie Gallo! Don’t forget it!”