Hard Targets

by Don Pendleton

  “Hey, I was there.”

  “I had an angel on my shoulder,” Johnny said.

  “Some angel. How’s he doing?”

  “Great. I’ll call you when it’s settled. You know...safe.”

  “You think it ever will be?”

  “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Don’t do that. Please. For me, don’t.”

  “You don’t cash out in a game like this,” he said. “Be safe. I’ll call you.”

  “Johnny, I—”

  The buzzing dial tone cut her off. Zoe hung up and headed toward her gate, uncertain now of what she’d meant to say in parting. Likely something stupid, rash, impulsive. Hopeless. Getting life mixed up with modern fairy tales where a private saved ladies in distress and they all lived happily ever after.

  All except her brother, dead and gone forever.

  And the whole lifesaving thing had been an imposition, hadn’t it? No matter what he said, being polite, she’d very nearly gotten Johnny killed for no good reason other than her own pigheadedness. Trying to fantasize some great relationship from that jump-start was worse than foolish. It was crazy.

  So, forget him. If and when he called, she would accept his report and add a bonus to his final payment. If he didn’t call, then she would wait a week or two, and try to get in touch once more. Try to find out if he had made it back from Buffalo alive.

  And light a candle for him, if he hadn’t.

  She could do that much, at least.

  Black Rock, Buffalo

  “AN INTERESTING LADY,” Bolan said, as Johnny stowed his cell.

  “I guess.”

  “Something to think about, another time.”

  “Don’t worry. My head’s in the game.”

  Johnny had found the Black Rock hardsite the old-fashioned way, through property records, then they’d trailed some stragglers over from North Forest Acres to clinch it. The surrounding wall prevented them from counting heads, but cars were going in, and none were coming out. Smart money said the godfather was in.

  Now all they had to do was root him out, deal with his soldiers in the process and come out alive somehow.

  The usual.

  They’d parked a block downrange, watching the only gate that granted access to the property. Two goons were stationed just inside, no hardware showing, but it would be readily accessible. Ramming the gate would trash their car, which meant they had to find a spot to scale the wall, hoping there weren’t dogs inside, or soldiers standing by to pick them off.

  Lousy odds, but what other kind were there in this game?

  “The east side’s nice and dark,” Bolan said, reaching up to switch off the rental’s dome light.

  “Suits me,” Johnny replied, then added, “Hold on. Here comes company.”

  Headlights approached from the west, off Tonawanda, half a dozen cars in convoy formation. Bolan watched them draw closer, but couldn’t tell from his position if their occupants were white or black. Not that it mattered, either way, as long as they provided a distraction and did everything within their power to reduce the Gallo forces penned up in the hardsite.

  The lead car pulled up to the gate, pinning the guards inside with high beams, the driver blowing its horn. Someone leaned out on the passenger’s side, a white face under sandy hair, and shouted something at the watchmen. Not impressed, one of the mafiosi yelled back, with a middle finger raised to punctuate his comment. Bolan saw the point car’s shotgun rider duck back out of sight, then pop back with some kind of bulky-looking pistol that turned out to be full-auto when he sprayed a wild burst toward the gate.

  Too hasty with the shots, he missed one guard entirely, while the other staggered off and out of sight, clutching an arm. In seconds flat, both mafiosi on the inside were returning fire, one with a pistol, while the other—still with two good hands—blasted the lead car with a semiauto shotgun, putting out its headlights.

  “That’s our cue,” Bolan said, going EVA a heartbeat later, with the Milkor MGL slung low across his back, the Spectre M4 in his hands. Johnny was right behind him with his Steyr AUG, ready for anything except defeat.

  Gunfire was hammering the walled estate’s sole entrance as they ran through shadows to the east side of the wall. Eight feet, with no barbed wire on top of it to spook the neighbors, but there could be something else up there—motion detectors, maybe, that would signal any penetration to the big house at the center of the wooded property. There’d been no time for any kind of recon, just the satellite shots on Johnny’s laptop, but it had to do for now.

  With Irish rebels at the gate, Gallo’s attention would be focused there. Whether the shooters from South Buffalo got through or not, they would have served their purpose for the moment. Any Gallo soldiers they took down were icing on the cake.

  And Bolan was about to cut himself a slice.

  Chapter 14

  “What the hell is that?” Gallo demanded.

  Jerry Portoghesi cocked his head, frowning. “It sounded like—”

  A sudden roar of guns erupted, after the sound of a car horn blaring in the middle distance, maybe from the gate. Gallo was on his feet before he realized he was moving, rushing to the paneled west wall of his study, while he snapped at Portoghesi.

  “Get your ass out there and help the others!”

  “Vin, I’m not a soldier,” the man complained. “I never have been.”

  “So, tonight you grow a pair. Move it!”

  As Portoghesi fled the study, Gallo ran his fingers down a deep groove in the paneling and found the small catch hidden there. He released it, swung a section of the wall aside on silent hinges, to reveal a small but well-stocked private arsenal.

  Inside the felt-lined cubbyhole he kept a Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle and a Benelli M1 Super 90 semiautomatic shotgun. Three semiauto pistols—Colt, Glock and Beretta—hung beside the long guns from pegs through their trigger guards. A drawer beneath the weapons held spare magazines and ammo still in boxes.

  First thing, he took a Hagor bulletproof suit jacket from its hanger on the inside of the hidden door, and slipped it on. It weighed about eight pounds, but what the hell. Once it was buttoned, he was fairly well protected from his shoulders to his hips.

  Next, Gallo chose the 12-gauge, since he’d never been a great shot with a rifle. He could squeeze off seven rounds of double 0 within three seconds, if it came to that, and never mind the pinpoint aiming. Put it out there, forty-odd pellets, each .33 caliber, throwing a lead storm at any dumb bastard who thought he could take Vinnie Gallo.

  He grabbed the Glock for backup, stuck it in the waistband of his slacks, then started stuffing his pocket with magazines for the pistol, and spare shotgun shells. Whatever happened next, no one would ever say the godfather of Buffalo had died from lack of shooting back.

  Then, outside. He hadn’t piled the hardware on to sit and cower in his study. If his consigliere found the guts to pitch in, how could il padrino fail to do his part?

  Lead by example, right.

  And if he made it to the damned garage, hop in a ride and get the hell away from there.

  He was a brave man, not an idiot.

  Why be a martyr, if he had a chance to live and fight another day?

  It sounded like a full-scale war outside as Gallo left his study, moving down a corridor with artwork that had cost a bundle hanging on both walls. He wasn’t what you’d call a connoisseur, but knew the kind of paintings that he liked—and what appreciated, gaining value over time.

  All useless, if he got his ass shot by whoever in hell was after him tonight.

  He didn’t even try to work that out. Between the pricks who’d killed Joe Borgio, the Clinton Street Commandos and the Irish in South Buffalo, he had enough headhunters after him to keep him guessing.

&
nbsp; Bottom line: the only thing he cared about was getting out alive.

  * * *

  THE WALL WAS easy, once the lookouts were distracted. Bolan and his brother scrambled over, found nothing atop the wall to slow them down and dropped onto the estate grounds in shadow. If there’d been roving patrols in place, the firefight at the gate had drawn them to join the action. No dogs barking, and the soldier took that as another lucky break. If they had triggered some kind of alarm inside the house...well, they’d be dealing with that soon enough.

  The grounds reminded Bolan of a wooded park—or the kill zone around the Niagara Adventure Theater. Not thick woods, but enough trees standing tall and casting shadows that could conceal a lurking enemy prepared to fire on anything that moved. It would take stern discipline to stay in place and wait it out while their comrades were fighting to keep out the Irish, but Gallo might have a few soldiers like that.

  Or the Bolan brothers might meet a coward hiding out.

  And being frightened didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

  They moved toward the house, cautious, but making decent time. The Executioner had no idea how long the gate would hold, but if one raider got inside there’d be a button that could open it. Bolan was tempted to go back and help, but had his own agenda that was top priority.

  When they were thirty yards beyond the fence, he saw more Gallo soldiers coming from the house, some running, six riding a pair of golf carts, three men to a car, all armed with long guns. Sending in the cavalry, or something like it. At the same time, shouts and creaking, grinding sounds told him the gate was opening. He glanced back, saw two members of the home team using muscle to delay it, until one was shot down and the other ran for cover.

  “Gets worse now,” Bolan said.

  “Or better,” Johnny answered.

  As he spoke, he raised his Steyr, sighted, squeezed the trigger once. Downrange, one of the golf carts veered off course, its driver slumped over the steering wheel. The passengers were shouting, trying to correct its course, as Johnny turned back to his brother.

  “Helps if they can’t hold the gate,” he said.

  “Good thinking,” Bolan replied, and glanced toward the big house. Every window he could see was lit up, as if they had some kind of party or reception going on. Huge power bill next month, but if they played their cards right, Vinnie Gallo wouldn’t be around to pay it. Hell, who knew? The place might even be condemned.

  Just like its owner, from the moment that he’d tangled with the Executioner.

  * * *

  “YO, MAN! THEY started widout us!” Little Puppet said.

  “Jus’ like I planned,” Rocket replied. “Get in behind them ofays quick, now, ’fore they shut the gate again.”

  Little Puppet did as he was told, gunning the Caddy STS toward Gallo’s open gate, where guns were popping and the fight was going down. Rocket was ready with his AK-47, window lowered, sorry to sacrifice the Cadillac, but he could always get another ride. Your reputation, once they yanked that out from under you, forget it.

  White guys on his right. They didn’t look Italian to him, necessarily, but Rocket wasn’t in the mood to check IDs. They gawked at him as if they’d never seen a brother in their lives, standing over a third guy on the ground whose head was mostly blown away and spilling tapioca on the grass. They hoisted guns, and Rocket let them have it, spent brass pouring out of the ejector port, feeling a bullet whisper past his face so near he could detect its heat.

  Shit, that was close!

  The Caddy was passing the honkies now, and both of them were still standing, firing back at him, until his last burst caught one in the hip and took his leg out, dropping him like someone’s busted mannequin. The other man crouched, kept on shooting, Rocket shouting curses back at him and twisting in his seat, the angle wrong for a right-hander on the drive-by.

  They were taking hits from all sides now, but Little Puppet held the Caddy steady, roaring down the driveway toward the big house, Rocket’s soldiers coming on behind them. Here and there, a car had slewed off to the side, shot through, and there were bodies scattered all around, some lying still, others moving around as if they were hurt real bad, but still not giving up the ghost.

  “Shit, man!” The fear was audible in Little Puppet’s voice, but he kept driving. In the backseat, Rocket’s men were firing from their open windows, maybe hitting something, maybe wasting precious rounds they’d wish for in another minute. At the house, suckers were ducking, dodging, shooting back and forth at one another, firing in and out of the lit windows. Rocket even saw a couple of them grappling on the lawn, as if they’d run out of bullets and decided they should tear each other limb from limb, bare-handed.

  Crazy.

  “Keep on!” he barked at Little Puppet, just before a slug came through the Caddy’s windshield. The peewee’s head snapped back, the side toward Rocket vaporized. There was no way to steer without a brain, for sure, but they kept rolling straight somehow, regardless, Little Puppet’s dead foot on the gas, until they hit the mansion’s steps and stalled.

  “Out of the car!” Rocket ordered, but his men had figured that out for themselves, already bailing, crouched behind the Caddy’s open doors for cover. Rocket felt as if he was playing Doom for real, but in this world his AK magazine was empty and he had to ditch it, swapping in a full one, while bullets flew thick and fast around him.

  Screw it.

  Leaping to his feet, he rushed the mansion’s entrance and shot the dead bolt into tatters. He kicked the door open, crouching, seeing shadows duck around inside and chasing them with short full-auto bursts.

  “Yo, Vinnie!” Rocket shouted from the threshold. “Dey’s Commandos in the house!”

  * * *

  CRACKING THE GATE had cost him one man dead, another wounded, but Kevin Shaughnessy took the losses in stride. This was war, and losses were to be expected. Even so, it hurt when Brian Devlin fell, gut-shot and thrashing on the lawn, before he’d taken three steps from his car.

  Sprawling beside his oldest friend, lying in Devlin’s blood, Shaughnessy peered into his eyes while bullets rattled overhead. Their boys were giving back as good as they received, but they were still outnumbered, still the underdogs.

  “Kev,” Brian gurgled, drooling crimson, “get in there an’ kill them feckers!”

  “You hold on, hear me?” Shaughnessy replied.

  “Don’t think...I can,” Devlin gasped. Then he coughed a gout of blood and shivered like a junkie kicking it cold turkey, clutching his friend’s hand with force enough to crack the knuckles.

  And he died.

  Shaughnessy exploded, picking up his M4 carbine as he rose to one knee, looking for a target, any target, to receive his raging grief.

  Before he found one, ramped-up firing at the gate drew his attention back there, and he saw more vehicles arriving. Not police yet, but a motley convoy rolling in, all of the faces visible through open windows black and brown. The other gang arrived, and they’d obviously come to party, muzzle-flashes winking from the windows of their pimped-out rides as they came charging toward the Gallo mansion.

  “More, the merrier,” he muttered to himself, then Shaughnessy was off and running toward the east side of the house, where he had seen a patio and barbecue. That normally meant sliding doors, a lot of glass and easy access once you strafed it with a few full-auto rounds. He wasn’t passing Vinnie Gallo off to another gang if he could help it. Not with Devlin’s blood fresh on his hands.

  Some injuries required a personal response, and this was one of them.

  Take out a brother, and you paid for it in blood.

  He reached the patio with half a dozen of his men behind him, wasn’t sure what had become of the remainder, and there wasn’t time for him to think about it. Two of Gallo’s men were coming through the sliding doors as he arrived, bo
th armed with Uzi submachine guns. Shaughnessy caught one with half a dozen rounds, then ducked and rolled before the other had a chance to nail him. He came up firing, howling like a madman when his second target hit the paving stones, all rubbery and spastic.

  Clear to storm the house, he charged ahead, afraid to turn to see if any of his boys were following, but not caring any longer. If he had to do the job alone, so be it.

  He would meet the rest of them in hell, and they would have a high old time.

  * * *

  ON THE MANSION’S west side, Bolan found a door that had a window in its upper half. Beyond the glass, a kitchen sparkled underneath fluorescent lights. There was no sign of anybody moving when he checked that window or the one he supposed had to be above a sink. The door was locked, of course, but that was no impediment.

  “One size fits all,” he said, retreating to a safe range for the Milkor MGL.

  “Blow it,” his brother said.

  He blew it, with a high-explosive round that struck the door dead center and disintegrated it. Bolan and Johnny charged in through the smoke and dust, ducked underneath a dangling piece of door frame, and were in the house before the shock waves from the blast had finished rattling through the Gallo mansion.

  There was no one in the spacious kitchen, as expected, but there would be soon, if Gallo had enough men still remaining in the house to come and check on the explosion. Bolan wasn’t waiting for them to arrive, preferring to go hunting on his own. He held the Milkor steady, with a buckshot round next up in its revolving cylinder, and led the way across the kitchen to another door, drawing them farther into the rambling house.

  Johnny kept quiet as they moved into a corridor that ran north-south, with doors on either side. The first one Bolan opened brought them to a formal dining room that would accommodate some twenty-five or thirty guests around a long table with high-backed, leather-cushioned chairs. Again, there was nobody home, but Bolan could hear voices now, approaching from the south end of the hallway.

  “You want to meet them here?” Johnny asked, standing ready with his Steyr.