Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  That made Conte think. What would Sherman do?

  If he was in with Lemke, all he had to do was to keep playing the game until the nine million had been hidden away where it couldn’t be found. Then make a run for it.

  If Sherman had been set up by Lemke, he would do his best to get the money back before the deadline. If he succeeded, or failed, he would have realized he was on the edge. He could easily fake the figures to get Conte to back off and then make a run for it.

  However the dice rolled, one thing was certain. Marco Conte was going to get a hard time from Serge Bulova. The east coast head honcho would be determined to put the hammer down hard—and Conte, the man on the spot in Vegas, would be the choice to catch the flak. Bulova would see this as Conte having taken his eye off the ball. The Russian wouldn’t give a damn how it turned out. Money back or not, Bulova would make his displeasure known.

  “Okay, put someone on Harry,” Conte said. “I need to know his moves. If he steps out of line, he’s finished. And when Harry’s four days are up, I want him dead if he comes through or not. I have to show we don’t let ourselves be played for suckers. We clean up. Make certain we’re covered. Right now I got to call back east and tell Bulova we have a problem.”

  “He isn’t going to like it.”

  Conte managed a mirthless smile. “You think I do, Milo? There’s no easy way around this. Sooner I call Serge the better. Yeah, he isn’t going to like what I have to tell him. He’ll want to send that prick Danichev to stand watch over us while we sort out this mess. You know, Milo, I hate that smart-ass son of a bitch.”

  Conte reached for his phone and hit the speed dial number.

  * * *

  DESPERATE TO FIND the missing money, Sherman sat at his computer, checking the numbers for the tenth time. He was getting nowhere. As a last hope, he decided to key in a sequence of numbers he had almost forgotten about. Perhaps the money trail could somehow be picked up there.

  The commands called up a series of files he had found by accident some months ago. The secret files had come into his possession during a financial data exchange between Sherman and Conte. In his haste, and most likely due to his poor computer skills, the casino boss had unknowingly sent the chief accountant a number of odd files. Sherman had never seen the lines of code before and, more out of curiosity than anything else, had saved them in a folder then deleted Conte’s error.

  Immediately following the incident, Sherman had felt a sense of guilt at what he had done. Even so, he’d kept the new files and continued the transfer of accounts to Conte.

  Now he opened the saved files and read them one by one. Once his eyes had scanned the first few pages of the lists on his monitor, he was unable to stop. Seeing and recognizing the names, and the payoffs made to those individuals, there was no going back. No erasing the information he had seen. The names and payoffs were in his mind and there was no delete button he could press to wipe them away.

  He realized that he was looking at explosive information capable of bringing down powerful people. If this information was made public, a number of influential people were going to fall hard, as would Sherman’s employer and the head of Conte’s organization back east. Sherman had seen the information now. It had the potential to destroy lives, and he would be in the middle of it all.

  He decided to save the information on a flash drive. It was all he had; the only insurance policy that might stay Conte’s hand. He only had to figure out what to do with it.

  1

  Washington, DC

  Leo Turrin leaned back in his chair, pondering his next move. Once a deep undercover agent for the Justice Department, Turrin had penetrated the closed ranks of the Mafia and become a trusted confederate. Now he was “semiretired” from the mob and worked in Justice’s headquarters in Washington, DC. His current focus was a crime boss named Marco Conte.

  A case board covered one wall of the little Fed’s office. The current layout was a montage of information on the Conte organization. Pinned in place were numerous photos of the main players—Conte in a variety of poses, his coterie of lieutenants, lesser men in the group and photos of other criminal figures; some friends, some enemies—as well as images of buildings that included houses and office complexes, and vehicles. The board contained anything and everything relating to Marco Conte’s operation.

  Turrin spent a lot of time studying the information, going over what he knew and adding new data whenever it showed up.

  He knew that if he got Conte, Justice would have a shot at taking down the head of the organization, Serge Bulova, an east coast crime lord.

  All he wanted was the one small sliver of data that might give him his way in.

  Finally his patience and dogged persistence had paid off. He’d learned from an inside source that Harry Sherman, Conte’s chief accountant, was in trouble with his boss. Money was missing.

  After researching Sherman, Turrin asked his source to ferret out what he could about the missing money. He had no idea if Sherman would play ball but figured he had nothing to lose and a hell of a lot to gain if Sherman turned out to be the chink in the mob’s armor.

  He decided to reach out to the man.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  INTEL HAD REVEALED that Harry Sherman stopped at the same café every morning on the way to the casino.

  The little Fed sat at the table behind him, watching and waiting for his moment. As Sherman briefly glanced away from the table, Turrin rose and, slipping a folded note beside the man’s coffee mug, walked away. He didn’t look back.

  He had to wait until Sherman contacted him. If he didn’t, then the Justice man would try another approach.

  The next morning Turrin’s cell phone rang.

  Sherman got right down to business. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who can help,” Turrin replied.

  “Help?”

  “You’re having problems with Marco Conte. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “Who says I’m having problems?”

  “Someone I know. Harry, I have good ears and I’m a listener.”

  A long pause. Turrin knew Sherman was still on the line because he could hear the background noise.

  “Do you have a solution?”

  “I do. I’ll pull you out and get you clear,” Turrin said.

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “I don’t hear either of us laughing, Harry.”

  “Before I end this call, tell me what this is about.”

  “Someone is taking a gamble, Harry, and is in the right place to do that for you.”

  “Here? In Vegas? Are you trying to get me killed or what? Jesus, if Conte even sniffs I’ve been talking to you, I’m already dead.”

  “So stay ahead of the game, Harry. Make that jump before he decides he can’t trust you any longer.”

  “This is crazy. You know who you’re talking about? Why the hell am I even still on the line?” Sherman asked.

  “Because you know what I’m saying is the truth, Harry. You’re mixed up with a bad crowd. Be honest. You handle the money for Conte. You know the kinds of things he gets involved with using the casino as a front. Do yourself a favor and get out before Conte makes a move.”

  Turrin had no doubt that beads of sweat were sliding down the sides of Sherman’s face, that his body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the weather. The voice on the phone was telling him what he already knew. His days with Conte were numbered—and those numbers were already starting to fall.

  “I’ll be at the café tomorrow, Harry. We’ll talk.” The little Fed ended the call.

  * * *

  TURRIN WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED—and relieved—when Sherman crossed the café and took his usual table. After the accountant had ordered, Turrin stood and crossed the floor to join him. The man glanced up,
his face registering slight alarm.

  “I didn’t think you’d show,” Turrin said as he took the seat across from Sherman. “Good to meet you, Harry. I’m Leo.”

  Turrin waited as Sherman’s coffee and roll were delivered.

  “If you can’t help me, Leo, this could be one of my last meals.”

  “You have a cell phone on you?”

  “Don’t they provide you with one?”

  “It’s yours I want. Take it out and place it on the table.”

  Sherman complied, watching as Turrin opened the back and removed the battery and SIM card. He dropped the items into his pocket.

  Sherman stared at him.

  “Calls can be traced. You could be tracked.”

  “So now what? I make smoke signals?”

  Turrin took out a satellite phone and placed it between them on the table.

  “Use this one,” he said. “It’s clean and can’t be traced. My people can track you with the GPS that’s installed. And it has my contact number. If we get separated, you can call me.”

  Sherman didn’t touch the phone. He had a look on his face that told Turrin he was unsure.

  “Okay, so you’re here. What’s going down?”

  Sherman laid it all out, about the missing money, Sol Lemke and the deadline Conte had given him.

  “He’ll do it,” Sherman said. “Conte has a simple rule. Do it to them before they do it to you. Old school. He believes in bringing the hammer down if he sees a problem. Right now he doesn’t trust me any longer. Even if I found his missing money, the suspicion would still be there. He gave me a few days. I know I’m reaching the end of my rope here.”

  “You’re right about Conte. He’s a low-life thug, and he’ll want you dead. No two ways about it. Come on board and I can set things in motion. We relocate you somewhere safe. New identity. New name. You can rebuild your life.”

  “It sounds so easy when you say it. I have family. A sister and her kids.”

  “We’ll look after them, too. Harry, I won’t lie. This won’t be easy for you. A lot of things will change. Harry Sherman will disappear. You and your loved ones will get new identities. If you have any doubts, think of the alternative.”

  Sherman reached out, picked up the sat phone and dropped it into his pocket, knowing that “Leo” was right. He understood a man like Conte, knew the man’s capacity for revenge, retribution. The man had no conscience. His instinct was tuned toward his own survival. Nothing else mattered to him.

  “I have information you can use to nail Conte. I recently discovered it.” Sherman told Turrin what he had uncovered. “Do what you’ve promised and I’ll give it to you when I’m safe.”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” the little Fed said, pushing back his chair.

  Sherman pushed his seat back and stood. He caught his foot on the leg of his chair and stumbled slightly. It was just enough to take him out of the trajectory of the slug that missed him by inches and slammed into Turrin. The impact shoved the Justice man back, his seat toppling and taking him with it. He hit the ground hard, blood spreading across his shirt from the hole high in his chest.

  The other customers panicked as realization hit in the wake of the gunshot. They scattered, Harry Sherman among them, and two more people were hit as the shooter attempted to pin Sherman down.

  By the time the first police cruisers arrived, it was over.

  2

  In hospital and under guard, Leo Turrin was slowly recovering from surgery to remove a slug from his chest. The bullet had clipped a lung and had lodged in muscle.

  Family and friends had visited after hurried cross-country flights. Even Hal Brognola, Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, a secret antiterrorist organization based at Stony Man Farm, had shown up, then quickly departed.

  Turrin had given his evidence to the investigating team from Justice. Now, in the silence of his room, staring unseeing at the walls, Turrin tried to make sense of it all. He had been involved in the world of crime and its attendant horrors for so long he imagined nothing could shock him, yet he still found himself drawn into the effects of such pointless violence. He had learned that several innocents had been killed, including two children. What made it worse: there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

  He heard the door to his room swish open. The door closed and Turrin became aware of a presence.

  Unobtrusive.

  Standing silently beside the bed.

  Before a word was spoken, Turrin knew who it was.

  “We are going to make this right, Leo.”

  When he heard those simple words, the little Fed felt a degree of tension drain away.

  “It’s not going to be easy.”

  “It’s never easy,” Mack Bolan said. “But it’s doable.”

  “It should have been straightforward, Mack. Sherman was ready to make a deal. A new identity for information on Conte.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Turrin took a breath as a surge of pain slashed through his chest.

  “The guy was at odds with Conte. My contact in Vegas said the casino boss was getting more and more aggressive with everyone around him—running the organization as if he was some kind of untouchable. A few people vanished after they had committed some minor discretions. Conte was showing there was no place for mistakes in his organization.

  “Sherman knew his time had come when he was accused of stealing money from the accounts. He knew Conte would come after him. He’d want Sherman’s head on a plate. So he took the only option he could.” Turrin took another slow breath. “When Sherman found incriminating information in Conte’s files, he saved it on a flash drive. It was his bargaining chip. When we met, he told me he’d give us the data that would give us the go on Conte’s organization. Now I’m not sure the information will be worth what it’s already cost in lives.”

  Turrin asked for water and Bolan obliged. Bolan placed the plastic cup in his old friend’s hand and waited as he sipped the water through a straw.

  “Leo, if this is too much right now, we can leave it.”

  Turrin shook his head.

  “We don’t have the luxury of time. Sherman’s out there on his own. The guy is in a bad place, Mack. He’s an accountant, not a street soldier. I contacted him and offered my help. Now he’s on the run. Conte’s kill squads will be hunting him. If they get to him first, it’s over.”

  “Then we stop Conte, Leo. Play him at his own game. By the rules he sets down.”

  “Read up on him, Mack. This guy runs his organization through violence and intimidation and doesn’t give a damn about anyone. The casino is his legitimate cover for what goes on behind the scenes. From what we’ve learned that’s a hell of a lot.”

  “Justice knows but can’t touch him?”

  “Conte has the backing of his people out east. The real power is the Russian mob out of Brighton Beach. They have high-priced lawyers and money to burn on payoffs. These people know how to buy their protection, Mack. Justice has been trying to find a way in, but these guys have it sewed up tight. Sherman’s information could go a long way to bringing them all down. But right now I have no idea where he is or what he’s done with the evidence.”

  “The thing about sewing things up is the opportunity to pick at the stitches,” Bolan said.

  Those few words told Turrin that he could rest a little easier.

  Mack Bolan was on board.

  The Executioner was ready to roll.

  Conte and the Russian mob were in for a rough ride.

  3

  “Marco, it’s a call for you,” Milo Forte said. “I think it’s Harry Sherman.”

  Conte took the phone. “Yeah?”

  “You double-crossed me, Marco,” Sherman said
without preamble. “I valued your word. I should have known better.”

  “Harry, it’s business. Nothing personal. I have to go with the percentages and they were telling me I should cut my losses.”

  “You think? Marco, I might have had respect for you a while ago, but you just proved what a cheap hood you are—”

  “You can’t talk to me like that, you fucking bean counter. You know who I am?”

  “I know what you are, Marco. A scared little gofer who has to jump through hoops every time your Russian boss says so. And right now you’re in trouble. Bulova isn’t going to be happy you let nine million slip through your fingers. I would have stuck to my agreement, but you couldn’t even do that.”

  The silence was thick enough to cut.

  “Where are you, Harry? Tell me so I can come rip your throat out.”

  “I would have helped, but now I’m going to do my best to see that you and Bulova go down. I have the goods on you, Marco. I found your hidden files. The ones that have all the names and dates and payoffs. I made a copy and I’m going to give it to the Feds. You just had to send out your guy with his gun to put me down. The trouble is, he screwed up. He missed me but hurt other people. So to hell with you all. You made me angry, Marco, and it takes a lot to do that, you loser.”

  “We’ll find you, Harry, and I’ll make it my personal business to cut you into little pieces.”

  The phone went dead in Conte’s hand.

  “Milo, that piece of garbage is threatening to hand over files to the Feds. Goddamn it, we need to find him fast or we’re done.”

  * * *

  VITALY DANICHEV SAT in the rear of the SUV, making no move to climb out. His driver sat patiently at the wheel, staring out through the windshield. He knew better than to disturb his employer when he was in such a mood. Tibor Kolchak flanked the driver. Even though he was Danichev’s chief bodyguard, the huge man understood when to remain nothing more than a passive observer.