Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  “All right, Tibor, let’s get this done.”

  Kolchak climbed out of the SUV and moved his bulk to Danichev’s door, opening it so that his boss could step out. He headed directly for the casino’s entrance. Despite his powerful size, Kolchak stayed ahead of his boss, yanking open the door for him. Danichev walked inside and along the carpeted floor. Even at this time of day the casino was busy with people moving in and out. A constant stream of potential winners and losers.

  “Mr. Conte is waiting for you in the Crater Lounge, sir,” said the floor manager.

  He led them through the casino to a closed door at the far side of the opulent gambling floor. They stepped through the door and into the semi-lit area of the lounge. The empty dance floor was surrounded by tables and chairs, and a long, curved bar sat at the rear. The motif of the room was of planets and stars, the ceiling illuminated by simulated lunar craters and subdued light.

  Marco Conte sat at the bar on a high stool, two of his hardmen close by. His gaze settled on Danichev and remained there as the Russian approached. Conte had a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. He was putting on an act of nonchalance, a display for Danichev’s benefit. It was a wasted effort. The Russian ignored it.

  “Have you found him?” Danichev asked.

  Any form of greeting Conte might have been considering faded fast.

  “No.”

  “And so you sit there doing nothing?”

  “I have my people out looking for him,” Conte said.

  Danichev’s lips curved into a faint smile a second before he exploded with rage.

  “You have people looking for him. What the fuck does that mean? This accountant has run out on you. And you have done nothing to stop him. The Feds want him to give them this evidence he found.”

  Danichev began to speak Russian, his rage filling the room as he subjected Conte to an intense verbal rant. His hands lashed out, knocking the cigar and the glass from Conte’s hands.

  The casino boss took the verbal assault without protest, his shock at being so intensely attacked rendering him speechless. He might be the head man in Vegas but under Danichev’s intense rebuke he could have been a street soldier with no rank. He had heard about the Russian’s powerful presence, but this was the only time he had been on the receiving end. He was physically trembling, his face bloodless; he realized his position so he remained silent. The last thing he needed to do was to offer some lame excuse.

  “Get me a drink,” Danichev said to Kolchak, suddenly reverting to English.

  Kolchak stepped behind the bar. He sought out a bottle of expensive vodka and filled a tumbler, handing it to Danichev. The Russian savored the liquor before taking a swallow.

  “At least this delivers as it should,” he said after the vodka slid down his throat. “Pour one for Marco. I think he is going to need it.”

  Conte took the offered drink without protest. He hated the stuff, preferring a good malt whiskey, but at that moment he wasn’t going to do anything to upset Danichev further.

  “Get rid of the monkeys,” Danichev ordered.

  Conte dismissed his bodyguards. He was aware of Danichev’s scrutiny, so he took another swallow of the vodka.

  “So,” Danichev said in a more conversational tone that did little to make Conte feel any better. “I got angry because you fucked up. You now understand how bad you fucked up. Because of your error the organization is now vulnerable to the Feds. The last thing we need is to be placed in their sights any more than we already are. Do you agree, Marco?”

  “Yes. But we will find him.”

  “That is not the answer I was hoping for. What I asked was whether you think Sherman has left us in a vulnerable position.”

  Conte noticed that his hand holding the glass of vodka was trembling slightly. It angered him that Danichev could have that effect on him. And it annoyed him the way the man talked down to him.

  In the seconds following his thoughts, Marco Conte realized his position, his power over events, was only granted by the ultimate heads of the organization. They wielded the big stick from their power base back east. His empire, out here in the sticks, only existed because it generated revenue—that ultimate power being demonstrated to him by the presence of Vitaly Danichev. If Danichev decided to end Conte’s reign, he could do it simply by clicking his fingers and unleashing the hulking figure of Tibor Kolchak. It could happen in an instant and Conte would cease to exist.

  “If he manages to hand over that information to the Feds, we could have problems,” Conte conceded.

  “Good. With that out of the way we must move to prevent this matter getting any further out of hand.”

  Danichev glanced at Kolchak.

  The big man took out a cell phone that was dwarfed by his massive hand. He tapped in a speed-dial number and waited until the call was answered. He leaned across the bar and handed it to Danichev.

  “Where are you?” the Russian asked. “Excellent. Come straight inside when you arrive.”

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES and two more glasses of vodka later, Danichev heard the sound of raised voices. The doors to the lounge were pushed open and five men walked in.

  “On time, as usual,” he said.

  The group was headed by a well-muscled man in his late thirties. His dark hair was close-cut, his angular face tanned, emphasizing the pale color of his eyes.

  “Mr. Danichev,” the man said, respect evident in his voice. His gaze passed over Conte before centering on Danichev again. “Ready to go, sir.”

  “This is Marco Conte,” Danichev said. “He heads this territory for us. Marco, I want you to meet Anatole Killian. Anatole and his men are here to put right our little problem. I want you to give Anatole all the help he needs. He has my permission to ask any questions. To go through everything there is to know about our absent accountant. He has the full backing of the organization to do whatever is needed to resolve this matter.”

  Conte understood exactly what was implied by Danichev’s words. He didn’t need to have it spelled out any clearer. He knew exactly who Anatole Killian was. His team’s reputation within the organization was well known, as was its purpose. He and his men were known as the Kill Squad.

  “It appears that Sherman accessed sensitive data from Marco’s computer and saved it to a flash drive,” Danichev said. “That data, if handed over to the Feds, could prove extremely embarrassing to Mr. Bulova.”

  Killian considered what had been said. “Is this information that important?”

  “Yes. It is Conte’s master list of people, the amount of money paid to them, as well as the reason why it was paid and dates.”

  “I can understand why that kind of information is important,” Killian said, “but how did Sherman manage to get hold of it?”

  “Because he’s a smart son of a bitch who managed to get into my secure files and access what was on them.”

  “Not so secure then,” Killian said.

  Conte emptied his drink. “So it fucking well seems.”

  “Anatole, don’t upset Marco. He’s not having too good a day.”

  “Sorry,” Killian said. “Let me have everything on this Sherman. I need to find a starting point. Contacts this guy might have. Places he might go. Any family he might run to.”

  “Sherman has a sister and a niece. They live in Des Moines. A nephew is deployed overseas,” Conte said. “We did a background check when he applied for the job. Apparently, Sherman and his sister don’t really get on. The sister doesn’t approve of his lifestyle. She believes Vegas is not the place to work.”

  “You think she is worried we might corrupt him?” Danichev asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “If Sherman is on the move, he might contact his sister,” Killian said. “Family loyalty.”

 
; “Have a local contact arrange for a home visit,” Danichev said. “The sister might have what we need.”

  Killian nodded. “I’ll get on it.”

  4

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  Aaron Kurtzman, the head of Stony Man’s cyber team, propelled his wheelchair into the War Room and positioned himself beside Mack Bolan. In addition to the Executioner, Harold Brognola and Barbara Price, SOG’s mission controller, were seated at the conference table.

  The cyber wizards had been instructed to dig into Marco Conte’s life and times. His background, the structure of his operations, the people he dealt with, his staff. All details had been entered into the Farm’s supercomputer, logged and pulled into order.

  Kurtzman’s team had dug into FBI files, the records from ATF and police records. Even the legal firm Conte used to keep him out of jail had come under their cyber eyes. They had all that, plus the data that had been downloaded from Leo Turrin’s files courtesy of Brognola.

  Kurtzman began his presentation.

  “The organization run by Marco Conte is ultimately responsible to the crime syndicate headed by Serge Bulova. Conte has complete control of his outfit, but at the end of the day he’s part of the Bulova operation and anything that hurts Conte hurts Bulova. It seems that a recent task force investigation of Conte has made some inroads into his organization. Nothing that could stand up in court yet, but Bulova has been rattled by the interest shown in Conte’s setup. That said, once news reached Bulova that there was a significant problem within Conte’s organization, Justice intel says he sent Vitaly Danichev to monitor the situation.”

  “I’ve heard that name before,” Bolan said.

  “Danichev keeps people in line for Bulova. He’s got a reputation as a no-nonsense enforcer. He gets results. The hard way, according to intel reports. Never gets his own hands dirty. There’s a team of hit men who clean up any loose ends. They work under Danichev’s control.”

  “Guns for hire?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman nodded. “Unofficially they’re known as the Kill Squad.” He tapped at the slim keyboard on the table in front of him. A grainy image appeared on the large wall monitor, depicting a dark-haired man with an angular face and pale blue eyes. His hard features were clean-shaved and his expression was solemn. “These are the only pictures known to exist of the guy heading the squad and his second in command.”

  Bolan studied the face and committed it to memory. He would know the guy if he encountered him.

  “Do we have a name?”

  “Anatole Killian. That’s all we’ve got. The other guy is Jake Fresco.”

  “Not the types you’d want to meet on a dark night,” Price said. “Or even in broad daylight, for that matter.”

  “Do we assume Killian was behind the attempt to kill Harry Sherman?” Bolan asked.

  “We don’t know. The hit could have been set up by Conte. A sniper made the shot from a rooftop across from the café where Leo was meeting Sherman. You already know what went down. Sherman was on the verge of cooperating with Leo. He was ready to step away from the Conte organization and offer evidence that would give the task force enough to go for Marco Conte. Leo was going to give him protection.”

  “But the shooter made a mess of the attempt,” Brognola said. “Hit Turrin instead of Sherman.”

  “He tried to clean up by taking more shots as Sherman ran,” Kurtzman said. “He just made things worse, killing civilians, including two children.”

  “I haven’t forgotten about the loss of those innocents, especially the kids,” Bolan rasped.

  The deaths of the children would be in his thoughts for as long as it took to make things right. And he would. There had to be a reckoning for the indiscriminate slaughter of people who were merely collateral damage for a killer out to make a buck. Bolan would not forget those deaths.

  Or the injury to Leo Turrin.

  “What have you got on Sherman?” Bolan asked.

  “Harry Sherman,” Kurtzman said. Another image flashed onto the monitor. “Thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. Pure and simple? A money man. He ran the accounts for Conte. Kept track of all the cash coming in and never took a wrong step until nine million dollars disappeared. We don’t have all the details, but it looks as if Sherman’s the fall guy for someone snatching the money.

  “Sherman has a sister, Gwen Darrow,” Kurtzman went on. “She lives in Des Moines. She’s a lawyer with her own practice in the city. She’s a widow with two kids. Laura is in college. Carl is in the military. He’s on active service right now.”

  He brought up a picture of a handsome woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. There were two more images. One of Darrow’s son, Carl, in uniform, and one of her daughter, Laura, who was an attractive, younger version of her mother.

  “Good place to start looking for Sherman as any,” Bolan said.

  “I’ll make travel arrangements for you,” Price advised, gathering her file and leaving the room.

  “Aaron, will you download the intel you’ve gathered to my sat phone?”

  “You’ll have it shortly.”

  The meeting broke up after another half hour. Bolan made his way to the room he used when he was in residence at Stony Man and packed a bag. Then he dropped by the armory where he chose the weapons he’d need for the mission: a Beretta 93-R and several magazines loaded with 9 mm ammo. He also chose a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, as well as a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife and holsters for both handguns.

  He liaised with Price, who set him up with his travel pack. Jack Grimaldi, the Stony Man resident pilot, would fly him to Des Moines.

  “Pick up your vehicle at the airfield,” she said. “A Chevy Suburban is being delivered as we speak. Try not to return it to the rental agency full of holes.”

  “That’s happened before?” Bolan asked with a grin.

  “Take a look at our insurance premiums,” Price quipped and then winked.

  “You ready, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Let’s move out.”

  As Grimaldi turned and headed for the door, Price leaned forward and kissed Bolan.

  “Stay safe, soldier,” she said.

  Outside Des Moines, Iowa

  GRIMALDI TOUCHED DOWN at a private airstrip a few miles from the main airport. The ace pilot had contacts across the country when it came to safe landing spots. He was friendly with a large number of independent operators and those contacts came in handy when he needed an out-of-the-way place to land. Grimaldi was a sociable man, and when he made friends, those friendships tended to be strong and long-lasting. It was no secret that many of his acquaintances were of the female variety. He was the land-based version of the sailor with a girl in every port.

  Bolan took his carry-all and placed it in the rear of the Suburban. He stowed his 93-R and shoulder rig in the glove compartment, within easy reach. He placed the bag holding his other weapons in the trunk.

  “I’ll be here if you need me,” Grimaldi said as Bolan slid behind the wheel and fired up the Suburban’s engine. “Try not to cause trouble.”

  Bolan glanced up from logging Gwen Darrow’s address into the navigation system.

  “Do I ever go looking for trouble, Jack?”

  Grimaldi grinned. “You said that with a straight face.”

  He watched as Bolan drove out of the airstrip and picked up the road for the city.

  5

  Cash Cushman was driving. His partner, Billy Riker, was slouched in the passenger seat, his blank stare focused on the scene outside. They were in a stolen van, taken from a parking lot a couple of hours earlier. Once the job was done they would abandon the van and pick up their own car, which they had parked a couple of streets away. The van was dark blue, with no company logo, and they had fixed false plates in place of the originals. Both men wore dark co
veralls and ball caps, a simple enough disguise for what they had to do.

  The hit had been set up quickly, with little time to make more secure arrangements. It was not the way they liked to do things, but a fast response had been ordered, so they’d had to improvise.

  They drove through the city, staying well within the speed limit and locating the target house without difficulty. Des Moines was a city they knew well. For them it was a simple enough contract. Locate the target, get the information they needed and pass it back to the principal. It would net them a tidy fee. In fact it was a nice, easy job despite having to wing it.

  The street was quiet. It was midmorning and most residents were at work. Only a couple of cars were parked in driveways as Cushman rolled along, counting off the houses until he spotted the target. A small red Volkswagen Beetle was parked beside the house.

  Cushman slowed and made a turn, pulling up behind the Volkswagen. He shut off the engine, got out of the van and went to the rear where he opened the door and slid out a package and a clipboard. He made a show of checking the clipboard before dropping it back inside the van and closing the door. While he did that, Riker slid over to the driver’s seat and sat waiting. Cushman carried the package and walked up the driveway, bypassing the Volkswagen and walking to the back of the house.

  He barely glanced at the rear yard, moving directly to the back door and tapping on the glass panel. He waited and tapped again. He heard movement inside then, through the frosted glass, saw a blurred figure approach the door. The door was opened on a security chain and a young woman’s face appeared.

  “Delivery for Gwen Darrow,” Cushman said, a friendly smile on his face. He juggled the package and used his left hand to pull a folded sheet from his pocket. “I just need a signature, miss.”

  “My mom isn’t at home.”

  “You can take the parcel,” Cushman said. He waggled the sheet of paper. “I just need you to sign, is all.”

  The young woman hesitated then eased the door closed so she could remove the chain and open it wider.