Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  Gwen took a long breath, squeezed her daughter’s hand and turned back to Bolan. “All right, Mr. Cooper, we’ll do it your way for now. Until this matter is settled. When it is, we are going home.”

  Bolan made the call.

  “We need to get Gwen and Laura to a safe place,” Bolan told Price. “Put them somewhere temporary until a secure house can be arranged. Have Aaron run a check on a spot in Nevada. A town called Callisto. Looks like an old buddy of Sherman’s lives out that way. It’s worth a look. Call me back when you have things fixed... Okay, we’ll wait. Make it fast. I need to find Sherman fast.”

  “Do we have time to eat?” Laura asked. “I’m hungry.”

  “Why not?” Bolan said. “We might not get time later on.”

  7

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “This fucking mess is getting out of hand,” Anatole Killian said. “Two of my men are in lockup and the sister and her daughter have disappeared. Is it me or have we suddenly become a bunch of amateurs?”

  “These things happen,” Jake Fresco said.

  Killian turned on him, his face darkening with anger. “No. These things do not happen. I thought we were professionals, Jake. Maybe I’ve had it wrong all this time. Look at that cluster fuck Luca created. All he had to do was shoot Sherman and this would have been over. He screwed up the shot and then went crazy trying to make up for it by firing wild. Did you forget the result already?”

  Fresco shook his head. “At least Luca got clear.”

  “So that makes it okay? Luca got clear. Where is he? Hiding under the fuckin’ bed, ashamed to show his face?”

  “He went to the local safe house.”

  “It won’t be safe when we get there.” Killian gathered himself, taking a couple of deep breaths. “Jake, get a team together. Go on the hunt for Sherman’s sister. I have a feeling she could put us on track to find that little shit. I have to go talk to Mr. Danichev. Now there is a man who won’t be happy with the way things are going.”

  Killian followed Fresco out of the room. He took a long walk through Conte’s spacious ranch-style house until he reached the room where Danichev would be waiting. He tapped on the door, heard the summons and went in, closing the door behind him.

  Vitaly Danichev sat behind the large desk Conte normally used. He was alone, framed by the wide window at his back.

  “You want to sit down, Anatole?” he asked.

  Killian stood at the desk, as relaxed as he could be considering the recent debacle, and waited for his employer to speak.

  “We came all the way out here to show Marco how things should be run,” Danichev said. “To say the least I don’t believe we’ve made a good first impression.” He paused. “At least you don’t disagree?”

  “No, sir,” Killian said. “A poor start.”

  “Tell me you have your team on the move.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything on your two men?” Danichev asked.

  “Legal is working on getting them out,” Killian stated.

  “So I gathered when I spoke to them.”

  “Our people won’t tell the cops anything. We can resolve this in time.”

  “Time is something we’re a little short of, Anatole. Bear that in mind. Getting our hands on Sherman is vital. He’s ready to talk and from what Conte tells me, he has data that could hurt us all the way back to Brighton Beach. Right now there are a number of people with warm collars getting tighter every day.”

  “I understand the urgency, sir.”

  Danichev leaned forward. “As you said, Anatole, a bad start. Let’s put it behind us and move on. No need to mention this again.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Danichev.”

  “Just one thing. When I spoke to the head of the legal team, he reported that our people at the Sherman house said they were attacked by a man on his own. Very proficient. Very fast. He seemingly came out of nowhere, took down our people and spirited away with Laura Darrow. Follow up on that.”

  “Consider it done,” Killian said.

  Brighton Beach, Little Odessa

  SERGE BULOVA SAT UPRIGHT, his face rigid. His right hand rose, finger pointing. Every man in the room imagined it was pointing at him.

  “You listen to me,” Bulova said. “This is not a game. It is real. As real as it gets. If we do not take control, we will all go down. Every last one of us. Me included.

  “This organization we have so carefully built will fall apart if that goddamned Sherman hands that information to the Justice Department. It will blow us into little pieces.

  “I want your people on the streets. I want them covering the fucking country if the need arises. Find Sherman. I want him dead and I want that data in my hands so I can see that it is destroyed. Use everyone we have. Every contact, every informant. Make them talk. Cut out their hearts if they try to hold back. This has become a war for survival. Our survival. I don’t give a damn about collateral damage. Anyone gets in the way, put them down. Whatever it costs.” He rose from behind his desk. “I do not want to see any one of you back here unless it is to tell me you have succeeded. Let us get this mess cleaned up.”

  Bulova waited until the group had gone, then made a call to Danichev.

  “Vitaly, you stay on Conte’s tail. Watch and listen. He doesn’t know it, but he’s a walking dead man. It’s down to that piece of garbage that all this has blown up. For the time being play along. Right now we need his local knowledge. Sherman is our priority. Find him.”

  “I understand, Mr. Bulova. Oh, we have located Luca D’Allesandro. He’s hiding out in one of the safe houses here in Vegas.”

  “Not so safe for him,” Bulova said. “All he had to do was put Sherman down. Not shoot up the town. Vitaly, that useless little shit has made things worse. Do me a personal favor. If you know where he is, give him my regards before you kill him.”

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER Danichev sent two of Killian’s crew to drop in on D’Allesandro. Their information directed them to an apartment building on the edge of town. They entered the building and took the service elevator to the third floor. The apartment was at the end of the corridor, overlooking the street.

  Joey Lombardi and Sal Benedetto pulled on thin leather gloves as they stood at the door. Lombardi tapped on the door and waited.

  “What?” D’Allesandro called out.

  Lombardi identified himself.

  “Time to go, Luca. Mr. Danichev wants you out of town. It’s safer if you’re not around until things cool off. Now open the door.”

  The sound of the chain being loosened was followed by the click of the lock. D’Allesandro stepped back as he opened the door to allow the two men inside.

  He was lean and sallow-faced. His clothes were creased, his chin dark with stubble.

  “I was starting to think you guys had forgotten me.”

  “We wouldn’t do that,” Benedetto said.

  He glanced around the apartment. It was unfurnished. There was a sleeping bag in one corner of the living room and the remains of take-out food and drink.

  “I brought that with me,” D’Allesandro said. He gave a nervous smile. “You didn’t bring any food with you?”

  Lombardi shook his head. “No point.”

  “You don’t have time to eat,” Benedetto said. “Not where you’re going.”

  Lombardi moved to face D’Allesandro. “No time at all, Luca.”

  D’Allesandro frowned, not entirely sure what Benedetto was saying.

  Benedetto had quietly moved to stand directly behind D’Allesandro. He looked over the man’s shoulder and caught his partner’s eye. Lombardi gave the merest nod. Benedetto reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a black plastic tie, a large one already formed into a loop. He flicked it over D’Allesandro’s he
ad, sliding it into place around the man’s neck. His right hand gripped the loose end, and he gave the tie a vicious tug, pulling it tight. The plastic bit deeply into D’Allesandro’s neck. Benedetto added more pressure and the plastic sank even deeper, cutting through the flesh.

  Blood began to ooze from the lacerations. D’Allesandro reached up to claw at the loop of plastic. It was so deeply embedded in his flesh that there was no purchase, but he would not have been able to do anything even if he had been able to get his fingers behind it. The plastic was too tough to be snapped.

  D’Allesandro made harsh choking sounds as air was restricted by the encircling loop. He dropped to his knees, still digging at the plastic with bloody fingers. His eyes began to bulge in their sockets, tears streaming down his face.

  Benedetto and Lombardi stood facing him, expressionless as they watched him fall to the floor, jerking in awkward spasms. The front of his pants showed a spreading wet patch.

  “No point waiting around,” Benedetto said.

  “Hell, no,” his partner agreed. “He’s not going anywhere. I told him he had no time.”

  “Even fast food wouldn’t have been quick enough for him,” Benedetto said as he grinned at his partner.

  They made a quick search of the room. The rifle D’Allesandro had used was in its case, leaning against the wall. Benedetto picked it up to take with him.

  They moved to the door. By the time they stepped outside, D’Allesandro had stopped moving.

  Benedetto closed the door quietly and they made their way to the elevator and descended to the lobby. Outside the building Benedetto used his cell phone to call Danichev.

  “He has your message,” was all he said when his call was answered. “No problems.”

  “Get back when you can.” Danichev cut the call.

  “You want a coffee?” Lombardi said.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “There’s a place just down the street. I saw it when we drove by.”

  * * *

  JAKE FRESCO WAS outside having final words with one of the teams before they headed out. Killian joined him as the SUV moved away.

  Fresco looked him up and down. “You look pretty unruffled for a guy who just has his ass chewed.”

  “It didn’t happen, Jake. We had a friendly discussion about the current situation and I told Mr. Danichev we would take care of the problem.”

  Fresco grinned. “It must be love,” he said. “So what next?”

  “We keep looking. Cover every angle we can think of. His sister and the niece, they’re family. I still think they’re a good bet, but let’s get some of Conte’s local contacts to do some legwork. They know this town better than we do. Get them on the streets. Spread some money around. Jesus, Jake, this is Vegas. It lives on money. Let’s use that.

  “Somebody has to have something on Sherman. Find out what it is. We need it. Danichev might not be so forgiving if we keep coming up empty. At the end of the day it’s his neck on the block as much as ours if we screw up again.”

  Fresco understood that. If things got too far out of control and the head guys back east tired of the waiting game, it would come down on them. The top guys were known for their lack of patience and once heads started to roll the pecking order wasn’t worth a piece of shit.

  He only had to think back to how Harry Sherman had been dragged into the situation, even though it looked as if he’d been used by Lemke. Now he was on the run from the mob. A hunted man. He was no fool, though, Fresco decided. Sherman had made sure to gather insurance before he’d taken off. The information he had posed a threat to Conte and Bulova. It took some kind of guts to stand up to Conte. But when a man’s life and family was being threatened, he was left with little choice.

  Even a passive guy like Harry Sherman could stand up and be counted. Having Conte pissed off with him, and now Bulova letting loose the dogs, Sherman was a loose cannon. His resistance would not go down well with the top guys. They expected to be the ones dictating the action. Sherman had forced the issue and he was more or less telling the Conte and Bulova to go to hell.

  However it turned out, Fresco decided, it was going to make things interesting for a while.

  8

  It had all been going fine until the front wheel hit a deep pothole. The sound of something cracking had reached Sherman’s ears over the roar of the engine. The Jeep had lurched on for a couple of yards and had then kind of sagged on the right and started to make an unhealthy sound. He realized something had broken as he felt the vehicle pull to the right.

  He stopped and sat for a moment with a feeling of dread washing over him. He switched off the engine, climbed out and walked around the Jeep to stare at the passenger-side wheel. It was canted at an odd angle. He was no mechanic. His skill extended as far as filling up with gasoline, maybe checking the tire pressure. But he knew the Jeep wasn’t going anywhere.

  Sherman remained staring at the crippled vehicle, aware of the hot sun on his back. He felt a rivulet of sweat slide down his face.

  This shouldn’t be happening.

  It was not the way he had planned things.

  Ben Justin’s Jeep had been his ride out of the area to a place where he would catch the train to take him farther away once he hit Idaho and eventually over the border into Canada.

  It was a plan born of desperation. After the horror of the shooting on the street, Sherman had figured even the Justice Department couldn’t protect him from Conte and his enforcers. He had made his choice and he would go his own way. Tell no one. Do his best not to leave any kind of trail. He’d had no idea whether it would work, but he’d seen no other way for him if he wanted to stay alive.

  Sherman had kept moving, stopping only to take money from a cash machine in a convenience store. He was aware that withdrawals could be detected, but he’d needed cash in his hand. There’d been a DHL franchise in the store and he had used the service to purchase a padded envelope. He’d slipped the flash drive inside, sealed it and filled out the required data. Paying the expedited fee, he’d handed over the package. With the flash drive off his hands for the next few days, Sherman had taken the next step: getting out of the city and heading for a refuge.

  So he’d chosen to call on his old friend, Ben Justin. They went back a long way, had been in the military together. Even so, Sherman had been initially reluctant to ask for help. Justin had made it clear there was no problem and had volunteered to put him up for a few days while his friend worked out what to do.

  Justin lived in a remote area, away from towns and people. The closest town was Callisto, a small blip in the empty Nevada landscape.

  The solitary life appealed to Justin and allowed him the seclusion he desired. He had bought a section of land many years back and had built his home to his own specifications. He grew enough crops to feed himself and he asked for nothing more. He had the space, the silence of the landscape, and was not bothered by neighbors because the closest was almost twenty miles away. He needed little. The house was self-sufficient; Justin had his own generator to supply power, and he had dug a well that provided a fresh water supply. No radio. No TV. Cell phone coverage was thin but adequate.

  Sherman envied his friend’s contentment with his life. He could see the appeal for some—but it wouldn’t have suited Harry Sherman for more than a short time. His problems apart, he had enjoyed his life in the casino. Life was always busy. It was noise and lights and atmosphere. He had found the occasional break from the hustle and bustle something he also enjoyed, and Justin always welcomed his friend.

  Sherman had to accept that his life was about to change. His time in Vegas was lost to him. All he had now was a need to find a hideout. To simply try to stay alive.

  It was hard to realize his old life was over. There was no going back. Marco Conte had seen to that. He had pointed the finger, set his do
gs on Sherman’s tail and wouldn’t be satisfied until the man was dead, buried in some lonely spot where Sherman’s secrets would die with him.

  Well, to hell with you, Marco, Sherman thought. You’ll have to find me first and I’m not going to make it that easy for you.

  Twenty-four hours earlier

  CALLISTO, THE SMALL TOWN where the bus dropped Sherman, lay in a shallow valley surrounded by an empty Nevada landscape, a collection of time-faded and dusty buildings. Most of its inhabitants could have fit the description, too. Sherman trudged to the local coffee shop, where he ordered coffee and a hamburger and fries. When he had visited Justin previously, he had been in a car. Now he was on foot. When he asked someone how he could get to Ben Justin’s place, he was told if he could wait a couple of hours a guy from the local store would be making a delivery out there. That suited Sherman fine.

  The guy from the store was wrinkled and brown from a life under the Nevada sun. His truck looked to be as he was, but ran surprisingly well. Sherman sat beside the driver as they bumped and rocked along the dusty road. The old guy was not much of a talker, and Sherman gave up trying to make conversation after the first couple of miles. He sat back on the sagging-spring leather bench seat and studied the landscape.

  It took them well more than two hours to reach their destination. Justin came out to meet them, staring at Sherman when he climbed stiffly out of the truck. He nodded hello and then helped the old guy to unload the supplies. As soon as that was done, the old man got into the truck, turned the vehicle and headed back to town, trailing a long stream of dust in its wake. Sherman helped carry the supplies inside.

  “You want coffee?” Justin asked, showing no surprise at Sherman’s unexpected appearance.

  Sherman said he did and Justin made it. They sat facing each other across the kitchen table.

  “You in some kind of trouble, Harry?” Justin asked.