Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  “There’s no fooling you, Ben.”

  “So, tell me.”

  Justin listened quietly, refilled their coffee mugs and considered what he’d been told before he spoke.

  “It appears that high life you’ve been living isn’t all it’s been cracked up to be.”

  “Tell me about it.” Sherman clamped his fists together so tightly the bones cracked. “I’ve been a damn fool all this time, Ben. Closing my eyes to what’s been going on.”

  “So how do you plan to get yourself clear? Obviously, Conte isn’t about to let things slide.”

  “I need to get across the border into Canada. Lose myself up there until I can figure out my next move.”

  “Why Canada?”

  “It’s a big country. There are lots of places where I can lose myself until I get it together. And I need to be somewhere waiting for a delivery.”

  “Okay. Next question. Why me? Now, don’t take that the wrong way, Harry. You know you’re welcome for as long as you want. I just can’t figure out how I can help.”

  “You still got that old Jeep?”

  “Around back.”

  “Does it run?”

  “Yes. I don’t use it much since I have the SUV, but she can still go some.”

  “I need to borrow it. I can use the back roads heading north into Idaho. From there I can pick up a local train to take me to the border.”

  “You serious?”

  “Ben, I need to lose myself before Conte’s crew finds me and increases my weight with a bunch of lead slugs.”

  “You’re welcome to use the Jeep if that’s the way you’ve decided to go.”

  “The farther away from Conte I get, the better I’ll feel.”

  “Give me a couple of hours to check her out and you’re set to go. Hey, you sure this is how you want to play this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Harry, you look like you need to rest up. Make yourself something to eat if you want. Take it easy, pal.”

  Sherman moved into the living room and settled on one of the recliners. He let his head fall back. There was no use pretending. He did need to rest. He’d been on the move nonstop since leaving Vegas.

  He closed his eyes, remembering how his world had come crashing down on him. Lemke had tried to shift blame onto him. If that hadn’t happened, Conte would not have gone ape and threatened him.

  But that was just it.

  Conte had got mad...mad enough to put Sherman’s back to the wall by ordering a hit—

  Sherman heard a noise and sat upright, sweat beading his brow until he realized it was simply Justin working on the Jeep. He was reacting to every sound. Overcautious to the point of panic. If he wasn’t careful, he would end up having a heart attack.

  The thought brought a smile to his face. If that happened, Conte would be the one smiling: his problem over. No more Sherman, no more interference from the Justice Department. The perfect solution.

  Let him believe that, Sherman thought. Because when I hand over those files he won’t feel like smiling, the back-shooting son of a bitch.

  9

  Bolan had left his rental 4x4 in a shallow draw a couple of miles from Ben Justin’s place. Armed with his Beretta and Desert Eagle, he had taken a circuitous route, coming up behind the house and spotting the two vehicles parked there. A dusty SUV bearing local plates stood next to a late-model Yukon. The high-end SUV might have been coated with fine dust but it looked too new to be anything but a rental.

  It seemed likely that Justin had visitors—and not locals.

  Bolan closed in on the pair of vehicles. A quick glance at the SUV identified it as a rental thanks to the sticker on the windshield.

  Crouching beside the vehicle, Bolan spotted movement as a man stepped into view near the rear of the house.

  It was the squat, black subgun the guy was carrying that alerted Bolan. That and the subdued but noticeable sound of someone in pain coming from inside the house.

  Bolan stepped around the side of the house, moving quickly and silently, coming face to face with the gunner he’d spotted. The guy jerked the muzzle of his weapon in Bolan’s direction as he laid eyes on him. He wasn’t fast enough because Bolan had been expecting the confrontation. He slapped aside the guy’s gun hand and followed up by punching a hard fist into his adversary’s exposed throat. The soldier put his weight behind the blow and the guy began to choke as his airway was crushed.

  He forgot about the subgun. Bolan did not. He caught the gunner’s wrist, gripped and twisted against the bone until something snapped. His opponent would have screamed if he had been able to; all he managed was a raspy groan. Bolan forced him to his knees and drove his right knee hard into the guy’s face. His head snapped back under the impact, the back of his skull hitting the wall behind him with force enough to shatter bone. As Bolan snatched the subgun from limp fingers the guy dropped facedown, blood pouring from his head.

  “Hey!”

  Bolan dropped to one knee, the acquired weapon in his hand rising on line. He saw a second man approaching from the front of the house, hauling a weapon from beneath his jacket. Bolan extended his arm, snap-aimed and triggered a fast burst from the subgun. The slugs punched into the guy’s chest. He kept his forward motion for a couple of yards until his legs went out from under him and he slammed to the ground.

  The Executioner moved forward, sliding around the corner of the house and entering the open front door. He could hear voices coming from the far end of the hallway as he barreled inside, heard the slap of footsteps as his presence was realized.

  An armed man crashed through the door at the end of the hallway, spotting Bolan and opening fire. He carried an MP-5 and made the fatal mistake of firing it single-handed. The weapon spit flame, the muzzle rising as it fired.

  Bolan came to a stop, his subgun held steady, and delivered a burst that caught the shooter mid-chest. The guy simply crumpled and dropped to the floor.

  Casting aside the borrowed subgun, the Executioner unleathered his Beretta 93-R, the familiar pistol slipping comfortably into his big hand. He set the fire selector to single shot.

  Bolan covered the distance to the door and went into the room fast. He dropped to a crouch, breaking to one side, his keen eyes taking in the layout.

  The room had two occupants.

  One was on the floor, blood pooling around him from multiple wounds to his half-naked body.

  The other guy, bloody knife in his right hand, twisted, reaching for the pistol tucked behind his belt.

  Bolan’s 93-R tracked him and fired as the guy made his move. The 9 mm slug found flesh, the knife man flinching under the impact. The Executioner hit him with a second shot, a kill shot, and a spurt of blood erupted from the guy’s shattered skull.

  The echo of Bolan’s shot faded as he crossed the room, kicking the discarded gun and knife aside before he crouched beside the figure spread out on the floor.

  “Justin?” Bolan said.

  His words barely registered; the man simply stared at Bolan. His naked torso crisscrossed by savage knife cuts, blood running in bright streams from the incisions.

  “Ben Justin?” Bolan asked again.

  The bloodied man flinched, dragging in breath as pain coursed through him. Then his gaze centered on Bolan. It was as if a switch had been thrown and he was suddenly aware of his surroundings.

  “I’m Justin.”

  Bolan took out his sat phone and made a call to Farm. Barbara Price picked up.

  “Barb, you need to call in medical aid for Ben Justin. The guy’s in a bad way. Somebody used a knife on him to get information on Harry. You’d better inform the local law—there are some fatalities. I’m guessing they’re part of Conte’s crew on the lookout for Sherman.”

  “We have the location
,” Price said. “I’ll get right on it. Anything on Sherman?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bolan ended the call.

  “I told them...where Harry was...headed,” Justin rasped, his voice fading to a hoarse whisper. “I couldn’t hold out. The pain was...”

  “Help is on the way. Don’t worry about what you told them.”

  A hand that dripped blood reached out to grip Bolan’s wrist. Justin’s head rolled to the side so he could see Bolan clearly. “I didn’t want to give him away. But I gave in... Jeezus, it hurts so much”

  “I’m here to help Harry,” Bolan said. “I need to get to him fast. Ben, where did he go?”

  Justin began to talk, his words coming slowly, fading, and Bolan had to lean in closer to catch what the man was saying.

  When Justin lapsed into silence, Bolan rose and went in search of the bathroom where he grabbed towels. Returning, he knelt beside Justin and used the towels to pad the bloody wounds. The wounds were severe but from what Bolan could work out no arteries had been cut. The cuts had been applied to make Justin speak, not to kill him outright. The blood loss was bad, but he hoped not life threatening. He stayed at Justin’s side, talking quietly to the suffering man until help arrived.

  * * *

  THE MEDICAL TEAM, who flew in by helicopter, took over and did what they could to stabilize Justin before he was airlifted out of the area. Bolan had to deal with the local cops who had arrived in a police chopper. It was obvious they had been prepared to find him on-site and, despite the presence of bodies, the involvement of a federal agency made a difference. Bolan sensed Brognola’s hand behind the deal.

  The local cop in charge, a bluff middle-aged detective named Reynolds, checked each body, making sure he didn’t contaminate the individual crime scenes. When he was satisfied, he joined Bolan, who waited patiently in the kitchen.

  “You say these guys were looking for this Sherman feller?” he said. “And he’s on the run because...?”

  “Sherman was the money man for Marco Conte in Vegas. Things went sour for him—he discovered Conte was into more than gambling and running numbers—and he saw the light. Sherman hadn’t realized how deep his boss was in until he found computer files that incriminate Conte and others in rackets. Payoffs and protection for official names. Looks like Conte had some interesting names on his payroll. If those files get into our hands, there are going to be a lot of people in deep trouble.”

  “Which makes Sherman a target.”

  “When Sherman had a meet with a Justice agent, one of Conte’s shooters tried to take him down. It was a botched shoot. Innocent people got hurt, including a couple of kids who ended up dead.”

  “I heard about that. So your man was already a target?”

  “The moment he talked to Justice.”

  “But he got clear?”

  “And vanished.”

  “How did you find out where he’d gone?”

  “The mob made an attempt to force a member of Sherman’s family to give him up. I walked in on that. I was given Justin’s location as a possible place to find Sherman.”

  Reynolds shook his head, ran a big hand through his cropped graying hair.

  “Are you in the habit of always showing up at the right time?” he asked. “Hell, not that I’m complaining. This guy might have ended up dead if you hadn’t walked in.”

  “It doesn’t always work out like that.”

  “Who are these guys you tangled with?”

  “I’d guess a backup crew. Low-rent contract hoods sent to force information out of Justin. Conte’s doing everything he can to find Sherman. He wants to get his hands on those files.”

  “So where do you go from here?”

  “I’m going to pick up Sherman’s trail. Try to get to him before Conte’s crew does.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Tell me how I get to this location.” Bolan pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and showed it to Reynolds; he had committed the details to paper after Justin had slipped into a semi-conscious state, not wanting to lose any of the information.

  “Small town about thirty-five miles north. There’s a spur for the main line that runs fifty miles along. If Sherman picks up that spur, he can ride until he reaches the end of the line. There are a lot of choices from there.”

  “Canada?”

  Reynolds nodded. “That trail leads all the way up into Idaho, then across country until the border. You think that’s where he might be heading?”

  “Justin mentioned it before he passed out.”

  “Big country up there. Plenty of places somebody could hide out.”

  “I think that’s what Sherman’s planning. He probably needs to hide out before he makes his next move.”

  “Why hasn’t Sherman sent the data to the Justice Department?” Reynolds queried. “He could have done it from any computer terminal.”

  “I don’t think he has the data on him. I think he sent it somewhere he could pick it up once he figured he was safe. Since Vegas he’s been on the move, unsure who he could trust.”

  “So you think he sent it on ahead? Mailed it to himself maybe?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s a hell of a risk,” Reynolds said. “It could get lost. He could get himself shot...”

  “Harry Sherman has been shot at, chased, his world turned upside down. The guy may not be taking time to figure everything out clearly. But he still understood the need to get that data away from Conte and his crew and didn’t want to risk losing it altogether.”

  “Well, there’s only one way you’ll get the answer, Cooper. Find Harry Sherman, if he’s still alive, and ask him.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  * * *

  BOLAN CALLED STONY MAN and got Price to patch him through to Aaron Kurtzman.

  “What can I do for you, Striker?”

  Bolan gave the computer genius his update on the situation. “I need to find Sherman before Conte’s crew. He’s using Justin’s old Jeep. Any chance you can locate it?”

  “From what you say, he wants to disappear and has no real plan. That makes it harder. Not impossible. Just harder.”

  “Yeah, but his buddy just told me where he thinks Sherman is headed. The thing is, he has a good head start and I can’t count on the fact that Conte’s people don’t have the same information.”

  “The best we can do is a satellite scan on the area. Maybe pick up his vehicle. It’s a long shot but worth a look.”

  “Any other ideas, Aaron?”

  “We’ll make a start and get back to you. First thing I need is a cup of coffee.”

  Bolan smiled to himself. “I would think that brew of yours more likely to jam up your brain.”

  “Hey, my coffee stimulates my thinking processes. Do not dis my coffee, brother. Anything else?”

  “I’m thinking Sherman has mailed the evidence to himself. Most likely to an address in Canada and he would have done it before leaving the Vegas area. Can you run some checks to see if he sent anything out?”

  “Hell, why don’t you give us something hard to do,” Kurtzman quipped dryly.

  “I know, I’m asking a lot.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything easy coming from you.”

  “Any first thoughts?” Bolan asked, detecting the click of keyboard keys across the line.

  “I’m thinking he’d avoid standard mail. More likely he’d pick one of the courier services, UPS, FedEx, DHL. We’ll run checks on last-day dealings. We have his home address and we have a possible destination. We’ll track it down.”

  “Check with Gwen Darrow. Ask if she has any thoughts on a location in Canada Sherman might have a connection with.”

  “What do you
need us for, big guy? You’re almost there by yourself.”

  “I’ll wait for your call.”

  After squaring away with Reynolds, Bolan left the area, picking up the road Sherman would likely follow as he headed upstate. En route, he contacted Grimaldi.

  “Hey, Sarge, how goes the good fight?”

  Bolan told the Stony Man pilot what had happened and where he was headed.

  “I can cover that distance faster than you,” Grimaldi said. “Do you want me to hit the sky and give you some backup?”

  It took Bolan no time at all to reach a decision.

  “Yeah, that works for me, Jack.” He gave Grimaldi a description of the Jeep that Sherman was driving. “Just cover yourself. If there’s a mob crew around, no heroics. Just watch and let me know.”

  “You got it.” Grimaldi signed off.

  * * *

  THE HELICOPTER HAD already been fuelled. As he powered up the aircraft, Grimaldi scanned the references Bolan had given him and entered the information into the on-board GPS. The coordinates presented him with a flight plan. Grimaldi took off, reached altitude and set the chopper on course.

  It was a clear day for flying. Grimaldi had an empty sky around him, with excellent visibility. He settled back and held his course. This was the Stony Man ace pilot’s natural habitat. He felt complete once he was in the air. In his mind this was the ideal place to be. There was nothing better—he allowed himself some correction there; a pretty woman and a bottle of good whiskey came a very close second. If he could achieve and blend all three, he would be a happy man.

  This day all he had was his helicopter and a clear sky, so there was little to complain about.

  10

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Overhearing Danichev’s conversation with his man in the field gave Conte a lift. Not much of one but enough to give him momentary relief. Danichev’s man had lost Sherman. Sherman had stayed ahead of them and, from the phone call and Danichev’s reaction, continued to elude them. Conte could tell by Danichev’s posture—hunched over the cell phone in his hand—that he was not pleased.

  As much as he wanted to make a comment, Conte kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t out of the woods himself yet and with the mood Danichev was in, the man would be ready to hit out at anyone who even slightly provoked him.