Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  “Only if the lessons are private.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Deal, then.”

  “It sounds as if Conte’s seriously upped the ante,” Price pointed out.

  “If Sherman can present his evidence, Conte and a lot of people are going to be doing hard time.”

  “If there are high-level names, those people are going to do everything they can to suppress evidence. Strings will be pulled so hard they’ll make music.”

  “Then we make sure the evidence gets into the right hands. Don’t worry. We can do it.”

  Bolan heard Price’s sigh of frustration.

  “They’ll throw everything they have at you and Harry Sherman. I don’t want—”

  “Not going to happen, Barb. I’m taking this all the way down the wire. So quit frowning at the phone and just keep the faith.”

  “How do you know I’m frowning? Don’t tell me—it’s a gift.”

  “You know me so well, Ms. Price.”

  “It’s a work in progress.”

  12

  Danichev called Anatole Killian into his suite. He waved a hand in the direction of the wet bar.

  “Help yourself, but make it a quick one.”

  “Sounds urgent,” Killian said, pouring himself a shot.

  “I just got the news. The US Marshals Service is moving the Sherman woman and her daughter to another location. That gives us time to set up an intercept. We’re getting a second chance to get our hands on that bastard’s family. Anatole, this might be our last shot, so don’t let it be screwed up this time.”

  He handed Killian a note.

  “Looks like your contact earned his money,” he said after reading the details.

  He took out his cell phone and hit a number. It was not a speech call, simply an alert for the guy on the other end to call Killian back, using a burner phone that would connect with Killian’s. The return call came within a few minutes.

  “Devonne, I have a job for you. This has to be set up fast. Use your best people.” Killian read the details from the note Danichev had handed him. “We get one shot at this. It’s important. Fuck this up and we could all be heading for the crapper. No second chances here. You’ve got four hours to make the location. We need the women alive. One of them at least. The escorts are expendable... Yeah, I imagined that would please you.”

  Danichev listened attentively as Killian went through the fine details then disconnected. It was, he thought, nice to watch a professional work.

  “All set up. Devonne and his team will be on their way in the next thirty minutes.”

  “Good,” Danichev replied. “Every penny we spend on our inside man is worth it.”

  “You think this will bring Sherman out of the woodwork?”

  “Whatever else Sherman might be, he’s not the type to abandon family. The minute that little shit finds out his sister and niece have been taken, he’ll do anything to save them.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Danichev smiled. “I’m sure. Family ties tend to be strong.”

  “Nice to be sure,” Killian said.

  “Anatole, have faith. Aren’t I always right?”

  Killian drained his shot and twirled the glass in his fingers. “Sure,” he said.

  “I want you and Jake out there to deal with Sherman’s family. No arguments, Anatole. Do it. Enough time’s been wasted. This time, no mistakes.”

  You’re always right, Vitaly, even when you’re wrong, Killian thought. He took the man’s orders because that’s what he was paid to do.

  Despite knowing he was working with an accomplished team, and though the hit had all the marks of success, Anatole Killian still felt apprehensive. He knew how things could go off-line, how hits could turn around and snap back. So he wasn’t about to chalk this up to done and dusted until it was over and they had Sherman’s family safely locked away. Let Danichev congratulate himself. Killian would keep his congratulations on hold until there was no chance of it biting him in the ass.

  With the previous lack of success, Killian reached a decision. Danichev ran the show, so he told Fresco to have their helicopter ready to take off. The standby aircraft would get them to a destination faster than any road vehicle.

  “We going somewhere?” Fresco asked.

  “Vitaly wants us there when they bring Sherman’s family in. We need to get this almighty mess cleared up. It’s time we made Sherman realize how deep in the shit he really is. I’m getting really pissed the way this number cruncher is running around and making us look stupid. Jake, get it organized.”

  13

  “I thought this was where we would be staying until things were settled,” Gwen Darrow said.

  “This was never going to be permanent, ma’am,” the marshal replied. “A hotel isn’t the most secure environment. There are too many variables that aren’t under our control. People are in and out all the time.”

  “And the room service menu isn’t all that creative,” Laura added.

  The marshal smiled. He was getting used to her casual remarks.

  “Good enough reason to move on, then,” he said.

  He was a tough-looking man in his early thirties. Good looking, too, in Laura’s eyes. And, anyhow, she was ready for a move to somewhere less restrictive. The marshal’s partner, older, was plainly the one in charge. He had the look of a professional cop. The man didn’t talk a lot, but he was constantly on alert and both Laura and Gwen were more than grateful for the presence of both men.

  “You ready to move?” the older marshal asked. “We’ll go down the service stairs. The vehicle’s parked out back. You go straight to it. No hesitation. Okay?”

  “You think something might happen?”

  The marshal, named Trenton, said, “There’s always the possibility something might happen, miss. Our job is to try to anticipate it.”

  Laura offered a wry smile, obviously sorry that she had asked.

  As they left the room, Carson, the younger marshal, patted her shoulder. “We’ll get you there.”

  They reached the big, black SUV without incident. The marshals took the front, Carson at the wheel.

  “Buckle up,” Trenton ordered.

  Minutes later they were heading out of the city, Carson driving them along a quiet back road. The urban sprawl began to drop behind them.

  “How long until we get there?” Gwen asked.

  “A couple of hours,” Trenton advised. He took out his cell phone and reported in. “Transfer on schedule. No prob—”

  Something large and dark suddenly appeared out of a narrow side road, engine roaring with ominous power. It struck their SUV side-on. As big as it was, the black SUV was lifted and pushed across the road, window glass shattering and showering the occupants. The passenger side of the SUV caved inward, metal buckling under the force created by the heavier vehicle that had rammed it.

  The impact took them all off guard and tossed them around like rag dolls. Laura experienced a stunning blow to her body as she was forcibly slammed against the door. Her seat belt held for a moment then gave way and she felt herself being driven against the door frame. She heard sounds, voices, and then the heavy bark of gunfire.

  Laura’s hearing and sight were off-kilter; she couldn’t make sense of anything. Her first instinct was to find out if her mother was all right. Nothing seemed to be working when she tried to locate her. Her limbs were loose and she couldn’t sit up. Her head was full of raucous noise. She tasted blood in her mouth. Everything was a blur.

  “Mom, can you hear me?”

  The SUV creaked around her. Laura shook her head, blinked her eyes to attempt to clear them.

  “Mom...”

  She heard men calling to one another. There was anger.

&
nbsp; The door she was slumped against was dragged open, metal protesting. Hands caught hold of her and she was dragged from the SUV, legs trailing across the door frame. Then she was outside, on the grass. She fought against the hands pinning her down, raging as much as she could against what was happening.

  She could still hear the conflicted voices. They were arguing over something.

  Laura tried to make it clear in her head, but she found herself fading, losing her hold on consciousness. She was grasped again by none-too-gentle hands and dragged across the ground. Then she lost her struggle and everything went dark...

  * * *

  “THE US MARSHALS vehicle was run off the road. Somebody used a stolen Kenworth tractor unit to ram it side-on and wrecked it...”

  Bolan listened to Brognola’s report as the big Fed went through what had happened. He waited until Brognola paused before he spoke.

  “Casualties?”

  “Marshal Trenton was shot to death. His partner, Carson, is in hospital. He was injured in the crash and also took a couple of bullets. I’m on my way there as we speak. The report I received said the doctors believe he’ll pull through. The guy is young, fit and already fighting.”

  “What about Gwen and Laura?”

  “They had to cut Gwen out of the vehicle. She was pinned in the wreckage. Early reports say she has a fractured thigh and hip. Ribs, as well. She lost a significant amount of blood.”

  “Laura?”

  “We don’t know if she was injured, Striker. All we do know is that she was taken from the scene by whoever engineered the crash.”

  “Taken?” Bolan said. “You mean she’s been kidnapped.”

  “It looks that way.”

  The phone fell silent. Brognola didn’t need to ask why. He could almost feel the Executioner’s anger. Bolan was weighing the odds against Sherman walking out of the situation alive.

  “Striker?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here. Hal, do something for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Is Carl Lyons available?”

  Carl “Ironman” Lyons was the head of one of Stony Man’s combat teams. Lyons had been an L.A. cop when he’d first come in contact with Bolan. Initially he’d been set on bringing the Executioner down. Eventually, Bolan’s adversary had become a convert and aided the soldier on his quest for justice. When Stony Man was established, Lyons was brought in to form Able Team, along with Rosario Blancanales and Hermann Schwarz. They had quickly become a powerful and effective fighting team. Lyons, on his own, was a fearsome operative. He had a loathing for criminals and a reputation as a no-holds-barred fighter. It was in his nature to go all-out when it came to handling problems. Lyons was not the kind to show fear—and definitely no mercy to any opponent.

  “He’s on-site as we speak, in the armory with Kissinger working on his Python.”

  “This snatch had to be based on the mob getting information from an inside source. Someone in the Marshals department passed along details of the route Trenton and Carson were taking. Have Aaron get his team checking all sources. Run it down, Hal. Find the bastard who sold out. We need a name and then I want everyone to walk away. Let Carl have the sellout.” Silence again. “The rule book goes out the window on this one, Hal. Get me a name and hand it to Ironman.”

  Brognola knew exactly what Bolan wanted.

  This was going to be a job to be worked in Executioner mode.

  No rules. No referee.

  If he had feelings for the man who had sold out his badge, Brognola was about to push them in a dark corner and walk away.

  * * *

  “CRAIG DELVECCHIO,” Akira Tokaido said. “He’s a Des Moines resident with mob connections. He has no convictions, but he’s danced on the edge. The local PD has him on their watch list. He’s into IT. I’m downloading details now. I’ll send the info along.”

  “So where does he fit into this?” Bolan asked.

  He was on a conference phone connection with Tokaido, one of Kurtzman’s cyber sleuths, along with Brognola and Lyons.

  “I ran a background check on him,” Tokaido said. “Delvecchio likes to figure he’s a top-flight hacker. The guy does have skill, but he’s not so smart when it comes to hiding his signature.”

  “Tell me he’s been running searches on the Darrows.”

  “You got it. He ran a search through the Des Moines PD computer system using Darrow as a priority highlight. He came up with communication emails from the PD to the Des Moines Marshal facility. They asked for a Marshals Service escort to take the mom and daughter into protective custody. It was granted, and Des Moines PD was given a time for pickup.”

  “The mob simply had to work to that to plan their intercept,” Bolan said.

  “Looks that way,” Lyons agreed.

  “One marshal dead. Gwen Darrow and the other marshal in hospital. Laura a hostage.”

  Tokaido heard the hard tone in Bolan’s voice as he made the statement.

  “And Delvecchio gets a healthy bonus,” Tokaido said. “I did some hacking and located an account he has in the Caribbean under his mother’s maiden name.”

  “Not so healthy if we can do anything about it,” Bolan replied. “Thanks for the help, Akira. You okay to handle this, Carl?”

  “No sweat, Mack.”

  A ping told Lyons that data was being downloaded to his sat phone. He opened the message and studied the details of Delvecchio’s driver’s license. The photo showed a guy in his late thirties, with thick, pale blonde hair and a fixed stare on his broad face. A second message arrived with the satellite navigation details to his position.

  “Leave this with me,” Lyons said.

  “Plane’s warming up now,” Brognola told him before they signed off.

  Lyons pocketed his sat phone, grabbed his gear and headed for the exit, meeting Charlie Mott, Stony Man’s standby pilot, at the front door of the farmhouse.

  “Ready when you are.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They crossed to the airstrip and climbed aboard a waiting chopper.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “All the way to Des Moines,” Lyons replied.

  He showed Mott the picture of the suspect.

  “Is this our guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mott tapped the flight coordinates into the helicopter’s navigation system and powered up the helicopter.

  “I take it we’re not making a social call,” Mott said.

  “A call, yes. There’s nothing social about it, in the true sense of the word.”

  “So you’re not about to make someone’s day?”

  “Not in the way they’d want it,” Lyons stated.

  “There are days when you can be one enigmatic hombre.”

  “So true,” Lyons said and settled back for the flight.

  * * *

  STREETLIGHTS WERE FLICKERING to life as Mott guided the SUV to the curb in front of the apartment building. He cut the engine and they sat studying the place.

  “Third floor. On the corner.”

  “The lights are on,” Mott noted.

  Lyons checked his .357 Colt Python.

  “Cover my six.”

  “Done.”

  They crossed the quiet street and entered the building. Lyons made for the stairs, Mott following. The floor was deserted. Lyons made his way along, counting off doors until he reached Delvecchio’s apartment.

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t have company,” Mott said.

  Lyons didn’t answer as he stepped back, raised his right foot and slammed it into the door on a level with the lock. Every ounce of the Able Team leader’s strength went into the kick. The door burst open and Lyons went in fast, Mott right behind him. The moment he cleared the frame Mott close
d the door and stood with his back to it, holding it closed.

  Lyons scanned the room as he went inside, searching and finding the guy he was looking for.

  Craig Delvecchio had pushed himself up off the armchair, turning to cross the room and make for a door on the far side. He almost made it before Lyons caught up with him, clutching at the guy’s loose shirt.

  The blond ex-cop hauled the man to a stop, closing his fingers over the collar of the shirt. He swung Delvecchio around, spinning him off his feet and sending him crashing into a leather couch. The hardman gave a yell of alarm as he rolled over the couch, toppling it as he fell. He landed facedown on the carpeted floor, with barely enough time to register what was happening before Lyons stood over him, taking a handful of the man’s hair and pulling him to his knees.

  “Make this easy for me, Delvecchio. Don’t cooperate so I can shoot you with a clear conscience.”

  Delvecchio felt the cold steel of the Python grind against his cheek.

  “Jesus,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Making a point,” Lyons growled. “Letting you know this isn’t a fun visit.” He stepped back and gestured for Delvecchio to get to his feet.

  “Who the hell are you?” Delvecchio stared at Lyons and then looked over his shoulder at Mott lounging by the door. “You can’t come in here pointing a gun—”

  “Having the gun means I can do just about anything I want,” Lyons said. “I’ll make it easy. Answer the questions and we’ll go.”

  “Questions? What questions?”

  “Where was Laura Darrow taken?”

  The flicker of unease in Delvecchio’s eyes gave away his knowledge of the name. He tried to bluff it out, anyway.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who the hell is she?”

  Lyons lowered the Python and slammed his fist into Delvecchio’s jaw. The force of the blow drove the guy’s lips back against his teeth. Blood spattered from his mouth as he stumbled backward. He connected with a low, glass-topped coffee table and went down in a glittering explosion of glass, landing hard on his back.

  Lyons stood over him, betraying nothing on his face.