Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

“I don’t like having to keep asking the same question,” he grumbled.

  Delvecchio moved sluggishly, spreading his arms as he tried to sit up. Shards of glass sliced at his hands. He held them up and stared at the bright blood wetting his hands.

  “You passed data about the transport of Gwen Darrow and her daughter to your mob contacts,” Lyons said evenly. “You told them the time and place so they could intercept. We’ve got it all, Delvecchio.”

  Lyons had filled Mott in with the information on the way to Des Moines.

  “The payoff in your Caribbean account,” Mott interjected. “It’s a terrible thing using your mother’s maiden name, Craig.”

  Lyons bent, took hold of Delvecchio and pulled the man upright. He swung the man around and slammed him against the wall with enough force to break the plaster and rattle Delvecchio’s teeth.

  “I still don’t have my answer, Delvecchio. What did they do with Laura Darrow?”

  “What if I don’t know?”

  “Then you’re in worse trouble than you might imagine. You’re down as accomplice to the death of a US Marshal. Another one is in the hospital alongside Gwen Darrow. Laura Darrow was kidnapped. That’s a pretty damning list, Delvecchio.”

  “Brother, you’ll be staring at four gray walls for years. Most likely the rest of your life,” Mott added. “They do say those federal joints make hard time really hard.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “I think he’s succeeding,” Lyons said. “I’d think about making a deal. This is a one-time offer. Personally, I don’t give a damn. It’s your choice. But I’d take a long, hard look at your situation.”

  Lyons glanced at Mott. The Stony Man pilot took out his sat phone and speed dialed the Farm.

  “Delvecchio is ours,” he said when Brognola answered. “No, he’s in one piece. A little shaken up, is all... He’s considering that, since we advised him of his possible chances... Deal? That will need to come from you in the light of any useful information he gives us.”

  Mott passed the phone to Lyons.

  “I don’t see any real chance of a deal for him,” Brognola said. “He broke too many rules and a US Marshal is dead, another wounded. Gwen Darrow, as well. He’s in deep.”

  “Might as well shoot him then,” Lyons said. “Who the hell is going to care?”

  “I’ll leave that in your capable hands.”

  Lyons ended the call and passed the phone back to Mott. He made a play of checking his revolver.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “This? The decision has been made, Delvecchio. You screwed up and people are dead. So...”

  Delvecchio looked from Lyons to Mott, who simply shrugged.

  “Sorry, man. I just follow orders. They say terminate, I go along.”

  “What are you guys? Executioners?”

  Lyons merely smirked.

  Delvecchio held out for a few more seconds then held up his shaking hands.

  “Back off,” he said. “There’s no need to do anything. What the hell... I’ll give you what you need to know.”

  Lyons looked slightly disappointed, as if he preferred it when a perp made less of an effort.

  “Make it the right information,” he said, “because if I have to come back empty-handed, you will not like it.”

  14

  “Do you ever get the feeling we’re going around in circles?” Fresco asked.

  He was sitting behind the wheel of the SUV he and Killian were in, heading for the location where Laura Darrow was being held. Their helicopter ride had put them down at the closest safe landing spot where they transferred to the waiting vehicle.

  By the time they had touched down, the news concerning the strike had reached them. The US Marshals had been hit, but only Laura Darrow had been taken. Her mother had been trapped in the damaged transfer SUV, injured, and the snitch team had only been able to grab the younger woman.

  Killian didn’t speak. He was still less than happy at being dispatched to handle the interrogation of just the young woman instead of both. He didn’t voice his thoughts when Danichev had called with the news.

  Killian would do his seething quietly, and his partner, Fresco, understood the man’s reticence. You didn’t go around questioning people like Danichev. Not if you wanted to remain healthy. Too much had happened, was still happening, and from Bulova down there was a great deal of unrest within the organization.

  The minute Harry Sherman had taken off, after copying Conte’s files, sanity had gone out the window. It hadn’t helped that Luca D’Allesandro had screwed up big-time by having a loose trigger finger. His wild shooting and failure to put Sherman down had thrown everything up in the air.

  Finding Harry Sherman was the priority. Killian and Fresco had been handed that task and neither of them wanted it.

  “Left to me, that Darrow bitch would have a bullet in the head already,” Fresco said.

  “Jake, it isn’t what we want,” Killian replied. It was the first thing he’d said for the past few miles. “Do you think I enjoy playing Danichev’s game? I don’t. Let’s do the interrogation and get this over with.’

  The voice of the satellite navigation system told Fresco they were approaching the area. He slowed the SUV, not wanting to overshoot. He saw the decaying bulk of the massive apartment building behind the wire fencing and rolled to a stop. He climbed out and opened the access gate so he could drive onto the site. One of the local hired shooters came out to meet them, dangling his subgun from one hand.

  “Best to park around back,” he said. “Out of sight.”

  His attitude didn’t sit well with Killian. He held back from punching the guy in the mouth. The shooter stepped back as Fresco powered the SUV around the building and parked next to two other vehicles. As they climbed out, the shooter sauntered up to direct them to the entrance.

  “You got a name?” Fresco asked.

  “Jessup. Why?”

  “I always like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “You guys special or something?”

  Killian managed a thin smile. “Or something.”

  “What’s that mean?” Jessup asked.

  “It means we’ll remember you when we’re done here,” Killian said.

  Jessup showed them the front entrance and then ambled off to continue his watch.

  “Local talent,” Fresco said. “Hicks with guns. That scares me.”

  There was another armed man standing inside the entrance.

  “We’ve got people all around the place,” the guy said.

  Fresco smiled. “That makes me feel really safe.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Killian asked and the man led them along the dusty passage and showed them a door.

  Killian and Fresco entered the bare apartment and found a number of armed men inside.

  “Is she that tough?” Fresco asked. “One girl?”

  His attempt at humor got nothing but blank stares.

  “Who’s in charge?” Killian queried.

  “Me. I’m Connolly. Are you Killian?”

  That got him a sharp nod.

  “Has she said anything?”

  Connolly, a tall, lean-faced man, shook his head. “She’s got a smart mouth but not the words we want to hear.”

  “Maybe you need to make her sing louder,” Fresco said. “There’s nobody around to hear.”

  “We were told not to make it so she couldn’t,” Connolly replied.

  “Well, the big boys are here now, so let’s see just how tough Miss Darrow really is,” Killian said.

  15

  The housing project had ground to a halt at the halfway point because the money had run out, even though some of the ground-floor apartments had been near completion when
the construction stopped. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, weeds growing up at its base. The sprawling block of the building was surrounded by abandoned machinery and piles of material.

  “Why the hell would they bring her here?” Mott asked.

  Lyons cut the engine and scanned the area. The site was surrounded by abandoned properties, the atmosphere desolate.

  “Why not?” he said. “They want isolation. Somewhere no questions get asked and there are no nosy neighbors.”

  He had parked a distance from the project site, pulling the SUV into a shadowed space between a couple of abandoned houses.

  Lyons contacted Stony Man for information about the site.

  “The project is in construction limbo,” Kurtzman told him. “The money ran out a couple of years ago. Since then no one has showed enough interest to start up again. The owners have just abandoned the place.”

  “Any security on the premises?”

  “That was cut a few months back. The local PD makes the occasional sweep, but even they have minimal interest. Plenty of legitimate work to take up their time.”

  “Okay, Aaron. Thanks. I’ll keep you updated.”

  Lyons glanced across at Mott. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Charlie.”

  Mott smiled. “Not the first time,” he said.

  Lyons checked the sky. It was late afternoon and still bright. Distant clouds hinted at inclement weather.

  “All set?” he asked.

  Mott nodded. “Good to go.”

  The Farm pilot wore dark clothing and a much used leather jacket, zipped up over his 9 mm Beretta pistol.

  Lyons was clad in black and carried his Python in a shoulder rig. He had a 9 mm Uzi on a shoulder strap and his Tanto combat knife in a sheath at his waist.

  Each man carried a compact transceiver for communication if they got separated.

  “The priority is getting Laura out unharmed,” Lyons said. “Anyone in the way is treated as hostile.”

  “Let’s hope she’s here now that we’ve put in all this effort.”

  “Have faith,” Lyons said. “We don’t have much else going for us.”

  They exited the SUV and cut around the empty houses as they approached the chain-link fence, using the overgrown foliage for cover. Crouched, Lyons pointed out the fresh tire-track impressions in the soft earth.

  “Now you’re doing your Tonto tracking thing,” Mott said. “But I’ve got to agree that those imprints look new.”

  Lyons jabbed a finger at the metal-frame gates that allowed access to the site. The chain that hung in place had been loosened, the padlock open and dangling from one of the end links. He scanned the path leading across the site and glimpsed the tail end of a vehicle parked behind a corner of the building.

  “Visitors,” he said.

  They both unholstered their handguns, Lyons leading the way as they eased in through the gates. Immediately they slid out of sight behind an untidy stack of concrete blocks, sundry weeds sprouting from the base. Concealed, they were able to fully assess the area.

  “Should we expect sentries?” Mott asked.

  “Always expect,” Lyons said, “then you don’t get caught off guard.”

  “Now you sound like one of those wise Chinese gurus.”

  “On your ten,” Lyons said. “One guy. Just beyond that pile of rebar.”

  Mott picked up the movement and saw a figure dressed in dark pants and shirt, with a light sport coat. The guy had a hand resting on the butt of a pistol pushed behind his belt. Even from where Lyons and Mott crouched, they could see the bored expression on the sentry’s face.

  “He doesn’t look as if he’s in tune with the program,” Mott said.

  “Then we need to shake him up.”

  “I can do that.”

  Mott eased away from Lyons, using scattered piles of building materials for cover. By the time the Stony Man pilot moved in from the rear, the sentry was looking down at his shoes and scuffling restlessly in the dust.

  The moment he was in position, Mott rose to his full height behind the man, striking without hesitation. His right arm curved around the guy’s neck, left hand pressing the skull forward as Mott put on the pressure, cutting off his air. The strike was over quickly. Mott lowered the unconscious sentry to the ground, pulling him out of sight. He secured him with riot cuffs at wrists and ankles. With that done, he gave Lyons a signal and headed for the rear of the apartment building, leaving Lyons to handle the frontal approach.

  * * *

  LYONS MADE A FINAL weapons check. He unzipped one of his jacket pockets and took out a custom-made suppressor. John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s armorer, had adapted a Beretta 92-FS to take the screw-on accessory. Lyons attached the matte black tube, made sure it was settled and then wormed his way toward the front of the building, ducking below the level of dust-streaked windows. He slipped noiselessly inside through the doorless entrance. Settled dust on the concrete floor showed recent activity, providing Lyons with clear tracks, a number of footprints and a trail of drag marks.

  Mott contacted him through his transceiver headset to advise there were a number of vehicles parked out of sight toward the rear of the building. More opposition, Lyons noted.

  As he soft-footed inside, he saw someone moving ahead of him. The guy, armed, had his back to Lyons. Despite the Able Team commando’s quiet tread, something had alerted the man and he spun around, pulling up the subgun he carried.

  Lyons leveled the 92-FS and triggered a single shot, the suppressor lowering the sound of the shot to a low tone. The 9 mm slug slammed home between the gunner’s eyes. His head rocked back, his expression freezing on his face as he toppled to the concrete floor. As Lyons stepped forward he heard the ring of the brass casing from the shot as it hit the floor. He checked the space around him, eyes and ears seeking anything that might tell him he had more company.

  Nothing.

  Ahead of him, on his right, he made out the cavernous opening of a pair of elevator shafts. The left wall exposed two temporarily placed plywood doors. The second door was where the footprints ceased.

  Moving closer, Lyons picked up muffled sounds. Conversation.

  One, a female voice raised in angry protest, sounded young. Lyons immediately picked up the inflection. It had to be Laura Darrow, resisting her captors.

  As Lyons put away the Beretta and brought his familiar Colt Python into play, his transceiver clicked on.

  “I’m in position,” Mott stated. “There’s another guy on guard back here.”

  “Could be others inside, so watch your six. I found our group. Second apartment on the ground floor. I’m going in. Come find me.”

  “You got it.”

  Lyons faced the plywood.

  Raising a booted foot, he kicked the door open and rushed inside as it slammed back.

  16

  The Able Team leader’s entrance caught the first pair of hardmen off balance. His Python snapped out a pair of .357 Magnum slugs that hit the duo before they could raise their subguns. The closest guy twisted away from Lyons, his chest punctured by the powerful round. He stumbled and slammed into the wall, his weapon slipping from his grasp. The man’s partner took the next shot in his face, a chunk of bloodied flesh blown clear as he fell, his gun dropping from his grasp.

  Jamming the revolver back into its holster, Lyons snatched up one of the dropped subguns and, still crouching, tracked in on the armed man who stood in the open arch that allowed access to the other section of the apartment. Lyons’s finger stroked the trigger and sent a burning stream of slugs that chewed the guy’s legs out from under him. The shooter hit the floor, squirming in agony. Lyons’s second burst silenced him.

  “Hold it there.”

  Lyons swung the subgun to cover the man who had spoken
. He recognized Anatole Killian from the photos the Farm had forwarded to his sat phone. The man stood close to Laura Darrow, one arm around her shoulders, the muzzle of his pistol pressed to the side of her head. She was staring directly at Lyons, face pale, eyes wide. The left side of her face was bruised and blood ran from the corner of her mouth, bright against her skin.

  A second gunman stepped in front of Killian, his subgun partly raised.

  “Move the gun away from me,” Killian ordered Lyons.

  The Able Team leader lowered the subgun.

  “This is difficult,” Killian stated.

  “I thought this was a safe place,” the other man complained.

  “We guessed wrong, Fresco.”

  “Damn,” Fresco said. “Just do the girl and let me off this bastard.”

  “Kill her and we lose our connection to Sherman.”

  “It’s worth the risk.”

  The threat was not missed by Lyons. He glanced at Fresco. The man was primed to kill; it was there in his eyes. All he needed was the go-ahead from Killian.

  “You want me to—?” Fresco asked.

  “Don’t be so eager, Jake,” Killian chided. “I need to know what our friend here has to say.”

  “He shouldn’t say anything.”

  “A man who is about to die has a right to speak.”

  Killian turned his eyes back to Lyons. “Just give Sherman up. That’s all we want.”

  “You know it isn’t going to happen,” Lyons grumbled.

  “Enough...” Fresco grit his teeth. “I’m going to cap this son of a bitch right now. Then I can go back to work on the girl just like you want.”

  “Jake,” Killian said to bring the guy back to the job at hand.

  Fresco’s head snapped around as he looked across at Killian.

  Autofire sounded from the rear of the building. It was distant but unmistakable.

  Charlie Mott was making his presence known.

  The muzzle of Fresco’s subgun moved fractionally as he registered the gunfire—and Lyons made his move, knowing this was the only chance he was going to get. His instinct told him Killian wouldn’t kill Laura Darrow outright. She was his connection to Sherman, and he wasn’t going to risk losing that. Fresco was the loose cannon, more likely to do something reckless.