Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  The guy’s partner was taken by surprise, his reaction slow, staring as his buddy went down, which allowed Grimaldi to resight and fire a second round from his pistol. The 9 mm bullet caught the man directly between the eyes, the impact kicking his head back. He slowly sank into a sitting position, then toppled backward and slid into the pool. The disturbed water rippled and a trail of diluted blood showed against the blue.

  “Two down here,” Grimaldi said into the transceiver.

  * * *

  BOLAN CLICKED OFF the transceiver after Grimaldi’s report. He had picked up on the second guard moving out from the parked SUVs. Something in the way the guy was checking the area warned Bolan that he knew his partner was missing. He lifted his left hand and Bolan realized he was talking into a transceiver. After a brief conversation, the guard raised his subgun and headed in the general direction his now dead buddy had taken.

  Time was running out fast.

  Bolan went into action, knowing he had to take the initiative before the guard spotted him. He stepped out of cover, raised the Beretta and put a 3-round burst into the advancing sentry. They hit his chest and the man went down without resistance.

  “Jack, I think we’ve been made,” Bolan said into his transceiver.

  “Copy that.”

  Bolan heard the squeal of tires on pavement. He turned to see the dark shape of a large sedan barreling in through the open gateway to the grounds. He had missed that; a vehicle posted on the road outside the property, ready to respond to any problems within or adjacent to the enclave. The heavy car rocked as it swept in between the gate posts. Bolan made out two people in the front.

  The big sedan bounced as it hit a dip, sparks showing as it bottomed out. The vehicle powered across the driveway and the sudden increase in speed caught Bolan off guard. He had no chance to acquire a target. In the last seconds he twisted his body to the side, the Buick looming large. His move was barely enough to take him out of the path of the speeding vehicle. It roared past, clipping him, and Bolan felt himself rolling along the ground before the impact bounced him in the air. He spun, turned and threw out his free hand to brace his fall. Using his agility, he pulled himself into a shoulder roll, gasping at the impact, and tumbled across the uneven ground. He picked up the stench of rubber as the car came to a screeching stop.

  He knew he had only a short window of time before the occupants of the vehicle came for him. Bolan still had the 93-R in his hand and he pushed it forward, searching for movement. He saw the driver’s door swing open and a man exit the interior. The shooter clutched a subgun in his left hand, his right sliding around to catch the trigger.

  Bolan upped the Beretta’s muzzle, holding the pistol steady as he caught the man in his sights. He ignored the threat of the subgun and held his target for the millisecond that gave him the advantage. The pistol bucked in Bolan’s hand as he stroked the trigger and delivered three 9 mm slugs that hammered the target’s chest, pushing him back against the open door. The Mafiya soldier slid across the door and dropped facedown on the driveway.

  The passenger had ejected himself from his own seat, moving the length of the car and leaning across the trunk as his partner went down. He fired a fraction too fast and his burst pounded the ground inches away from Bolan’s prone figure, sending chips of asphalt into the air.

  The Executioner had pulled his 93-R around to pick up on the shooter, and he fired a burst that tore into his opponent’s left shoulder, puncturing flesh and muscle. The hood jerked upright, his face twisting in pure shock. The Executioner adjusted his aim and fired another 3-round burst, this one delivered to the guy’s throat and lower jaw. The hardman jerked back his head as blood jetted from severed arteries and fell out of sight behind the sedan.

  Bolan pushed slowly to his feet, the Beretta leading the way as he closed in on the car. He checked out the driver first.

  The Executioner kicked away the fallen weapon. The man’s sightless eyes stared up at him as he double-checked for any sign of life. No movement.

  Walking around the car, Bolan came up on the passenger from the rear, the 93-R covering the guy every step of the way. Bolan was moving slowly now, feeling the aches in his body following his headlong dive to the ground after the car had sideswiped him. His left shoulder pulsed with pain and there was a bleeding graze on his palm.

  He stood over the second shooter, kicking his subgun aside. A wide pool of blood had crept out from around the guy’s head, and started soaking into the ground. It had stopped flowing now, since his heart had shut down. The 9 mm slugs had made a mess of flesh and bone in the guy’s neck and jaw.

  “Two more who won’t be collecting a pension, Bulova,” Bolan said softly.

  He holstered the Beretta and picked up one of the discarded P-90 subguns. An additional piece of hardware could come in handy in his present situation. Bulova appeared to have a plentiful supply of foot soldiers to sacrifice. As with most of his type, the Russian stayed away from the front line, simply sending out his minions to face danger—and in this case, death. It had always been that way. The top men gave the orders from their protected fortresses and allowed the less fortunate take the punishment. Nothing seemed to change.

  Don’t get too comfortable, Bulova, Bolan thought. Your turn is coming. He clicked his transceiver. “I’m going in the front, Jack,” he said.

  * * *

  BOLAN WAS IN Florida to take down Bulova and Conte once and for all.

  This was no mission to secure information. The soldier already had what he needed. Conte and the Russian Mafiya overlord’s time was running out. Bolan had already done a great deal of damage to the organization. This time around he was determined to end it. The criminal bosses would not be calling their lawyers to cover their asses. Legal chicanery was out the window. Bulova and Conte were not about to call the shots this time. They had showed disdain for civilized dealings, so he had brought down the thunder that only the one-man force known as the Executioner could deliver.

  As Bolan crouched by the bulk of the parked SUVs, facing Bulova’s house, he felt the first drops of rain brought by the rising wind sweeping in from the nearby Atlantic shore. The rainfall rolled off the waterproof blacksuit as it quickly built. The rain was nothing Bolan couldn’t handle. It would add to his natural cover, making it uncomfortable for any of Bulova’s people out tramping the grounds.

  Without warning, powerful lights mounted at roof level burst into life, lighting up the front of the house and grounds.

  Bolan saw an armed guard move out from the double front doors as he stepped into the glare of one of the spotlights. The guy had turned up the collar of his expensive suit against the light rain and held his subgun tight against his chest. His movements told Bolan he was unhappy with his current situation. That suited Bolan. Let the guy come.

  The illumination provided by the security lights showed him the sweep of the open driveway.

  The house windows were ablaze with light. Bulova was obviously determined to surround himself with illumination, removing any dark corners that an invader might use. Bolan wondered how many guns the man had inside the house. He didn’t allow the lack of knowledge to faze him.

  Once he made his move he would find out.

  The guard who had exited the front door had paused just a few feet away to search the area. He had to have seen the bodies from the car but made no move to check them out. He simply spoke into the headset he wore, reporting to someone in the house.

  Bolan waited with the patience he had acquired over years of experience. During his military service, he had learned the art of long surveillance. His time as a sniper had called for infinite patience. Watching and waiting for the right moment for a designated target to appear had called for the ability to settle and bring the mind and body into a calm state, to regulate breathing and cultivate the ability to view everything with clarity. Those attribute
s were still with Bolan. They had not faded with time.

  The Executioner unzipped a pocket and withdrew a matte-black suppressor, threading it onto the Beretta’s muzzle. He set the pistol for single shot then waited.

  The guard was three steps away from the door. Over the man’s shoulder Bolan could see that a second guard had stepped outside to stand behind his partner.

  The Executioner raised the 93-R, extending his arm, and centered the muzzle on his first target. His finger stroked the trigger. The Beretta uttered a discreet cough and a neat, round hole appeared between the eyes of the first guard. He took half a step before his motor functions shut down and he toppled forward. The second man brought up his weapon, his eyes searching. He took a silenced 9 mm slug to the forehead and fell back against the wall.

  Bolan edged around the SUVs and cut across to the partly open doors.

  * * *

  GRIMALDI HAD BEEN halfway to the patio doors when the powerful spotlights came on. Midway across the stone slabs, he’d seen no point in retreat.

  He crossed the patio in long strides. He had seen movement on the other side of the glass doors and was aware the enemy could spot him at any moment.

  The Stony Man pilot wanted to be in a better position before the man behind the door came closer. The Beretta was in both hands, tracking in on the target. Grimaldi was well in range when the man moved forward and he wasn’t about to offer the guy any leeway. This was a do or die mission for him and Bolan. Taking the offensive was the best—the only—option.

  The black muzzle of the 92-FS zeroed in. Grimaldi triggered his shot and saw the guy’s head jerk to one side as the Parabellum round cored in through flesh and bone to ravage the brain. The guy dropped without a murmur, his arms splayed wide.

  Grimaldi was committed now. There was no backing off.

  23

  Just before Bolan stepped in through the front doors he crouched and picked up one of the discarded FN P-90 subguns from the closer man he had put down. He released the 5.7 mm, 50-round magazine and tucked it behind his belt. It gave him the additional firepower he might need once he breached the house—his next objective.

  The hand-carved double front doors swung open under Bolan’s push. As the high doors flew back, the Executioner tossed in one of his flash-bang grenades, pulling back to the wall outside and briefly covering his ears. The grenade had bounced along the wide entrance hall, so he was out of range as the harsh crack echoed and brilliant light filled the space. The second the noise abated Bolan went inside, the P-90 probing ahead.

  One hardman was slumped against the wall, his eyes streaming from the effects of the flash-bang. He stared unseeing at Bolan as the Executioner appeared and fumbled with the subgun in his hands. Bolan put him down with a short burst from the P-90, the guy skittering along the wall, leaving bloody streaks from exit wounds.

  Halfway along the hall, a wide staircase led to the next floor. Two gunners came into view at the top of the flight, weapons coming on line. Autofire crackled, slugs chewing at the polished floor and kicking up splinters of wood. But by the time the shooters reacted to his presence, Bolan had moved, flattening against the far wall, his P-90 angled up to deliver a concentrated burst that shredded the banister and ripped into yielding flesh. The pair of shooters was pushed back, blood coursing from their open wounds.

  A third hardman stood on the landing, emerging from the side passage, and Bolan caught him before the guy could pull back, raising the subgun and firing. The burst caught the guy in the side of his head, tearing out flesh and bone that erupted from his skull in a bloody gush. The guy fell to his knees then collapsed in an untidy heap.

  A visual inspection showed Bolan that he still had fifty percent of ammunition in the magazine. He checked a door on his right then kicked it open. Empty. Bolan moved on after tossing in a prepped thermite canister. He heard the dull sound of the canister igniting, starting to spew its white-hot load.

  To his left, on the opposite side of the hallway, a door was slowly cracked open a few inches, the black muzzle of a weapon sliding into view. Bolan brought his P-90 around and punched a burst through the door panel. He heard a pained grunt as his slugs found a target on the other side of the door. Bolan executed a rapid magazine change before he booted the door open and launched a fragmentation grenade inside the room. The gren detonated with a hard crack as he moved away from the door, his weapon probing ahead of him, searching for more targets.

  A set of double doors stood directly ahead. Bolan picked up frantic voices. Someone was shouting orders in Russian.

  He hit the center of the doors with his shoulder, momentum carrying him into a large room as the heavy doors swung wide.

  Bolan had a swift glimpse of book-lined shelves, expensive furniture, a generous wet bar with a curving wood counter and stacked shelves behind it. To his left stood a large, hand-carved wooden desk and a scattering of leather armchairs.

  Behind the desk, sitting in a hand-tooled leather chair, was Serge Bulova, clad in a well-tailored suit, silk shirt and sober silk tie. Seated beside the desk, his face fish-belly white, was Marco Conte. Bolan recognized Milo Forte, Conte’s bodyguard, standing beside his boss. Fronting the crime boss were his personal minions, all well dressed, hard-faced and wielding drawn weapons.

  They had all turned in the direction of the doors the moment they had burst open.

  Four hardmen were ready to earn their pay.

  But all of them were too slow when it came to face the black-clad Executioner.

  Bolan’s P-90 made a wide sweep, the muzzle spitting fire as he unleashed a relentless burst of 5.7 mm death. The 50-round magazine expended itself on the quartet, hammering the deadly slugs into their flesh, splitting bone and pulverizing internal organs.

  In the seconds it took to put the four hardmen down, not one of them managed to get off a single shot. Bolan’s action had been too fast to counter. Bloody and gasping from shock, the members of Bulova’s protection squad were left sprawling across the expensive carpet, spilling their blood in a final—impotent—gesture.

  As the last man fell, Bolan tossed aside the empty P-90 and swung the 9 mm Uzi from where it hung at his back, his finger curling around the trigger as he leveled the weapon at Bulova, Conte and Forte. In the same movement, Bolan stepped to one side of the open doors and pressed himself against the wall in a protective move.

  Bulova glanced down at the tear in his coat sleeve where one of Bolan’s slugs had clipped it. When he looked up, the Executioner could see the sweat showing on his fleshy face.

  “You know how much this suit cost?” the Russian asked.

  “Too much for someone like you, Bulova.”

  The mob boss pushed to his feet, thrusting a finger at Bolan.

  “No one speaks to me like that... You come into my house. You kill and destroy.”

  “I set fire to it, as well.”

  Bolan plucked a second thermite grenade from his harness. He pulled the safety then tossed the canister out of the door where it rolled across the hall floor.

  “After today you won’t be needing the house,” he said. “Just as a point of interest, we located the files Harry Sherman got from Conte’s computer. The Justice Department can’t believe their luck. All that evidence. Your business is done, Bulova, so, though it’s the end of you, you can take solace in knowing that all of your crooked friends will be paying for their association with you.”

  Bulova’s eyes widened in alarm as the grenade burst and began spewing the deadly thermite compound.

  “My lawyers will see you in jail for this.”

  “Unless your lawyers have buckets and plenty of water to douse the fires, Bulova, there isn’t a damn thing they can do for you.”

  “Then we should talk,” Bulova said, maintaining an even tone. “You have to realize how powerful I am. What I can offer you.
This place is nothing. Just a house I use when I need to get away from the daily grind.”

  “And there I was thinking it was a bolt-hole for a couple of runaways.”

  “I like a man with a sense of humor. And you interest me, Cooper. I want to know who you are.”

  “Just a house cleaner come to take out the garbage. I like a tidy ending. And cremation does that.”

  Marco Conte pushed to his feet. His panic was obvious. Any semblance of control he might have had was gone.

  “You don’t want me,” he said. “I just run a casino in Vegas.”

  Bolan glanced at him, the muzzle of the Uzi moving to cover the man.

  “Gambling? I see you’ve forgotten about the drugs. The prostitution. Slave trade. All the other rackets you front, Conte.”

  “You don’t understand, Cooper. I don’t have a choice. It’s Bulova. He sets the deals. He’s—”

  Serge Bulova lashed out with his right hand, catching Conte full in the face. The force of the blow sent the casino boss stumbling back, falling to his knees, blood coursing down his face where the heavy gold rings Bulova wore had ripped his flesh.

  Forte, deciding he was failing his employer, stepped forward to help Conte stand. As he bent, he snaked out the pistol concealed under his suit coat. He wasn’t fast enough. Bolan hit him with a short burst and put the big man down.

  Bulova raged at the dazed Conte. “You worthless piece of shit. I should have had you put down years ago. Even now all you can do is try to save your own fucking skin.”

  The Mafiya head man lunged for one of the desk drawers, yanking it open and snatching up a SIG-Sauer P-226 pistol. He worked the slide, lifting the weapon, his expression wild and triumphant. He angled the weapon down at Conte and pulled the trigger, driving a pair of slugs into Conte’s skull.