Poison Justice

by Don Pendleton

Bolan took and hung the sack over his shoulder, then palmed the cell phone from the desk and handed it to the hood. “You’re about to have a fire, Bennie.”

  “What are you talkin’ about, fire? I don’t smell smoke.”

  Bolan waved with the subgun for Bennie to move out. “Check your watch. Fifteen minutes, not a second before, call your boss. Tell Cabriano his problems have only just begun. Got that?”

  “Yeah, I got it. I also know you’re a walking dead man.”

  Bolan nudged Guardino in the spine with his weapon, heading him out the door. “I’ve heard that before. But here I am.”

  The Executioner took the first thermite canister from the pocket of his windbreaker, armed and lobbed it into the office. He ordered Guardino to hustle out of there, unless he wanted to get barbecued. He pulled the pin on firebomb number two and tossed it behind the bar.

  The club manager was squawking at the sight of the strewed corpses when the first explosion rocked the club. Guardino cut loose with a stream of profanity and threatening noise. A swift kick in the backside shut his mouth and got him moving for the exit. Number two blast, spewing its ravages of white phosphorous, hit Bolan’s back as he trailed Guardino into the alley.

  “Fifteen minutes, not a second before, Bennie,” Bolan warned, checking his surroundings, finding he was all clear. “I might be watching you.” The hood was ready to try to get the last word in, when the Executioner added, “That should be enough time for you to put together a story.”

  “What story? I’ll just tell him the truth.”

  “That’ll be the problem.”

  “I don’t know what your game is…”

  “Cabriano. The man’s going to want to know why five of his soldiers are dead, his club’s in a pile of ashes, his money’s gone, and you’re the only one left to tell the tale.”

  The look on Guardino’s face told Bolan that he finally got it.

  The Executioner left him standing there to ponder his future.

  3

  Peter Cabriano was in no mood for the bookkeeper’s number-crunching routine much less wanting to hear the bottom line on what he owed the government. This was no time to give away the first crumb of the fruits of his labor—inherited or not—to those who could never walk in his shoes. Anybody not in his camp could go straight to hell.

  The Don was in the upstairs office, watching his crew below on the warehouse floor as they loaded the plastic-wrapped bundles of currency on pallets. Working on a Scotch and Marlboro, he was in hope, albeit dim, the alcohol, smoke and sight of the month’s offshore haul—slated for steel containers to be settled in the belly of the Colombian freighter, El Diablo—would smooth out the edges of his raw nerves. Fat chance any indulgence would work. The night was not shaping up to be a stellar success. On all fronts he was feeling burdened by impending disaster. An indefinable ghost of death and destruction was out there. Some bad players were circling like sharks, smelling blood.

  His blood.

  He knew it paid to be paranoid when a man was sitting on top of the world. The problem with being a winner was obvious, he thought. Between jealous rivals, the Feds—even his own shrill, nagging wife—there was always someone ready to chop him off at the ankles. All being king of the mountain meant was that it was a long, hard tumble to the bottom. And if he fell there would be no one there to help him stand.

  Take Pauline, for starters, he thought. No matter how much money, how much jewelry, how many condos, how many vacations to the world’s paradise hot spots he took her, it was never enough. All the high hard ones he drove her didn’t count for much anymore either, not when she was braying all the time these days for something more permanent and long-term, as in life. Pretty much par for the course, as far as mistresses went, but lately she was getting more demanding, more contentious—more threatening. There was, however, an answer for that particular hemorrhoid, but the solution could see him splashed all over the gossip rags, the brunt of talking-head speculation for years to come, everyone waiting for the gavel to fall, the bars slamming behind him.

  Of course, at the top of the list, no question, there was the Marelli problem. And the answer to that crisis, already in the works, could see more heat, more badges, more wiretaps, more armed shadows up his ass than he already had. Next, there was his new venture with the Colombians, a road map to the future of the Family he’d drawn up just before the old man kicked off. If he had trusted them during their narcotics transactions about as much as he would sleep with a cobra, the feeling that far worse treachery now stalked him from their end was tripled, since their joint business endeavor had expanded to a whole new horizon. Toss in the government’s ongoing investigation into the Saudi partnership at the Grand Palace in Atlantic City, bring onboard intelligence operatives who gave a whole new and frightening meaning to the word spook, and he began to question both his sanity and wisdom in upping the ante to grow his kingdom into an international empire.

  Cabriano gritted his teeth when he heard the final tally of how much of the casino’s skim could actually be cleaned, as opposed to how much cash he would have to declare to Uncle Sam. Considering the present audit, or so the accountant more or less told him, it looked like he would have to pony up in the neighborhood of ten million and change to take some heat off the Grand Palace.

  “Did you hear me? Do you understand?” the accountant was asking.

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you. The percentage you take from me, you ever have any good news, other than telling me I may end up like Al Capone?”

  “Just stating the facts, Mr. Cabriano. Now the way I see it—”

  The phone interrupted more bad news. Cabriano saw the accountant staring at the phone as if it were a land mine. Whoever was calling at that hour, he could fairly guess, wasn’t calling just to check on his emotional well-being.

  “Answer it,” Cabriano snapped, then turned his back to watch his crew wrap the first pallet with thick plastic sheeting. Figure twenty million was ready to be shipped out, and he was wondering if the Colombians would accept the fact he had the government’s cut to consider, but already knew they didn’t want to hear about his tax woes. With those guys, if one dollar was not accounted for against the last shipment, they might reconsider how trustworthy he would prove in the coming deal with their Mideast connection.

  “Who’s this?”

  Cabriano whirled at the note of panic, saw the accountant’s already pale face turn another shade of white. The phone was trembling in his hand, and his eyes bugged behind the glasses.

  “Who is it?” Cabriano barked, the guy sitting there, shaking his head, lips moving, but no sound coming out. “Gimme that!” he snarled, and snatched the phone from the accountant’s hand. “Yeah!”

  “I left Big Tony with some company. You’ll find the three of them in the trunk of the Caddie, at the lot.”

  Cabriano didn’t know the voice, but why should he? What he did recognize was the warning bells in his head that this was no social call. The voice on the other end was cold, lifeless, floating in his ear like a call from the bowels of hell.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “There’s been a fire at your club, too.”

  “What are you…what kinda game are you playin’, asshole?”

  “No game. Bennie will fill you in on the details. At first count, I’d say he handed over almost four hundred thousand before I walked out. Not too shabby for some walking around money.”

  Cabriano heard his heart thunder in his ears. “What? He did what? You ripped me off? You listen to me, mother—”

  “No, you listen, Petey. The night’s still young. The old things are passing away.”

  Cabriano exploded, ranting and swearing at the phone for several moments before he realized he was screaming at a dead line. He slammed the phone back on the cradle. He was glaring at the accountant, reaching for his cell phone when it trilled. He looked at the caller ID on the miniscreen and answered.

  “You got something to tell me?” he growle
d, listening as Guardino began bleating out the incredible story. One big, dark guy, armed to the teeth like something out of Delta Force had, according to Bennie, strolled into the Fireball and blown away five of their best soldiers. He heard about the money next, close to four hundred large. Guardino was swearing on his mother’s soul the mystery badass left him no choice, pumping out the apologies in between catching his breath.

  “My club, Bennie, you better damn well tell me it’s still standing.”

  There was sputtering, Guardino making a gagging noise, then he blurted out the awful truth.

  And Cabriano went cold inside. Say Guardino was telling the truth, and he would find out for himself later, then his world was being threatened like no gang war he’d ever heard of. Whoever the nameless hitter he was a professional, though Cabriano could not really define just what a professional was. The bastard was either lucky, nuts, stupid or a combination of all three. Clearly, though, he had more to fear now than just the Feds. He hadn’t given the Colombians reason—yet—to want to send him a message, though he knew they were in town, keeping close tabs on his movements and business.

  “Boss? You—you there?” Guardino asked.

  “Where are you?”

  “I am at Bleeney’s. Shit, I needed a few stiff ones after—”

  “Go home.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You got shit in your ears? Go home. Wait there. I will deal with you shortly.”

  Guardino was bleating how sorry he was again, but Cabriano cut him off. Let him sweat, and if his account didn’t wash with what would be a full police investigation, complete with visits from detectives digging even deeper into his business…

  He called Frankie “The Tube.” Ten rings later, The Tube was growling into his ear about did he know what time it was. Cabriano told him to get his ass out of bed, go over to the lot and look inside the trunk of the Caddie. He punched off before his lieutenant could start asking a bunch of questions and ignored the worried look from his accountant as he blew through the door. At the edge of the catwalk, he hollered down, “Look alive!”

  He was about to relate the possibility they might be hit when he glimpsed something blur on a flaming jagged line across the warehouse. Before he could determine its direction, Cabriano nearly jumped out of his cashmere coat when one of the pallets blossomed into a fireball.

  PEARY KNEW THE FUTURE was now. There had been pressure enough on two fronts for some time, the Mob boss wanting it done one way, the spooks with other ideas. Since both sides simply wanted the disk first, Marelli dead second, he decided to split the difference, opting against waiting until the spook crew arrived, to go ahead and take matters into his own hands.

  Meaning he’d do it his way. Either way he’d pick up his money from both ends.

  He slipped on the black leather gloves and keyed open the trunk to his Crown Victoria. With a few deep intakes of the cold mountain air, and feeling the eyes of Markinson and Jenkins boring into the side of his head, he unzipped the nylon bag. The first backup piece he hauled out was a Ruger Mini-14. He handed the rifle and 20-shot box of .223 rounds to Markinson. The old U.S.M-1 carbine semiauto with 30-round box went to Jenkins. Peary took the Mossberg 500 shotgun for himself and racked home the first 12-gauge round. He glanced at those who had been selected along with him for the job. Their faces were nearly invisible in the darkness, but he could sense the raw anger and disdain over what they were about to do.

  In life a man made choices along the way. Sometimes they were the wrong ones, but no human being, he reasoned, got out of this world unscarred, claiming a strain-free soul. Whatever his choices, a man accepted the consequences of his actions. For the three of them it was pretty much the usual transgressions that had landed them in the Mob-spook abyss. Filmed while cheating on the wife. Accepting bribes. Mounting gambling debts. And Markinson and Jenkins even had two murders-for-hire under their belts. The confusing part for Peary was how the spooks knew so much more about them than Cabriano, but he figured Big Brother worked in ways more mysterious than a pack of hoodlums with all of maybe a couple of high school educations between them. It was as if the spooks knew long ago this day was coming, had properly planned to prevent what was for Marelli a piss poor performance.

  And Peary had his own ace in the hole.

  He looked at the lodge at the end of the dirt drive, aware that everyone inside but Grevey was moments away from being cashiered out. Riot gun in hand, leading his fellow assassins toward the lodge, Peary plucked the TAC radio off his belt.

  BOLAN KNEW THE Justice Department had its sights set on the Cabriano–Cali Cartel connection for some time. The government was sure New York’s premier Mob Family was soon to be so much bad folklore and sensational headlines when they netted the big croc. The trouble was, the castle did not crumble with the arrest of the Old Man, though a deal was offered to him by the government. Instead of burying their heads in the sand, hoping the Fed storm would miraculously blow past them, the crime Family grew stronger, bolder, more prosperous. Fate stepped in to save the younger generation, as Don Michael took all his secrets to the grave. No squealing, not rat deals for him, he went out the old-school way, tough and unrepentant to the bitter end, but Bolan would never give that type of adversary points for honor among thieves.

  Bolan believed all good things did come to those with patience, and the time had arrived for the angels to call in the Cabriano–Cali—and now—Mideast marker. Yes, the opposition had built an empire, enjoyed for years now the fruits of evil labor, thumbing their noses at the Justice Department. Up to a point, he had to admit crime did pay—for the criminal—but its sweet taste always turned bitter in due course, and there was much truth in a man reaping what he sowed.

  Tagging the freighter the “Devil” was something of a middle-finger salute by its lonesome, but somehow it filled the arrogance of their Pandora’s box to the brim. Along the southbound course, before docking in Barranquilla, the cash was divvied up in Charleston, Miami, the Bahamas. There were cigarette boats and swift executive jets that would haul the dirty money to other ports and airfields. Fat six- and seven-figure deposits filled offshore accounts of fly-by-night shell companies. Surveillance showed—between the casino’s skim, drug profits and about ten other deep wells of illicit gain—the bimonthly cash shipments settled in at around twenty million.

  The government might be after Cabriano for tax evasion, but Big Brother was about to become the least of his headaches.

  The Executioner jump-started the fireworks of round three with a blow to where it hurt Cabriano the most. The 40 mm fragmentation grenade from Bolan’s M-203 launcher fixed to his M-16 impacted a pallet that sat by itself, midway across the warehouse floor. Thunder, fire and smoke pounded through two hoods in that direction, a rain of shredded bills fluttering to the floor behind their airborne path.

  Roving surveillance by Brognola’s stakeout team had informed him a five-man crew was hard at work at the witching hour, ready to move the gold mine south. As with their previous stateside trips, and on orders from Cabriano, the Colombian crew of El Diablo was put up in a safehouse in Brooklyn. Apparently the Don didn’t like the Colombians looking over his shoulder when he was counting cash. Fine by Bolan.

  He found the enemy numbers stated by Brognola’s guys was on the money. Downrange, he glimpsed the duo of sailing thugs end their fight with a thud into the side of a steel container. He scanned on. Tracking his next opponent, as screaming and shouting echoed, the Executioner tagged the brute in the forklift. The hood was digging out his .45 when the warrior’s 3-round burst of 5.56 mm lightning blew him out of his seat. Somewhere in the racket of men in panic, Bolan made out the tempest of cursing and bellowing from the catwalk. That would be the new Don, Bolan suspected, far more bent out of shape over the loss of money than dead soldiers. For the moment, he and the accountant would keep.

  The last two hoods were scraping themselves off the floor, coughing their way out of the smoke. Their bells had been
rung by the concussive force of the blast, and their hands shook as they grasped for holstered side arms. Bolan treated them both to a quick dusting, sweeping his autofire, left to right. They were hammering on their backs when Cabriano began winging bullets from a big pistol. Bolan veered behind a steel container as rounds screamed off concrete to his left.

  There was a pause in return fire, and Bolan heard the Don and the accountant shouting at each other. He snapped the assault rifle around the corner. The men were in flight down the catwalk as Bolan hit the M-16’s trigger. He blew in the window of the office behind them, jolting still more panic into their gait.

  The Don’s Towncar was parked out back for a quick getaway. Bolan knew a team of Justice agents was on standby, to secure the building. He left the other pallets of currency for the care of Brognola’s people, as planned. On the march, as he saw Cabriano and his number cruncher descend the steps for the back corridor, Bolan keyed his com link to get a fix on the wheelman.

  IT NEVER FAILED TO AMAZE him how they thought they were fooling somebody. He knew the warning signs, could actually see a hit coming before it happened. Of course, experience did count for something—which meant surviving. Marelli briefly recalled how, four times in his day as a hitter, he’d been faced with similar circumstances. Sometimes they came smiling, but there was always a little wolf behind the look, like easy prey was on the menu, no sweat, party on the grave when the sure deed was done. Sometimes they were grim, too much so, telling him they weren’t sure they had the stones or the talent to pull it off, worried as hell inside they might eat it instead, or worse, take humiliation beyond even the Devil’s comprehension, forced to live with a memory worse than death. Then there were the cool ones, trying just a tad too hard to act naturally, foreplay before the high hard one, slicksters who’d seen one too many Eastwood movies but didn’t understand one take was all they got in real time. Another category of type was shifty, the nervous ones, guys who practically shuddered up to the plate, waving their piece and hollering. In the end, though, beyond the types, it all boiled down to the same intent. Exactly where he belonged in the lineup he wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure, but whatever he’d done over the years had worked. Figure acting was part of it, proper planning another, nerves of steel and will to do it yet another piece. Add being something of a student of human nature, reading the moment and measuring the mark, maybe catch him off guard or feeling a little too good about life, and the rare good ones could make it to double-digit hits.