“What do you mean, ‘stay out of the way’?” the older guard asked. “Of what?”
“Of the tenth floor, that’s what. The guys who will be coming through here are only interested in one thing, and that’s taking out the men at LenziNet, so you’d be well advised to steer clear of that floor. Once you’ve found your men, find a safe way to get back to the ground floor and get in touch with the police.”
“Why are you doing this anyway? Don’t you work for whoever these guys are?” the younger guard asked suspiciously.
“That’s what they think, kid,” Bolan said. “But they’re in for a little surprise.”
Bolan turned immediately and descended the stairs, emerging in the lobby just as the first of the Mafia men came through the door. They were an impressive-looking force, about twenty-five in all, including the ten crack troops promised by Donatto. Actually, Donatto’s soldiers looked quite professional. They were dressed in black fatigue pants, black T-shirts and leather jackets. They were toting light hardware, mostly Uzis, but a couple were armed with AR-15s—civilian variants of the M-16—chambered for .223 hardball ammunition. Donatto came in right behind his men who were now fanning out, a .45-caliber pistol in his hand. Pescia was immediately on his heels.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Donatto asked Bolan.
“Taking care of the guards,” Bolan replied. “And no disrespect, Donatto, but I don’t answer to you. I work for Don Lenzini. Remember?”
Donatto sized up the Executioner a moment, looked as if he wanted to say something but changed his mind, then asked, “Where are the guards?”
Bolan grinned. “They’re dead, and out of the way. That’s all that’s important. I did find out that our target’s on the tenth floor, but we won’t have a lot of time. We need to go in, do our business and get out.”
“All right,” Donatto replied with a nod. He turned toward his men who had secured the perimeter of the lobby and hollered, “Okay, listen up! I want you staggered into equal groups on board those elevators there! We want to make sure nobody passes us! Two of mine will stay behind to watch the lobby! Move out!”
The syndicate’s soldiers obeyed immediately, moving toward the elevators as instructed. Bolan started to follow Donatto and Pescia, then stopped just as they were about to get aboard.
“Wait a minute, boys,” Bolan said. “We’ve got nobody covering the stairway.”
“Are you volunteering?” Donatto asked him.
“Yeah, but why don’t you let Gino go with me.”
“How about Gino should ride up, and I go with you,” Donatto said.
“These guys are going to need someone with experience,” Bolan said. He exchanged glances with Pescia and then added, “No offense, Gino, but you’re not really that experienced at this. You said it yourself.”
“Well, let’s not spend a lot of time talking about it,” Donatto said. “Fine, Gino go with Frankie here.”
Pescia stepped off the elevator and turned to watch it close. As it did, Donatto smiled and said, “We’ll try to leave you guys something.”
Bolan waited until everyone had vacated the elevator banks then he headed back toward the lobby, Pescia in tow. He didn’t have a lot of time, and while it would have seemed odd to most, it was the two men left behind to watch the lobby that posed the greatest threat to him. They had seen Bolan come in alive with the Mafia men. He had to make sure they never lived to tell that tale.
Bolan reached the lobby and found the two men sitting behind the desk where the security guards had been just minutes earlier. He shed his overcoat and produced the Beretta 93-R. The looks on their respective faces were ones of pure shock. Those looks were immediately followed by action as they clawed for their machine pistols, but it was entirely too late for that. Bolan took the first hood with a double-tap to the chest. The Beretta was whisper-quiet as the subsonic cartridges ratcheted from the ejection port, and the rounds blew holes in the guy’s lungs. Bolan had the second one in sight before the body of the first had hit the floor, and a single round through the forehead ended any possible hope of resistance.
Bolan heard the hiss of a sudden, sharp intake of breath. He whirled on Pescia and put the smoking barrel inches from the guy’s head.
“You,” Pescia finally stammered. “You were the one who killed our guys in San Fran.”
“You guessed it, Gino,” Bolan said.
“You really did want me to give that message to Lenzini.”
“And you chose not to,” Bolan said. “Your people cut their own throats in this deal.”
Pescia’s whole body began to shake as he said, “Oh yeah? And what did you do, Frankie, eh? You played judge and jury.”
Pescia lunged at Bolan.
The Executioner passed judgment.
13
San Francisco, California
Serge Grano stood next to Lorenz Trabucco and the rest of his boys, and shook his head with great remorse.
The motel was nothing but ashes, burned to the ground, and the smell of charred materials was powerful. It wouldn’t be long before they got people out to clean up the mess, but Grano was happy he’d had the opportunity to see this before that time. It fired him up, and gave him the added fuel he needed to find who was responsible for the deaths of so many of their people. They were still trying to identify some of the bodies, since only a few were outside the motel and the rest had been trapped inside by the fire.
Damn, Gino Pescia! Grano thought. That son of a bitch had put them out here like lambs to slaughter. If he’d had a problem with Don Lenzini’s handling of the Arabs, he should have come to Grano and spoken up. He shouldn’t have turned tail and run like some chickenshit weasel, and tried to come out to California and hide behind the skirts of his club dancers. Hadn’t Don Lenzini always been good to them, and treated all of them like his own sons? It was shameful!
“Hey, boss,” Trabucco said. “Who do you think did this?”
Grano didn’t answer; he’d barely heard Trabucco. Grano was almost a hundred percent sure who had rained such death and destruction on their people: Frank Lambretta. What Grano saw here was too close to what he’d seen of what was left of the hitters he sent to finish Lambretta at the hotel. Hell, he’d wanted to trust Lambretta. After all, the guy had a great reputation as a loyal soldier, but apparently that was all talk. For all they knew, Lambretta was working for the Feds.
That was the most likely possibility. The stories Grano had heard so far were disturbing. There had been talk of this mystery man who fought like a devil and used automatic weapons and high explosives. The forensics reports coming from the police labs in downtown San Francisco were telling quite a tale. Grano was certain he’d seen and heard references to military-like weaponry such as assault rifles firing fully automatic, and explosive devices that included both incendiary and fragmentation grenades. Grano knew that kind of stuff came at a price, and he wasn’t completely convinced that Lambretta had those kinds of connections. Still, the guys he’d sent to wipe out Lambretta had died under very similar circumstances, and thus far they hadn’t heard anything from the guy.
Whatever the story, the top bull in the Lenzini crime Family was pretty sure that Lambretta wasn’t on their side, and he was also convinced the guy was anything but loyal. It was possible “Loyal” Frankie-boy was actually under the employ of a competing Family. While the majority of syndicate businesses tried to work together these days, it was still an environment of territories and competition. The Families had moved away from being “Families” in the true sense of the word. Less credit was given for bloodlines and more toward those capable of doing the job. That idea had solidified many of their holdings across both domestic and foreign operations, but every once in a while someone tried to throw a wrench into the works.
It wasn’t that Grano agreed with Don Lenzini’s decision to join the New Islamic Front. He didn’t trust the Arabs any more than he did the Irish or Hispanics. Still, his loyalty was first and always to the Family,
and that meant he obeyed the orders of whoever was in power at the time. He remained loyal and he took care of the Family business because the Family took care of him. It was just that simple.
Grano, having forgotten about Trabucco, suddenly turned and looked at the enforcer. Trabucco was a wannabe, no question there, but he had guts and heart, and those were enough. Now, if he could just find some brains, he would be a half-decent soldier, and maybe even good enough to replace Grano one day. In either case, Grano knew that he had a much better chance than old man DeLama’s kid, although he knew how protective Don Lenzini was of his friend’s son. He could still hear his boss telling him that nothing was to happen to DeLama—absolutely nothing!
“What did you say, Lorenz?”
“I asked who you thought did this to our people,” Trabucco said.
Grano shook his head, spared Ape a look and then replied, “I don’t know, for sure, but I’m guessing it was either one of our West Coast competitors or Frankie Lambretta.”
Trabucco didn’t look as if he had anything intelligent to say in response to that. That was good, because Grano didn’t really want to hear it anyway. The next step for them was to find Lambretta. He and the rest of his men headed for the car, and soon they were on the freeway.
“Where do you want to go now, boss?” Ape asked him.
Grano hadn’t said ten words to the poor guy since they’d arrived in San Francisco, and he felt bad about it, but that was life. He hated this miserable weather—which was rainy and chilly this time of year—and he especially didn’t like having to ride around with a busload of incompetents like they had now. Well, not entirely incompetent. Trabucco and DeLama left a lot to be desired, but Maxim and Huffman had proved themselves pretty competent guys.
“I’m not sure yet. We need to go to Gino’s club and see if we can find out where the bastard split to. I swear, Ape, if he ran out on us with Lambretta, I’m going to fucking skin both of them alive. You hear me?”
“I hear you, boss.”
“Hey, Serge,” Trabucco chimed in, only irritating the head enforcer more. “What did the old man say about us losing that government broad? Is he pissed at us?”
“What do you think, Lorenz?” Grano answered. “Of course he’s pissed at you. He gave you one simple job, just one simple job, and you dicked it up. Now, you think Don Lenzini’s going to be happy about that?”
Trabucco’s voice was lame and muted coming from the back of the six-seat, luxury SUV. “No, I don’t suppose.”
“You’re damn right you don’t suppose!”
Grano was losing his temper, but he didn’t give a damn at that moment. He had to be tough on these guys, or they would get out of control and never learn anything and then when he was gone they’d get the old man smoked in a heartbeat. Except for Ape; he wouldn’t let anything like that happen as long as he was still breathing. Then again, Alfonse was one hell of a good soldier, but he wasn’t all that bright, and to be a chief enforcer you had to be pretty smart.
“Now there’s a way you can make it up to him,” Grano told them. “You guys can show me your stuff. If we catch up…no, when we catch up to Gino and this Lambretta guy, we’re bound to have some trouble. You guys show your stuff, and do the right thing, and all will be forgotten. I can promise you that.”
“We’ll do well, boss. We promise.” Trabucco looked at the others and added, “Isn’t that right, boys?”
They just mumbled and nodded their agreement, although Maxim was—as usual—out like a light with his intermittent snoring becoming louder by the minute.
Grano smiled and shook his head ever so slightly. Well, he should let the big boy get his beauty rest. He was going to need Maxim when they caught up to Lambretta. He figured if they were on the square, they’d be glad to see the crew. And if not, well, then there would be trouble. Grano wasn’t too worried about it—Pescia and Lambretta wouldn’t stand much of a chance. These were six fairly experienced guys, except maybe for DeLama, and all of them had been in their share of scrapes. If nothing else they’d win by sheer numbers. The only thing Grano hoped was that he was wrong about Lambretta’s involvement in what they’d just seen at that motel.
Maybe, just maybe, killing Lambretta wouldn’t be so easy after all.
Los Angeles, California
MACK BOLAN COULD HEAR the first sounds of autofire as he reached the eighth-floor landing.
With the guards neutralized downstairs, and Gino Pescia dead, that left the Executioner with only one floor and one set of targets. In order to keep safe any other innocents still in the building, the warrior knew he’d have to keep things contained to the tenth floor. That meant he’d have to cover any routes of escape, which included stairwells and elevators, as well as individual offices where they could hide. And he’d have to do it all by himself.
Yeah, the odds were pretty much in the enemy’s favor. As usual.
Bolan vaulted the stairs, making it to the tenth floor in less than fifteen seconds. He pushed through the door leading into a long, narrow hallway. At one end were the elevators, probably the same ones Donatto’s team had ridden since they were being guarded by a trio of Mafia hard guys. The men turned at the sound of Bolan’s entrance and he waved at them. They started to turn their weapons in his direction, but then the leader called them off, obviously remembering that they would have men covering the stairs.
The guys started to turn their attention back to the action ahead of them and that’s when Bolan seized the advantage. The Executioner dropped to one knee, pressed the stock of the FNC against his shoulder, aligned his sights on the three-some and squeezed the trigger. The hallway was immediately filled with a cacophony of screams and autofire as Bolan did a full-burn number on them. The area where they stood was filled with 5.56 .45 mm NATO slugs, and the trio fell under Bolan’s marksmanship.
The Executioner sprinted down the hallway and pressed the buttons to call all three elevators. He crouched, listening as the firefight continued inside the main offices. From his vantage point, he couldn’t yet see the aftermath of the battle, but he knew it wouldn’t be pretty. It sounded as if Donatto’s men were unleashing hellfire on their perceived enemy, and that was just fine with Bolan. If he could keep them occupied a minute longer, he’d have them just where he wanted them.
The first of the elevator doors opened, and Bolan dragged one of the bodies into it, providing a barricade that would prevent the door from closing entirely. He then got inside the elevator and reached into the small satchel at his waist. He retrieved three one-pound sticks of C-4, which were taped to one another, and primed them with a wireless detonator. Bolan repeated these actions for the remaining pair of elevators and then changed to a fresh magazine.
Bolan stepped into the area that looked onto the main offices. It was wide open, although each area was divided by prefab walls and desks that formed individual cells, or cubicles. Bolan began to move through the winding maze of structures, looking for the first signs of conflict. He found it after only two turns, emerging on the backside of two syndicate troops being held at bay by what could only be NIF soldiers.
Bolan had fought against the New Islamic Front’s people before, and he knew them when he saw them. There were four of them, positioned in staggered formation, two of them firing from an office space at the far end while the other two held positions in neighboring cubicles branching off an intersecting throughway.
The Executioner didn’t wait for an invitation. He ducked back in the intersecting row he’d traversed, yanked an incendiary grenade from his harness webbing and pulled the pin. Bolan then rose to full height, stepped around the corner and sprayed the area where the two Mafia antagonists were hiding. Both men shouted with surprise as Bolan’s rounds found their respective marks. The pair died with little fanfare.
Bolan stopped and waved at the NIF soldiers who were now completely unsure of what had happened, or the identity of their savior who stood there like a black angel of death. Nonetheless, they lowered thei
r guard and exposed themselves. The Executioner started to walk toward them, holding his weapon in a nonthreatening manner. He then made a show of stopping at one of the guards and reaching out of sight. Bolan released the spoon on the grenade. He had, at most, three seconds before letting it fly and in that time he stood, looked at the grenade, shrugged, and then tossed it toward the still befuddled terrorists.
The bomb more closely resembled a can of hairspray than a grenade as it sailed toward them, and the guy to whom Bolan had tossed the grenade thoughtlessly reached out to catch it. The man had barely completed a full turn of it in his hand before it exploded, but by that time Bolan was now behind adequate cover. The TH3 white phosphorous immediately incinerated most of the flesh off the terrorist’s body, and the exploded molten iron leaped across to envelope the flesh of his comrades as well. Flames erupted from the unlucky terrorist’s clothing, and he was immediately engulfed in flames. Screams of horror, pain and shock were audible even above the continuous gunfire throughout the rest of the offices, and the first terrorist illuminated the area as he staggered around, now little more than a human torch.
Bolan put mercy rounds in all four terrorists before continuing his search for other targets.
There was a sudden lull in the firing, probably the result of the smoke and stench of burning human flesh that had begun to fill the surrounding area. Moments later, the autofire started up again, and Bolan emerged onto another throughway to find the NIF had the upper hand on this one. Two NIF terrorists were kicking a Mafia hard guy on the ground, and intermittently clubbing him with the stocks of their rifles. They were so seemingly occupied with beating their quarry to death that they didn’t notice the Executioner was now practically on top of them.
Bolan yanked the .44-caliber Desert Eagle from its holster and fired one shot for each. Both rounds connected, the first one exploding the closer NIF terrorist’s heart, while the other collapsed the spine of his comrade with bone-crunching force, taking some of his intestines with it on exit. The men collapsed, and the Mafia guy looked up, suddenly surprised that his torment had stopped. He looked up to see Bolan standing over him.
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