Exit Code

by Don Pendleton

  He turned to Abdalrahman. “And you, Uncle…”

  “I—”

  “Please,” Rhatib demanded, looking down and closing his eyes as he dropped his hand as a signal for silence. He then looked Abdalrahman in the eyes and said, “This is our chance to avenge all of our brothers, and all of those who have sacrificed before us. I came to realize while imprisoned by the Americans that each of us has a destiny, and if we are to succeed and join our brothers with Allah, then we must be prepared to do whatever is necessary to accomplish that destiny. I have prayed for you, and I have discovered that your destiny is clouded. It is clouded by this man they call Cooper. I have seen this man firsthand, seen the demons in his eyes, and I can affirm here and now that we will not be able to claim complete victory until he is dead.”

  Rhatib stepped forward, and Abdalrahman thought his heart would burst. He was full of pride. His nephew reached one, thin arm around his uncle, kissed him on both cheeks in ceremonial fashion, and whispered, “It is your destiny to destroy this man. Fulfill your destiny.”

  Abdalrahman stepped back and looked into his nephew’s eyes. He knew what this meant. He would have to fulfill his destiny, just as Rhatib had said, and he knew it could mean his death. Abdalrahman knew, just from what he’d heard and seen of this American, that Cooper was extremely dangerous, and not to be underestimated. Nonetheless, he knew that they would never have peace—just as Rhatib had prophesied—as long as Cooper was alive. The man would not give up. He would continue to hound their steps day and night, and haunt Abdalrahman’s dreams, as he had so many times over this past week, until they killed him.

  “You understand what you’re asking me to do?” he asked Rhatib.

  Rhatib nodded.

  “And you also understand that I might not come back from this, my destiny?”

  Rhatib nodded again, but this time there was a bit of sadness that fell upon his expression. “I also understand that you will not know true peace until he is dead, and you have accomplished your mission as Allah wills it.”

  Abdalrahman believed it was Allah’s will that he do this. He also believed he would not have to actively search for Cooper. If it was his true destiny, the man would practically fall from the sky and right into his pistol sights, and he would avenge the deaths of many of his men, and right all of the wrongs that had occurred at Cooper’s hand in Afghanistan.

  Abdalrahman turned to Shurish. “You are right, of course. I owe you an apology. I have not accomplished my duties as I should have, and it is time for me to do so. From what you know, who do you think destroyed the complex in Los Angeles?”

  “From the evidence found there, it was most like competing factors in the syndicate. Probably an old grudge that Lenzini’s people felt they needed to settle. We cannot be sure. However, we also have heard reports that a similar attack occurred on their people in San Francisco.”

  “Similar in what manner?”

  “If I had to compare them, I would say they were tactically similar,” Shurish said.

  “Which means, perhaps, the same source of the attacks.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So it would not make sense that any of Lenzini’s competition would kill their own.”

  “Also true,” Shurish replied.

  “That means that someone is manipulating the situation, and that someone is probably Cooper,” Abdalrahman said, and felt a grin come to his lips. He turned to his nephew and asked, “Where do you think he will go?”

  “I think he will go where he most believes another attack will count.”

  Abdalrahman nodded. Of course, it made perfect sense. And so, the colonel would go there as well. And at last—at long last—he would fulfill his destiny.

  15

  Los Angeles, California

  His crew was hot on the trail of their quarry, and Serge Grano could sense it.

  Grano had just hung up his cell phone after having a long conversation with the old man, and he was considering what their next move should be. Somebody had called for a raid on LenziNet, one of their front operations put in place for the Arabs, and now it was a shambling ruins. Their people were dead, and some of the hitters were identified as being from Ray Donatto’s crew. Gino Pescia’s body was also found. The guy had been shot through the head execution style, and Donatto was believed to have been killed by fragments from terrible explosions at the building in downtown L.A.

  That left only one person unaccounted for—Frankie Lambretta. Again, Lambretta was nowhere to be found. That had Grano deeply disturbed. This time, the hit had been perpetrated by a competing Family, but there was only one way they could have known about the site, and that was Gino Pescia. He was the only one—outside of Don Lenzini and a few others—who knew that place in Los Angeles even existed.

  What the hell is going on here? Grano wondered.

  Grano had to admit that someone else was pulling all the strings on this one. But he had been in this business a long time, and he knew a setup when he saw one. He was almost convinced that this was just too elaborate to be a true conspiracy. Unless there was a part of the story he was missing. Grano was guessing that Lambretta was the one who could fill in that piece of the puzzle.

  On the one hand, it was possible that the Arabs had betrayed them. It was true that they had the manpower and equipment, if not the balls, to go after their people in San Francisco and make it look the competition. That would have then explained the hit in Los Angeles. Obviously, after the Arabs wiped out the private little army Gino had been building for himself in San Francisco, he went to Los Angeles and recruited the competition—competition that profited from Pescia’s drug peddling—to seek payback for the slaughter.

  The whole thing seemed pretty far-fetched, but supposing it was possible, that still didn’t explain for Lambretta’s disappearance. All others were accounted for, and if there had been survivors, Grano figured Lambretta should have been found among the dead. The guy wasn’t that good—hell, nobody was that good. And if, in fact, Lambretta had survived, then he was one tough bastard, in which case he could outfox all of them and should be considered a threat to the Family.

  But Lenzini saw it otherwise. He felt it was possible that Lambretta had escaped by the skin of his teeth, or after the hit he’d gone into hiding and had nothing to do with what had happened in San Francisco or Los Angeles. Lenzini was assuming that their true enemies were either members of the religious fanatics or a competing Family. Frankly, Grano wasn’t really buying either theory.

  “Hey, boss,” Trabucco said. “What’s the story here? Are we going to war?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a knot over this, Lorenz,” Grano replied harshly. “Nobody’s going to war with nobody yet. We need to find Frankie Lambretta, and we need to do it quick. But Don Lenzini wants us to watch our asses, because he thinks that if, and I mean if, the Arabs have betrayed us, we might be next on the hit list.”

  Joey DeLama spoke up, his heavy Bronx accent evident. “Mr. Grano, do you really buy this shit about the rags turning on us?”

  Grano saw an opportunity here to spout his own views. He wouldn’t normally have done so, out of respect for the old man’s wishes, but he figured it was okay since he’d been asked. After all, what could it hurt, right? He was entitled to have his opinion, and that opinion could disagree with Don Lenzini’s, just as long as he did his job.

  “No, I think it’s bullshit, Joey,” Grano replied. “I think that this Lambretta has some explaining to do, and that’s why I say we find him before we start jumping to conclusions. But that’s a good question, Joey. The rest of you guys could actually learn something from this kid.”

  “So where do we go now, Serge?” Trabucco asked.

  “I think we should pay a visit to Gino’s pad,” Grano replied. “He thought we didn’t know about his place, but he stupidly put the rent in the name of one of his girlfriends, thinking we didn’t know nothing about her, either. Except for the fact that Gino was loudmouth, and he bragged
so many times at his club about doing this hot babe in L.A., and before long he was throwing her name around to everyone who’d listen to him.”

  “You think we’ll find Frankie there?” Ape asked.

  “I don’t know,” Grano replied truthfully, “but at least it’s a place to start.”

  DESPITE THE FACT that soap and water had washed away the stench of gun powder, blood and smoke, one odor seemed to cling continuously to the Executioner: death. It was probably one he would never be able to fully wash away; at least, not as long as he had a duty to perform in this War Everlasting.

  Nonetheless, Mack Bolan felt almost relieved as he stepped from a very hot shower at Pescia’s apartment and quickly changed into street clothes. He knew time was running out, but he’d had to find a place to clean up and prepare for his next assault on Lenzini’s terror network, and this had proved as good a place as any. Still, Bolan wasn’t about to count on its security, so he’d left the lights off and navigated by either the night-lights or a small high-powered flashlight. By now, word would be out to the syndicate and its various Families that something bad had gone down in a mob-held operation, and that was going to get people moving. Bolan didn’t have any reason to think that he’d be safe behind any doorway the mob darkened.

  He withdrew the Desert Eagle and Beretta from their respective holsters, keeping one weapon loaded and at the ready while he quickly stripped and cleaned the other. The Beretta was first. Bolan used a high-pressure spray can of fast-drying, chlorinated solvent that cleared burnt powder residue and fouling from the major assemblies, safety, receiver and barrel of the pistol. He lightly oiled the moving parts and within minutes the Beretta was reassembled and locked and loaded. The warrior repeated these steps for the Desert Eagle, and loaded the .44 Magnum hand cannon before tucking it away in his weapons bag.

  Bolan tallied the count of C-4 blocks remaining—it would hardly be enough to bring down any sort of major structure. And since the Executioner wasn’t sure what he’d be up against in Seattle, it seemed obvious he was going to need support. He knew just where to get it. At first, he’d considered having Jack Grimaldi fly out and meet him in Seattle, but taking his rental that far would easily mean a drive of twenty-three hours, best speed, and it didn’t make sense when the Stony Man flier could be here in four to five. Considering refueling and other variables, that would easily put Bolan in Seattle within twelve hours. That seemed like the best plan. The only thing he would have to do is keep his head down while he waited.

  Bolan retrieved the special cellular phone he was carrying. The compact device wasn’t much larger than a credit card, and was nearly as thin, but it operated on high-speed alternating frequencies at a rate of seventeen channels per second, thereby making any conversation virtually undetectable. Additionally, it used a satellite communications system devised by Kurtzman and his cybernetics team. Affectionately termed the “Bear phone,” the device had almost unlimited range and could pinpoint the position of its user within an error margin of less than a quarter mile, and no error with a satellite visual confirmation.

  “It’s Striker,” Bolan announced to Aaron Kurtzman.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Still on schedule, but I’m running out of time. How are things there?”

  “Well, we’ve got someone at MacEwan’s apartment helping to coordinate activities. I’ve got two of my team working full-time on reverse compiling the code as MacEwan cracks it, and they’re writing corresponding assembly language programs to counteract the effects if this thing actually goes live.”

  “Have you gotten any leads on Rhatib?”

  “Nada,” Kurtzman replied. “And you should also know that Leo got some buzz on Lenzini’s people.”

  “Let me guess,” Bolan interjected. “They’re coming for me.”

  “In numbers, from what I understand.”

  “Significant?”

  “Nothing I’m sure you can’t handle,” Kurtzman replied. He added, “Unless they get the drop on you first.”

  Bolan could hear the almost teasing tone in Kurtzman’s voice, and he smiled. There was no question the news was serious, but Bear—in his own unique way—was trying to find a way to make things a bit lighter. That was something they could always count on; Kurtzman’s sense of humor held up even when the chips were down. It didn’t make the situation any less serious, or the matters any less grave, but it did manage to ignite a small spark of rejuvenation for the men and women of Stony Man who lived in an otherwise grim and bloody world.

  It also reminded Mack Bolan that the job he did kept hope alive in that world.

  “I’ll be watchful,” the warrior promised Kurtzman. “In the meantime, I need Eagle out here pronto.”

  “He’s just returned from the infirmary. He was going to pick up Able Team in Texas. Hal turned security of MacEwan’s mother over to the U.S. Marshal Service, since she’s no longer being watched. We don’t have any reason to suspect that members of the NIF will target her, and Hal doesn’t think they even know MacEwan’s helping us.”

  “That’s fine. How Hal handles that is entirely up to him,” Bolan replied. “If Able agrees to defer, how soon do you think Eagle can be here?”

  “Not sure of actual flying time, but if he knows you’ll need him, I’m sure he’ll be out of here within the hour.”

  “Good enough,” Bolan replied. “Tell him I’ll need plenty of supplies.”

  “Anything you need in specific quantities?”

  “High-yield explosives, as compact as Cowboy can get them,” Bolan replied.

  Kurtzman let out a booming chuckle. “Oh, he’ll love hearing that. He’s got some new stuff he just put together, and he says it will blow your socks off. No pun intended.”

  “I’m sure if that’s what Cowboy said, the pun was very much intended,” Bolan said with light laugh.

  Bolan suddenly sensed a problem, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Something just wasn’t right. A car had gone by, and a minute later another car had gone by in the opposite direction, and again a car had passed in the same direction as the first, and at about the same interval. It was too regular to be random traffic, not to mention it seemed suddenly busy at that early-morning hour. And even given the tourism in the area, and the regulars on the beach, Bolan hadn’t noticed it was that busy. Such activity meant one of two things: cops or bulls.

  Mack Bolan was betting it was the latter.

  The Executioner moved to the window and carefully parted one of the paper-thin, sheer curtains. A luxury SUV with darkened windows was slowing and pulling to the curb across the street, its lights extinguished.

  “Listen, Bear,” Bolan said, interrupting whatever Kurtzman had been saying. “I think that trouble you were talking about just showed up. Let Eagle know I’ll contact him.”

  “Understood, Striker, and you be—”

  “Out here,” Bolan cut in and hung up the phone.

  The Executioner watched at the window a moment longer—long enough to see the doors start to open and a group of very tough customers emerge—before packing up his weapons bag.

  If at all possible, he was going to exit quietly and avoid any possible confrontation. While the denizens of this building didn’t exactly fall into the upstanding citizens category, they were still innocents in this war, and Bolan didn’t want to chance being responsible for their deaths.

  After locking Pescia’s apartment door and heading for the back stairs, an elderly black woman suddenly opened her door and reached down for the newspaper. She stopped when she saw Bolan’s shoes, and her eyes trailed up his tall, muscular body to look him square in the eye.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “I ain’t seen you ’round here before.”

  Bolan raised his hand and showed her a wan smile. “Nobody important, ma’am. Just go back inside your apartment and don’t worry.”

  The woman placed one hand on her hip, shook the paper at him, and said, “Don’t you be giving me no lip, young man.
I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t talk to me that way. You don’t own this place!”

  Bolan started for the stairs, figuring that was his signal to just keep going, but the woman seemed intent on following him and scolding him. “Don’t you dare walk away from me while I’m talking to you! Didn’t your momma ever teach you any manners? You white folk just march in and out of here like you own the place, and—”

  The Executioner heard another door open and a louder, male voice cut her off. “Shit, Granny! What you yelling about now?”

  Bolan turned and saw a younger man, maybe a teenager or perhaps in his twenties, standing outside his door in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The old woman didn’t say anything, but instead just pointed at Bolan and studied the new arrival expectantly. The young man turned and looked at the Executioner for a moment, their eyes locking, and then he started walking toward Bolan.

  “What’s happening here, man?” the kid said. “You hassling this woman or something? This is my adopted grandma, whitey. You should be more careful about your business.”

  Bolan heard the first of the footfalls on the steps, and they were coming pretty quickly. What he didn’t have time for was an encounter with the approaching group, and he also didn’t want either of Pescia’s neigbours to get killed. So the warrior did the only thing he could, reaching inside his jacket and bringing the Beretta into plain view.

  “Get yourself and her back inside, and do it now,” he said.

  The kid stopped suddenly, nodded with obvious fear and then turned and tried to hustle the woman into her apartment. She went, but not quietly, and the disturbance had eaten away at the Executioner’s window of opportunity. Bolan was ready to make his exit when the men from the SUV appeared at the top of the front stairwell. The soldier immediately recognized the faces of Serge Grano and his lieutenant, Ape. Grano shouted as soon as he saw Bolan, but that was the least of the Executioner’s concerns. The young man had managed to get the old woman inside, but he turned to see the Mafia hard guys and he was obviously not content to let this business go. He started toward them, and Bolan knew at that point he had a choice to either escape or save the youth from himself and what was sure to be a swift and violent death. The Executioner realized, even as he ascended the three steps in a single leap and charged the kid from behind, that he’d never really had a choice.