New Orleans Knockout

by Don Pendleton

  The cruiser gained steadily. In a matter of seconds, Bolan’s binoculars were focusing on the profile of a beautiful but frightened young woman—the only occupant of the open two-seater. Bolan’s jaw tightened as he released the glasses and continued closing.

  He overtook the quarry in open water and a long way from anywhere, and he could see the desperate whites of her eyes as he raised the big silver Auto Mag and gave her a look at it.

  The girl’s shoulders slumped forward, and she killed the power, staring the pursuer down for a moment, then dropping the gaze in defeat.

  He circled her once as the little boat lost headway, then he came in on her quarter and tied the boats together.

  “Come aboard,” he commanded.

  “What’s this all about?” she yelled back, eyes jerking angrily as she stood up for the transfer.

  He gave her a hand and pulled her aboard the cruiser. A small girl—maybe a hundred pounds if dipped in egg yolk and rolled in bread crumbs—well made and beautifully proportioned, wind whipping at the silken jacket and pressing white flared slacks into the background of curvaceous thighs—luminous eyes that could reflect fear and anger with gloom and excitement, all at once—a beauty, a vaguely familiar brazen beauty, and the very last thing Mack Bolan needed in his life in this time and circumstance.

  She hit the deck of the cruiser with a flounce and took a swing at him.

  He caught the tiny fist and pressed a marksman’s medal into it, by way of introduction.

  “Easy,” he told her. “We could be friends or enemies.”

  She did a blank double take from the bull’s-eye cross to a roving search of that granite face, then she reacted.

  “Ohhh!” she cried. “Oh, thank God! Thank God for miracles!”

  Bolan showed the girl a sober smile and told her, “I guess that means we’re friends.”

  “My name is Toni Blancanales,” she puffed, “and you’d better damn well know we’re friends!”

  Friends, indeed.

  The Executioner had tracked a potential enemy scout and caught the kid sister of his old buddy and Death Squad survivor, Rosario “the Politician” Blancanales.

  And now he knew who’d engineered the fantastically sophisticated eavesdrop on Rocco Lanza. It could be none other than Gadgets Schwarz, the other surviving Death Squadsman.

  But why? For whom? What the hell were Pol and Gadgets doing mixing in the battle for New Orleans?

  More, still, what sort of unhappy situation could have possibly induced Pol to bring his kid sister in on such a hazardous operation?

  The answers to that would, to be sure, prove highly significant to the Southern campaign.

  7: DOUBLE TAKE

  The Death Squad had been formed during an early period of the Executioner’s war on organized crime. Hastily assembled in Los Angeles shortly after the first pitched battle of Bolan’s war effort, the nine members came from diverse backgrounds and brought unique talents to the squad. They had little in common except the Vietnam war, their interrelated part in it, a similar fate as veterans of it, and their misfit status as men competent at war but now psychologically suited for little else.

  Each of the squad had found realization of self in the high attainment of the grimmest skill of all: expertise at death and destruction. Which is not to say that the Death Squad was composed of bloodthirsty war merchants; it was simply that postwar life was anticlimactic and flat for these men who were on the high, dramatic edge of “life on the heartbeat.”

  Each of them had gladly dropped the humdrum that was “life after Vietnam” and rallied to the Executioner’s call.

  Another thing they held in common was an unshakable respect and admiration for Mack Bolan, and he for them.

  He knew now that the squad had been ill-conceived and unwisely fielded. They had understood the high-risk factors of their game, of course, and certainly all were as aware as Bolan that they could not continue indefinitely against the impossible odds confronting them. Still, Bolan blamed himself for bringing them into his problem—and he felt heavily the burden of responsibility for the deaths of seven of the greatest guys to ever walk his warpaths.

  Only Blancanales and Schwarz survived that climactic death charge on the DiGeorge Family of Southern California, and even they had gone to jail. Thanks to Bolan’s “war purse,” some great legal talent, and a sympathetic state prosecutor, Pol and Gadgets had been allowed to plead to misdemeanor charges and had spent very little time behind bars. They were marked men from that day, however—marked by the mob for death—and their lives had become a dismal charade of hiding behind assumed identities and depressingly low-profile life styles.

  As for the dead seven, Bolan would forever carry them in his heart and conscience, and that traumatic experience in Los Angeles would always affect his decisions in war and the question of “taking on allies.” He had worked alone ever since, except for a bit of indirect assistance now and then from old friends and new who seemed somehow destined to keep cropping up on his paths of war.

  There had been a single exception to the “man alone” routine, and that had been in San Diego—quite a few battles back—and the exception had been, sure, Blancanales and Schwarz once again. Bolan had, in fact, been summoned to San Diego by the two on a rescue mission for a former C.O. The San Diego siege had its bad memories too—but not any involving the two Death Squad survivors. They’d come through that one with not only physical dimensions well intact but with new horizons for their personal lives as well. At their farewell in San Diego, Bolan had suggested that the two pool their unique talents and go into a business befitting those talents—and again Bolan had donated his war purse to get them started.

  The Executioner war had been a hot one ever since—with a lot of miles, blood, and corpses separating San Diego from New Orleans—and there’d been no further contact between Bolan and his buddies from Able Team. He hadn’t even known if they had actually established their private enterprise, or even if they’d remained in the country.

  Now he knew.

  The story spilling from Toni Blancanales during that tense return to the yacht harbor confirmed that the men had indeed formed their company—an investigations outfit called “Able Group”—and that they had come to New Orleans “on a job.”

  According to the girl, Able Group did not handle illegal assignments. They specialized in electronic security—a sort of counterespionage service for small companies and professional men who, for one reason or another, might themselves be subjected to illegal surveillance.

  And things had been going pretty well. Toni considered it a sign of the times that such a service was in widespread demand.

  Able Group had come to Louisiana in response to a one-shot contract with a political headquarters upstate. The politicos wondered if they were being bugged. Able Group confirmed the suspicion, neutralized the problem, and instructed the locals in basic security and detection routines. That contract led to another small job, this one in Baton Rouge, and it was there that they were approached by a “Mr. Kirk” who presented credentials that identified him with the governor’s office.

  Mr. Kirk had a special hush-hush job for Able Group. He provided them with a written contract, an electronic surveillance authorization carrying the purported signature and seal of a U. S. district judge, and apparently the full backing of the state of Louisiana.

  The job: bug Rocco Lanza.

  Neither of the partners had ever heard of Lanza. The background story given by Mr. Kirk seemed plausible enough. The official documents appeared genuine. Still, they had misgivings about accepting the job—something had seemed off center.

  It bothered both men that they were forbade contacts with state police or other governmental agents; Kirk was to be their only point of contact. Their fees and expenses were paid in cash from a special fund, which, Kirk hinted, was partially subsidized by Washington.

  Kirk partly allayed their vague worries with an enigmatic story about “political interconnect
ions in the police establishment” and “the need for absolute secrecy until we’re ready to indict.”

  It was their first big job—Able Group took it, misgivings and all.

  It had then required two weeks to set the thing up, to get inside that house on the point, plant their equipment, then actually institute surveillance.

  They had beaten Mack Bolan to the job by three days.

  Neither man had been seen or heard from since.

  Toni Blancanales was half out of her mind with worry. She was an “agent” for Able Group as well as secretary and business manager. Usually she participated in the planning and setup phases, doing her thing as a “cheesecake decoy” and con girl. It was she who had “sold” Rocco Lanza the new TV antenna installation, including wall-jacks in every room of the house, even the bathrooms.

  “I’ve sold everything from bibles to condominiums,” she told Bolan. “It’s no harder to sell bugs.”

  Bolan could believe it. She was quite a gal. Not quite the “kid” he’d thought, either. She looked eighteen but was closer to twenty-five, a third-year dropout from Columbia—worked briefly as an airline stewardess, from there married and divorced (“almost overnight—he was a rat”)—from that moment on almost as restless as her brother, whom she called “Rosie.”

  Toni had jumped at the offer to join Able Group and now regarded her role there as “my niche in life.”

  Niche or not, she was a very distraught young lady when Mack Bolan made his personal appearance into her life.

  “It’s just not like the boys to go off and not keep in touch,” she said dismally. “I know something’s gone sour, I know it has.”

  She had not been able to locate Mr. Kirk or anyone who would even admit to knowing him. The writ authorizing the electronic surveillance did not check out; it was a forgery. Toni had checked all the jails, morgues, and hospitals in the area.

  Finally, in desperation, she’d returned to “the scene of the crime”—the Lanza place, on the pretext of a customer-satisfaction check, only to find “everyone charming” and “no bad vibes” to indicate an awareness of the dirty work in the antenna job.

  “So this morning I took the boat out to the drop to see if the thing was still operational. It was.” She held up the tape with a rueful smile. “As far as I know, this is only the second collection. The last I saw of Rosie and Gadgets, they were headed out here for the first pickup. That was a week ago. It was supposed to be a proof run, a check of the technical quality. If all was okay, they were to then contact Mr. Kirk and turnkey the whole works to him. Our job was done.”

  “But you never heard from them,” Bolan commented. “You don’t know that they actually made a pickup, or that they ever contacted this guy Kirk.”

  “Right. And Mr. Kirk has become a wraith. I would have to wonder if he ever existed, except that I saw him once.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes. At the last meeting to seal the deal. It was at Marty Jackson’s Jazz Joint, a dive on Bourbon Street.”

  Bolan’s hackles quivered.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, noting the flash of Executioner eyes.

  “Nothing. Go on.”

  “That’s all. Kirk didn’t see me, if that’s what’s bothering you. At least, not in any reference to Rosie and Gadgets. I was at the bar, looking as demure as possible, while the boys met with Kirk at a back table. I was sort of—sort of …”

  “Scouting the backtrack,” Bolan suggested.

  “Yes. We sometimes do that. Gadgets calls it ‘double-teaming’—he’s very security conscious.”

  “A lesson hard learned in Vietnam,” Bolan said with a tight smile. “Can you describe this man Kirk?”

  “Better than that,” she replied. “He has a famous look-alike.”

  The hackles stood stiffly to attention and Bolan growled, “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she said, mimicking his tone. “You know the dreamboat Italian singer, Enzo Stuarti?”

  Bolan turned his face away from that revelation, not wanting the girl to see the certain conclusion in his eyes, nor the ghosts from the past swirling through his consciousness.

  At the moment he would not have given a marksman’s medal for the chance that Gadgets Schwarz and Rosario Blancanales would ever be seen or heard from again. The Death Squad, it seemed, was finally gone forever.

  8: DOUBLE-TEAMED

  There was no doubt in Bolan’s mind that Tommy Carlotti was “Mr. Kirk”—the man behind the mysterious surveillance of Rocco Lanza. The major question remaining unanswered was the one of motivation. Was Carlotti carrying the action on his own? Was he doing it under orders from Marco Vannaducci? Or was he working in collusion with some outside party?

  It would be utter nonsense to even consider the possibility that the whole thing had been no more than a snare for Blancanales and Schwarz. There would have been no need to go that far with such a scheme; if Carlotti or others in the mob had known the true identity of the pair, the first contact would have been the last—if that had been the logic behind the contact.

  Bolan had returned both boats to the yacht harbor and docked them. He asked Toni, “Were the guys still using their cover names?”

  She nodded. “Morales and Logan, yes. Rosie doesn’t even introduce me as his sister, and I go by my married name—Davidson. Why? What are you thinking?”

  He dismissed the far-out possibility with a shake of the head. “Nothing that would make sense. I was just wondering—you know, I guess, that there’s an open Mafia contract on those two.”

  She replied, “Sure, I knew that. But what …”

  “Don’t you know yet that Lanza is a Mafia boss?”

  The girl’s eyelids fluttered rapidly over that idea.

  Bolan hastily told her, “Relax, I’ve already dismissed the thing as a coincidence. Look, Toni—I’m running on damn tight numbers. That means that I’m into a blitz and I have to place every step with care. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  She gave him a mechanical nod of the head.

  She was one who always had it together, he was thinking. So lovely, so damned alluring—even while obviously worried and scared half out of her skull, she kept it together.

  She was telling him, “You’re about the closest thing to a god Rosie has ever believed in. Talks about you all the time.” She showed Bolan a stiff smile. “Mack would do it this way—Mack did it that way. Yes, I know what you’re saying. You’re saying that Rosie and Gadgets can just go to hell, you’ve got a job to do.”

  He could not decide if she was working him, accusing him, or simply being outright candid. Pol had certainly thought the world of this kid sister. Carried wallet snapshots of her all through Vietnam, bragged about her constantly. “A chip off the old Blanc,” he used to call her.

  Bolan smiled sadly to himself and lit a cigarette while he thought into the situation. He blew the smoke toward the horizon upon which was perched the glass and stone mansion of Rocco Lanza, then quietly replied. “That’s the way you see it, eh?”

  “That’s the way,” she said. “It’s also the way Pol would see it if your situations were reversed. You’re both crazy. You put such importance on—on …”

  Bolan was still gazing toward nowhere. Speaking almost to himself, he said, “I’d knock down the gates of hell if I thought I’d find them there. The problem is that I don’t know. And I’ve already blown the soft approach. The mob knows I’m here, and they know I’m blitzing. The whole New Orleans mob is walking around on eggshells right now. Your man Kirk, by the way, is a local hood and budding capo by the name of Tommy Carlotti. I’ve already rousted him and put the mark of the beast on him. He’ll be nowhere but in a crowd of torpedoes from here on.”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said quietly, dropping her gaze to an inspection of delicate hands—folding them, clasping them. “It’s a fault of mine—leaping to judgment. You are concerned, aren’t you?”

  Bolan growled softly, “Sure I’m concerned. But you didn
’t let me finish stating the problem. There’s more, and you may as well be aware of it. Time.”

  “What?”

  “Time. Too much of it. Too little of it. You say they’ve been missing for a week. That’s too damn long. Do you read that?”

  Toni released a quivering breath as she replied, “Yes, I guess I read that.”

  “Okay. I’m going to do what I can. As I said, though, I’m on tight numbers. I’m committed to a timetable and a course of action that had all come together long before I knew about Able Group. I have to follow through on the battle plan. It’s the only thing I can do at this stage of things. It’s also probably the best thing I can do, as concerns Pol and Gadgets. If they’re still alive—and I do mean if—then they’re for sure in the hands of at least one of the factions I came here to bust. The best I can think to do at the moment is to simply bust on—and hope that our guys will get dislodged somewhere in the process.”

  Toni’s lip curled as she commented, “Isn’t that sort of like blowing up a burning building to save some people trapped on the top floor?”

  “That’s about what it amounts to,” Bolan admitted. “But the whole town has gone hard by now, and that’s the problem. Let me give you some background first, Toni, then I’m going to offer you a choice of action. Marco Vannaducci is the man and the power here. But he’s old, dying slowly from a dozen ailments and plain decay, hounded by the feds—a desperate man desperately trying to hold together what he’s got. And what he’s got is an empire with annual revenues estimated at about a billion—that’s a billion.”

  “That’s a lot,” Toni agreed, eyes saucered.

  “More than the average person can even visualize. It’s a lot of bucks and one hell of a magnetic attraction for a bunch of cutthroats who’d slash their bosom buddies for a handful of nickels. Marco’s designated heirs are Carlotti, Lanza, and a few more psychopaths who each would love to be the only heir. And that’s just one side of the coin. On the other are roughly a dozen other large Mafia families who control the rest of the country. They’d all love to get together and slice up this Southern pie for their own fat bellies. Are you reading?”