California Hit

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan himself was firing for cover, not for effect. He moved out behind the blazing attack and found the so-so shelter of a stubby tree before the boys could pull their wits back together.

  By the time they had their doors open, he had snatched an ornament from the combat belt and baseballed an HE grenade along the course to facilitate their scrambling exit. It hit the ground a few yards shy and rolled on home, exploding directly beneath the vehicle and lifting it to full spring travel in a rocking-rolling motion.

  Two guys were still inside at that instant, and the others were no more than a pace away. Two of the outsiders were flattened, hard, by the blast. The other two were reeling away from there and firing handguns at the moon. The burpgun cut them down before they could get their legs fully beneath them.

  One of the guys still in the vehicle was screaming bloody murder… and then the secondary explosion came, the gas tank letting go with a horrible whooosh and sending a horizontal jet of fire streaking along the undercarriage like a flame-thrower. The car came up off its wheels, riding that cushion of fire, and the screamer lost it all in a final high-pitched gurgle.

  That took care of the rear.

  If you wanta play, guys, it’s best to bring your own ball.

  Bolan was already running along the treeline in a reverse course toward the houseboat.

  As he passed the van he shouted, “Okay, hit the drink!”—and again he turned the burper loose, desiring only to attract all eyes to that flaming muzzle and away from the girls.

  It was a successful diversion. He was drawing plenty of fire.

  Something tore through the fabric of his coat and another sizzling chunk practically parted his hair.

  Bolan dived in behind a rock, about midway between the warwagon and the boat, and he reloaded the heated burper while he ran a spot on the enemy.

  Some clown was on the roof of the houseboat with a, lever-action rifle. That boat had a flat, square roof, absolutely flat, with nothing more than a couple of 3-inch stovepipes and a TV antenna to serve as cover.

  Another guy was kneeling just off the gangway, taking cover behind a trash barrel, and plinking at Bolan with a small caliber pistol.

  The woods in front of the boat, now, were another matter altogether. Most of their firepower seemed to have been concentrated out there. Muzzle flashes were visible from about five widely scattered points, grouped in multiples, and they were laying a withering fire on him, keeping him pinned behind the rock.

  Bolan risked a craning inspection of the bay, and he was partially satisfied to note two girlish heads bobbing around out there just offshore.

  It was the two kids.

  Mary Ching was nowhere in evidence.

  Cynthey seemed to be stroking for the houseboat. As Bolan watched, she paused to tread water and cup her hands for a shout toward her goal. “Everybody out!” she screamed in a high falsetto. “All you kids get out of there!”

  Somebody was thinking.

  The guy on the roof levered a shot at Cynthey.

  Bolan splattered him with a single burst from the burper, then he yelled, “Cynthey, stay under!”

  It was an unnecessary direction. A glistening bare bottom rose to the surface as she went for depth, and she was gone in a flash. Panda, too, knew where safety was, and she immediately followed suit.

  San Francisco Bay had cold, cold water—and Bolan felt a bit bad about that—but it was still the best place for them, especially since both seemed in pretty good control of their environment. There was no control over that other environment—not for the noncombatant—and Bolan had not wanted them in that fire zone.

  He cast about for a glimpse of Mary Ching and came up with zero.

  Behind him the plug vehicle was now in roaring flames and sending a dense cloud of black smoke soaring skyward.

  It was a bad situation. He could have gone on out through that dissolved rear plug, sure, and left everybody to pick up their own marbles. But Bolan just did not play the game that way.

  So here he was—pinned down. Probably 15 or 20 guns out there somewhere. Several more on the boat.

  A Mexican stand-off could work no way but against Bolan. The heart of the village was less than a half-mile away; there would be an official reaction to that smoke and rattling firefight, and it could come damn quick.

  On the other hand, no one man could successfully rush those woods, nor could he remain content for long with merely good cover, cops or not. Someone was probably already circling around to get behind him.

  So.…

  Bolan put the burpgun aside and hauled out the big silver blaster. A sniping mission… with a handgun? Why not? The Auto Mag was certainly no ordinary handgun.

  He showed himself and waited for a muzzle flash, and it wasn’t much of a wait. Several came immediately. He tracked onto the most likely target and sent 240 grains right back at him, targeting right on the flash.

  The guy behind that muzzle came immediately into full view, pitching sideways and down and out of the picture.

  Bolan bobbed up again, and another exchange of fire produced a like result.

  It was a hell of a grim way to play Russian roulette.

  Somebody else out there was getting the same idea, and they were losing. There was movement out there—a shifting about.

  Then a rattling burst sounded to Bolan’s rear. He was swinging about to give the shortarm sniper a sniff of the situation when a guy fell away from the side of a rock, up on his flank, and the China doll stepped out from behind the van to sweep that entire side with a blazing machine-pistol.

  It was too late to do anything but try to cover her.

  Bolan rose to full height and extended the Auto Mag in a firing-range stance. The big piece boomed and belched fire in a rapid unload—and when the clip was empty Mary was up in the rocks on his exposed flank, in good cover now and firing selectively at specific targets.

  She was good, she was damned good, and Bolan knew that the tide of battle had turned.

  There was considerable movement out there now, quick movements in the direction of the boat.

  Many heads were now visible in the water, Bolan reckoned about a dozen in the quick scan, and it seemed that Cynthey’s buddies had joined her for the swim.

  He called up to Mary, “Okay! Hold it!”

  She called back, “Okay!”

  The woodchucks were bailing out, and Bolan counted them as they scampered out of the woods and scurried across the gangway onto the houseboat. Eight left. Great. He let them go, giving them the boat, his mind already drawing upon a certain way to cut short the stalemate.

  “Stay alert!” he warned Mary Ching.

  She waved at him.

  He thrust the Auto Mag into his belt and scooped up the burper, then moved into the trees and worked his way downrange toward the boat.

  It wasn’t really a boat, at all. It was just a big square raft with walls and a roof, a small porch which overhung the water in the gangway area, and a narrow walkway around the sides.

  The idea was firmly crystallized now and, from a range of about ten yards, Bolan opened fire on the nearest mooring tree.

  The big hawser popped dust and fuzz, then threads and strands; finally the cable parted with a groan.

  One end of the houseboat immediately swung away from the shore and stretched itself toward the open bay, dragging the gangway with it.

  Mary Ching, the China gunner, let out a whoop of delighted encouragement.

  Concerned faces appeared at the windows of the boat, and someone in there yelled, “What the hell is this?”

  Bolan was already circling toward the other mooring tree. He let it have another clip from the burpgun. This time the rope cable parted with a twang and an explosive pop, and BAYSAVERS quickly drifted away in an idle exploration of that which it would save.

  A youthful voice from the water yelled, “Our boat, our boat!”

  Another shouted, “Let it go! Bon voyage, freaks!”

  Bolan didn’t feel
too badly about the kids’ boat. The Coast Guard would drag it back to them… if something more disastrous didn’t occur before they made the scene.

  And there were more immediate problems.

  A distant siren was wailing down on them, descending from the direction of Sausalito.

  The crew of BAYSAVERS, now at a relatively safe distance from the fire zone, were manning the rail and staring back at the receding shoreline.

  Bolan me his lady gunner at the van, and they quickly stowed their weapons with a stony silence.

  Bolan moved to the driver’s side while Mary crawled in through the rear gate and secured that end, then she slid in beside him as he cranked the engine.

  The van had taken numerous punctures but, miraculously, all the glass was intact.

  She said, “Well. It still runs.”

  Bolan replied, “You see, we have this understanding.”

  He was see-sawing about in the turnaround when a glistening and shivering pair of porno girls descended on them.

  Bolan poked his head out the window and strove to keep his gaze at eye level as he told them, “Sorry to hit and run, but it’s time to buzz. The fuzz, you know.”

  Cynthey showed him a pained smile. “Just wanted you to know,” she panted. “I recognized some of those hoods. Two of them… I’ve seen several times with Thomas Vericci. He’s a director of—”

  Bolan said, “I know, Baysavers Ink. He’s also a Mafia honcho, Cynthey. Don’t let people con you like that.”

  She jerked her head and told him, “I’m just getting that idea. I think I’ve been conned about a lot of things.” She screwed her battered face around and said, “Listen. I didn’t know about this. I think they just collaborated on this thing. You know? While they pushed us around on Geary, these others came out here to cover all possibilities.”

  Bolan smiled soberly. “That’s the way I figure it.” The siren was getting louder and Mary Ching was beginning to fidget. He said, “You kids better buzz out of here. There could be a return visit.”

  “What do we tell the fuzz?”

  He handed her a marksman’s medal. “Give them this. It’s all the explanation you’ll need.”

  Panda the Bare blurted, “Bolan! Mr. Bolan! Thanks!”

  He grinned. “Stay cool and lay low. For awhile, anyway.”

  He dug the wheels in and burned away from there. They made it to the bridge approach seconds ahead of the official vehicles, and he turned a tight smile to the fastest gun in Chinatown.

  “I guess we made it,” he told her.

  “Is that all you have to say to me, Mr. Taciturn?”

  The smile loosened somewhat as he replied, “We’re alive, aren’t we? What can I add to that?”

  She leaned against him and hugged his arm.

  “You’re right,” she murmured. “What is there to add.”

  He relented. “Okay. You were great. You’re welcome to cover my flank any time.”

  “Gee,” she replied with a wry face. “You just made my whole day.”

  “Not quite.” They were rolling with the traffic now, crossing the big span. “It’s time for that call to Barney Gibson. You remember what to say?”

  She twisted the rose-petal face into a disgusted scowl. “Of course I remember what to say.”

  “Okay. I’ll drop you at the marina. Make the call and then get clear.”

  She growled, delicately, way up at the top of her throat, and told him, “And I get screwed without even a kiss.”

  He grinned at her and said, “What?”

  “Damned if I will. That phone call, old heart of rocks, is going to cost you one hellish kiss.”

  Bolan chuckled, and a minute later he pulled out of the traffic from the bridge and nosed into a little observation area.

  She got her hellish kiss, then a couple more, then he gruffly shoved her toward the door and told her, “Make the call.”

  Her eyes were all deep pools of understanding and tender concern.

  “You feeling better about everything now?” she huskily asked him.

  He nodded and replied, “Some.”

  A procession of police cars screamed past, headed for the bridge and reflecting the setting sun off their windshields.

  Bolan thought he spotted a black face in the lead car.

  Mary watched the procession pass, then she slipped outside, leaned back in for a final look, and told him, “That was quick. I’ll bet they’re barricading the Golden Gate. Doesn’t that make you feel important?”

  He told her, “Not exactly. Uh, if I get lucky, lady gunner, let’s meet you know where.”

  She said, “A thundering herd of dinosaurs couldn’t keep me away. Mack… dammit… don’t be so wild. Take care of yourself.”

  He gave her a solemn wink.

  She closed the door and stepped back. He beeped the horn at her and swung back into traffic.

  Most of it was headed the other way. It was that time of day, and the city was emptying itself.

  But not entirely.

  The plot was simple, sure, but Bolan was hoping it would keep a very select number of people inside the big, gutsy city this evening.

  Yeah, a very select number.

  Barney Gibson would not let him down, Bolan felt sure of that.

  But it still was not all in place and… no Mary, Mack Bolan was not feeling that much better yet. Not yet. It was time for the Executioner to add his ante to the growing pot.

  It was time to pay a call on an ambitious hood who thought he was destined to rule the earth.

  Then maybe, the Executioner would feel a lot better about his world.

  It was time to show some style to the king of style.

  He stepped out of the private elevator and iced the foyer sentry with the muzzle end of the Belle, firmly against the forehead.

  “It’s up to you if you live awhile,” Bolan coldly announced.

  The guy was a hard item, sure, and those eyes didn’t flinch much but he was thinking about long life and happier times. The voice was strained with controlled fury as he replied, “Sure, tough, let’s live a little.”

  Bolan asked, “Who’s in there?”

  “Just th’ boss.”

  “No one else?”

  “Would I lie to you, guy? At a time like this?”

  Bolan promised him, “If you’re wrong, silk, I’ll finish you on my way out.”

  The bodyguard felt that perhaps he should explain, to cinch the deal. In a cordial tone, he reported, “They’re all out chasing your tracks. He’s in there alone, buy it. Who’d of thought you’d just waltz in here? In broad daylight yet?”

  “You don’t like the guy much,” Bolan decided.

  The hardman shrugged, but carefully. “Pay’s the same whether I like ’im or not. There’s no pay for dead men.”

  If the guy was expecting a pat on the back, he was sorely disappointed. The Executioner felled him with a jolt to the throat, then made sure with a Beretta slap to the head.

  He fished the key from a special pocket and quietly let himself into the penthouse suite.

  A stereo tape system in the corner was recreating the Nashville sound, with Johnny Cash artistically relating the glory of the old days of railroading. Bright lights were on behind the bar. The bar itself was littered with soiled glasses and overflowing ashtrays, and it reeked of stale beer.

  Franco had been entertaining.

  Bolan passed on through the living room and into the glass side of the joint. All of San Francisco and goodly portions of Alameda and Marin Counties were laid out there for inspection.

  The sliding doors to the terrace were open. Bolan paused beside a planter with a real live tree embedded in it and called out, “Franco?”

  The enforcer was on his terrace, leaning against the safety wall on both forearms, enjoying the sight and smell in the late-afternoon sun of his city.

  He was in shirtsleeves and a pearl-handled snub was clipped to the belt at his waist.

  Franco turned his head o
nly, about halfway around, and said, “Yeah, who’s there?”

  “Me,” Bolan replied quietly.

  “Me—who the hell?” Franco asked nastily, turning fully around.

  Bolan had moved through the doorway. He was standing there with the Belle extended for easy viewing, and he must have presented an unsettling sight.

  The enforcer jerked upright and took one staggering step to the side, his hand snapping up with the movement in an automatic reaction.

  Bolan growled, “Uh-uh!”—freezing the hand with the suggested threat. It hung there, beside the pearl handle, clawing impotently and helplessly at the air.

  “Let’s talk this over,” Laurentis suggested in a strangling voice.

  Bolan said, “Talk is cheap, Franco.”

  “We can make it expensive. Uh, I like your style, man. I really do. Always have. Look. I don’t blame you for hitting the old man, Christ knows I don’t. I been thinking about something like that myself. I mean it.”

  “Save the long-winded hope, Franco,” Bolan suggested. “There’s nobody here but you and me. So let’s talk expensive. How expensive?”

  “Huh?”

  “How much are you willing to gamble on talk?”

  The ambitious hood stared at his visitor for a long moment, trying to read him, and Bolan could feel the cogs turning behind those eyes. Presently he replied, “I guess we could work out most anything. Couldn’t we?”

  “Not quite,” Bolan said in that icy voice. “Here’s the choice you can make. Certain death right here and now. Or a chance to get away slightly dirtied and no doubt marked for death later. If you want to gamble, I’ll give you that much of an out.”

  The eyes had narrowed, almost closed completely. “I don’t get you.”

  “I’m going to drill you right between the eyes and shove your carcass over that wall there.”

  Franco stiffened again and threw a quick glance toward the city. He must have decided that there was little style in going that way. He didn’t want to join the damned thing, he wanted to own it.

  “Or what?” he asked tensely.

  “Or you can walk in there to your telephone. Pick it up. Make two calls. One to Tom the Broker. The other to Vince Ciprio.”