Death Squad
The Executioner, Book Two
Don Pendleton
For my sergeant son, Steve—and for all those gallant men of the Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols, 9th Infantry Division, Vietnam.
But wherefore thou alone? Wherefore with
thee Came not all hell broke loose?
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
We’ll hit the Mafia so fast, so often, and from so many directions they’ll think hell fell on them. We steal, we kill, we terrorize, and we take every Goddamned thing they have. Then we’ll see how powerful and well organized they are.
—Mack Bolan, THE EXECUTIONER
PROLOGUE
Of all the grim specialties developed by U.S. fighting men in Vietnam, Mack Bolan had fallen heir to the most ruthless and cold-blooded job of all. Sergeant Bolan was a sharpshooter, a nerveless perfectionist, and a man who could certainly command himself. He quickly became the most renowned sniper of the combat zones. His many kills and daring methodology had earned for him the unofficial title of The Executioner. And then Mack Bolan had been summoned home on an emergency furlough to bury his father, his mother, and his teenage sister—victims of violent death. Bolan learned that the international crime syndicate known as the Mafia had indirectly figured into the tragedies.
Bolan’s grief turned to white-hot fury, and he declared all-out warfare on the local Mafia entrenchments of his hometown, the Eastern city of Pittsfield. Unhampered by the usual restrictions imposed on legal authorities, Bolan carried jungle-warfare concepts directly to the enemy, and The Executioner’s Battle of Pittsfield became an American legend overnight. Single handedly he smoked out the gangland principals and executed them in a daring series of encounters. “I am not their judge,” Bolan declared. “I am their judgment—I am their executioner!”
But he was definitely outside the law. Though many officials secretly applauded the executioner’s actions, he was officially charged with multiple counts of murder, arson, intimidation, and miscellaneous mayhem. And to the executioner’s certain knowledge, he had found no victory at Pittsfield. He had become a man marked for death, sought by every law-enforcement agency in the nation and with every resource of the worldwife Mafia organization geared to his destruction. Bolan left Pittsfield with the feeling that he was setting out on his last mile—but he was determined to stretch that final mile to its highest yield, to fight the war to its last gasp. Mack Bolan’s last mile was going to be a bloody one. The Executioner would live life to the very end.
Chapter One
THE GAME
The Executioner arrived in Los Angeles on the evening of September 20 without fanfare or prior announcement. Approaching from Las Vegas, he followed the freeways across the city, exited into Santa Monica, and angled southward along the coastal highway. Several minutes later he pulled alongside a telephone booth at a service station, consulted the directory, then thumbed a dime into the coinbox and dialed the number of an ex army buddy, Vietnam veteran George Zitka. A cautious voice answered the ring. Bolan grinned and spoke crisply into the mouthpiece. “Early Bird, this is Fireman. What is your situation there?”
A startled gasp, then momentary silence. Then a voice of quiet emotion replied, “Situation normal, Fireman. Suggest you bypass and proceed direct to Kwang Tri.”
“Negative,” Bolan replied, his voice stiffening somewhat. “It’s time for R and R, and I’m coming in.”
“Suggest Kwang Tri for R and R,” the voice responded in controlled urgency.
“Negative, I’m coming in,” Bolan clipped. He hung up, stared thoughtfully at the dial for a moment, then returned to the car, drove to the rear of the service station, and again descended to the pavement. He removed his coat, reached into the glove compartment and produced a snub-nosed .32 revolver and shoulder holster, slipped it on, tested the breakaway several times, then loaded the revolver and snapped it into place. “Kwang Tri, my ass!” he muttered as he drew on the coat.
Twenty minutes later a hot little sports car eased through the arched gateway and along the parking ramp of a flashy apartment complex and came to rest in an open spot opposite the oval-shaped swimming pool. A tall man wearing dark glasses unwound from the small vehicle and stepped out onto the multicolored flagstones, coolly surveyed the swinging scene at poolside, then set off across the patio and through the near-nude swarm of life encamped there. Blazing lights provided glaring illumination in the darkness. Several hi-fis were going full blast in a cacaphony of mod sounds, but not even the electronic amplifications could overcome the noise level of scores of energetic voices raised in breathless chatter and excited revelry.
A large blonde in a minibikini was go-going from atop the shoulders of two bronzed youths out at pool center; a shriekingly amused girl was trying to hand a tall glass up to her. Bolan grinned to himself and shook his head against the frantic din, halting momentarily to consult a building directory at the base of the outside stairway. A dazzling beauty in a flesh-colored bikini came down the stairs, carefully balancing a tray of drinks. Bolan stood aside to let her pass; instead, she pushed the tray toward him. His right hand jerked instinctively towards the opening in his coat, then froze in relaxed constraint as the near nudie giggled and said, “Name your numbness, baby.”
Bolan smiled. “I’m not in the party,” he told her. “Thanks just the same.”
“This’s no party. This’s a way of life.” Her voice was slurred in alcoholic realization. “Get into something revealing and come on down.” She giggled again and went on her way, hips swaying in the certain knowledge that her departure was being appreciatively watched.
Bolan went on up the stairs, paused at the first landing to gaze down on the swinging scene below, then continued slowly to the third level. Each apartment opened onto the courtyard; the level-three porch was deserted. Doors along Bolan’s route of travel stood open, as though the entire building housed one big, swinging family. It seemed probable that most of the tenants were at poolside. The noise from below seemed to amplify as it rose toward the higher levels. Bolan wondered vaguely how anybody could live in such a racket.
He found the door he sought, conspicuously closed, and pressed the announcer. A peephole opened almost immediately, and an eye glared out at him. “Yeah?” a muffled voice said.
“George Zitka,” the tall man replied. “He live here?”
“That’s the name on the door, isn’t it?”
“I don’t believe everything I read.” Bolan removed his sunglasses and dropped them into a coat pocket, the hand remaining to hover near the opening in the coat. “Is that you, Zitter?”
“Yeah.” The peephole closed quickly, and the door cracked open. Bolan cast a quick glance right and left, then launched his 200-plus pounds into a vicious kick against the partially open door, following through with a rolling tumble into the darkened apartment.
Explosive reports and sizzling projectiles provided the welcome as several handguns unloaded in rapid fire, the muzzle flashes triangulating along his route of entry. Bolan’s own weapon found his hand even as he was twisting across the floor, and a new sound was added to the gunfire symphony. A grunt and a thud near the open doorway announced the results of the first retort, and already the second and third words were being introduced into the reply. Then there was silence, except for a sighing groan off to one corner of the room.
“Zitter?” Bolan called out softly.
“Zitter,” came an immediate reply. “That you, Mack?”
“It’s me.” Bolan was rolling slowly as he spoke. “you okay, Zit?”
“Yeah. There’s three of ’em. You get all three?”
“Check—three,” Bolan replied. He sighed and got to his feet, returned to the door and found the light switch, then closed t
he door and turned on the lights.
Three men were lying about the small room like grotesque statues of death. Zitka sat in a corner on the floor, ropes binding his wrists and ankles. Bolan produced a pocket knife and cut the ropes. “You should have told your buddies the password,” he said, grinning.
“Buddies hell!” Zitka muttered. “What’d you do to your hair?” He was rubbing the circulation into his hands and feet.
“Bleached it,” Bolan said. “Cute huh? Tried the mustache route too but couldn’t stand the filthy thing. What’d you let them tie you up for?”
Zitka growled an unintelligible response and reached for a pack of cigarettes on a nearby table. A dark man, heavily built, he moved with surprising grace. He was dressed only in a swimsuit.
Bolan had moved to one of the dead and was busily searching pockets and laying the contents out for inspection. “How’d you know they weren’t cops?” he asked off-handedly.
“Cops don’t slap you around and tie you up like a turkey,” Zitka growled.
Bolan nodded. “They’re Maffios,” he reported.
“Dammit, I told you to stay clear.”
Bolan smiled and moved to the next body. “Thanks for the tip. But the ambush at Kwang Tri was a helluva lot hotter than this one.”
“These bastards ain’t playing games, Mack.”
Bolan was still smiling. “Weren’t much of a match for a couple of old jungle fighters, were they? Pretty cute the way you tipped me, Zit. Of all places to go for R and R. Kwang Tri, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah,” Zitka said sourly. He had yet to find a glint of humor in the situation.
“How long they been encamped, Zit?”
“The big guy there has been hanging around a coupla days. I knew he was reconning. I figured they had a phone tap on me. The TV and papers here were full of your private little war with the Mafia. I had the setup figured, all right. The phone was tapped. Soon as you hung up they came busting in here. Hell, I hadn’t been worried until I got your call, Mack. You’re the last guy on earth I expected to show up here. You shoulda stayed clear. You really should’ve.”
Bolan’s smile became a dark scowl. “I couldn’t stay clear, Zit,” he replied. “The bastards have backtracked my entire life. I found stakeouts every place I went. They were waiting for me in Omaha, in Denver, at Gordon’s place up in Evergreen, at Vegas—and now here. It’s getting to be too damn much, Zit. Dammit, I need …” His voice trailed off, and he raised baffled eyes to his friend.
“What you need, buddy, is a miracle,” Zitka declared. His eyes dropped. “And what I need is to get this garbage the hell out of here.”
Bolan sighed. “Call the cops, Zit. Tell them what happened. Meanwhile I’ll be fading across the nearest horizon.”
“You want me to kick the hell right outta you?” Zitka fumed.
“This isn’t your war,” Bolan said quietly. “No need for you to get involved.”
“Shut up, just shut up!” Zitka said angrily. “I wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t dragged my riddled ass out of Phung Due.”
“I just don’t want—”
“Screw what you don’t want. You came here, didn’t you? Awright, you’re here, and I ain’t blowing no whistles! Let’s just get these stiffs to hell out of my apartment. Then we’ll figure out what to do next. But you ain’t fading across no horizons, buddy.” He held out his hand, and Bolan gripped it tightly. “Now unless I’m up there scoutin’ for you.”
They shook hands solemnly, then stood quietly surveying the latest carnage of The Executioner’s war. Bolan kicked lightly at a dead foot. “Don’t suppose anybody’s tumbled to the gunfire yet,” he murmured. “Not with all the other racket around here. What kind of joint is this, Zit? Does this noise go on all the time?”
“Just about.” Zitka smiled. “Places like this are the new scene, Mack. Residence club, it’s called—for swinging singles only. I had to lie about my age to get this apartment. Would you believe I’m in the older generation?”
Bolan chuckled. “The guys over in ’Nam don’t really know what they’re fighting for, do they? Well … I’m driving a ’Vette. It makes a lousy garbage truck. What kind of car do you have?”
“It’ll serve as a garbage scow,” Zitka replied. “The only way outta here, though, is out through the patio. We’ll have to lug them right through the swingers.”
“From what I saw, it wouldn’t be too startling a sight,” Bolan said musingly “Well, let’s give it a try. You lead the way.”
Zitka picked up a keycase from a corner table, then carefully positioned a body on the floor and heaved it onto his shoulder. Bolan swung on aboard in a fireman’s carry and followed Zitka onto the porch and down the stairway. He found it weirdly incredible that such a short time had elapsed since he had climbed those stairs. The revelries at poolside seemed unchanged, except that now the blonde go-going in the pool had been joined by several others; they seemed to have some sort of contest going. Someone shouted a greeting to Zitka, and a playful couple nearly spilled Bolan and his corpse into the pool. Otherwise, they were totally ignored. Bolan paused alongside a table to reposition his load. He smiled at a gargantuan-chested cutie in a technically topless swimsuit, lifted her glass to his lips and tasted it, then thanked her and went on. He found Zitka stuffing a body into the rear seat of a late-model Dodge and added his own burden to the repository.
Zitka was huffing with exertion and complaining about his feet and the rough pavement. “One to go,” Bolan declared. He was pushing at a protruding foot and trying to close the car door.
“Let me get him,” Zitka said. “I need to get into some clothes anyway. I’ll make it fast.” He hurried back toward the patio. Bolan walked over to his Corvette, took a handful of ammo from the glove compartment, and dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he returned to the Dodge, reloaded his weapon, lit a cigarette, and waited. The cigarette was less than half-gone when Zitka reappeared, dressed in jeans, a knit shirt, and deck shoes and carrying the third gunman.
A car swept up the drive at that precise instant, catching Zitka in the full glare of the headlights. It halted with a lurching bounce, as though the driver had floorboarded the brake pedal; doors on each side were flung open, and a flurry of human activity erupted around the vehicle. Jungle instincts moved Bolan into a flying dive across the Dodge just as the chatter of an automatic weapon laced the night air above the sounds of patio revelry. Projectiles were zipping into the Dodge in a full sweep from bumper to bumper. In the periphery of his vision, Bolan noted that the dead gunman who had been on Zitka’s shoulder was now lying across the trunk of a parked automobile; Zitka himself was not in sight. Bolan’s .32 was in his hand, but it seemed small comfort in the face of the burpgun that was methodically spraying the area about him. He rolled and crawled along the line of parked cars until he was directly opposite the attacking vehicle.
Another chattergun had joined the action, one on either side of the car now, and the fire was still being directed in the general direction of the Dodge. A pistol cracked from somewhere downrange, then again; both headlamps of the enemy car shattered, and the lights went out. One of the gunmen yelled a muffled warning, and one of the automatics began spraying the car upon which Zitka had dumped the body.
Bolan smiled grimly; Zit was in the action—he had anticipated Bolan’s movement and was providing diversionary fire. The gas tank of the latest target exploded in a spectacular fireball. An unfamiliar voice cried, “Goddammit! Lookit that!” Bolan jerked to his feet just as a nattily dressed man pounded around the line of cars; his .32 arced up and exploded, and the man hit the pavement and slid grotesquely into a fetal ball.
One does not plan each successive step of a firefight. Actions in warfare proceed from the instincts, not from the intellect, and Bolan’s first shot, at such proximity to the enemy, of necessity became a fusillade. Diving and shooting, rolling and shooting, eyes ever on the enemy—these are the dictates of effective warfare at eyeball range, a
nd The Executioner knew them well. One chattergun was silenced by his third shot. The other gunman had spun to the rear of the vehicle and was frantically trying to bring the spraying track onto Bolan’s furious advance. There was not time. Bolan’s fifth shot tore into the gun arm; the sixth impacted squarely on the bridge of the nose even before the heavy weapon could fall to the ground, and man and chatterer went to earth together.
Another man scampered around the front fender of the vehicle, firing wildly with a pistol, the bullets singing past Bolan and ricocheting into automobiles behind him. Bolan’s .32 was empty. He went into motion, leaping toward cover, just as Zitka stepped into the open, pistol raised to shoulder level, and popped two shots into the other man’s chest. Silence descended. Even the patio was quiet. The burning automobile was lending an eerie quality to the silence. A gradually growing babble of excitement was beginning to issue from the patio area.
Zitka had run over to the Dodge and was dragging the dead bodies out onto the pavement. Bolan moved swiftly to the Corvette, started it, and swung toward the Dodge, slowing down for Zitka to jump in, then gunned down the ramp and onto the street. Zitka relaxed into the backrest. “Got that garbage to hell out of my car,” he panted.
“Let the cops figure it,” Bolan clipped. He was heading west; moments later they intersected the coast highway and swung southward.
“Wonder if the insurance company will pay off,” Zitka worried aloud.
“Huh?” Bolan was driving leisurely now, allowing his nervous system to get its pace.
“My car. Did you see it? Full of holes. Tore all to hell. I bet the bastards won’t pay off.”
“Welcome back to the war,” Bolan said.
“I didn’t know I’d miss it so much.”
“You serious?”
“Sure I’m serious. Haven’t had so much fun since I got back to this vale of tears.”
They drove in silence for several minutes. Zitka lit a cigarette, handed it to Bolan, then lit another for himself. Presently, Bolan said, “You’re a good friend, Zit.”
Death Squad Page 1