Death Squad

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan paused to light a cigarette. “For that very reason,” he continued, exhaling as he spoke, “I have an idea that his troops might break and run when the shooting starts. If they do, we’ll give hot chase. They just might lead us to their ‘hard’ house. I feel certain they have one, somewhere in the area.”

  Zitka spoke up. “You get any feeling for the interior layout of the house?”

  Bolan wagged his head. “No, and I doubt that we’ll need it. The way it looked to Brother and me, they’re going to hold their council outside, on the patio. They were setting up the bars and stocking them when we were out there.”

  “Italianos like a bit of beef and beverage with their business meetings,” Andromede commented with a smile.

  Fontenelli shifted about restlessly. “I been wondering when the Italiano bit would start,” he muttered.

  “Hell, I didn’t mean anything like that,” Andromede replied quickly. “Some of my best friends are Italianos.”

  Deadeye Washington guffawed loudly. “Where’ve I heard that line before?” he howled.

  “Sometimes I wonder if I’m on the wrong side,” Fontenelli grumbled.

  “Okay, knock it off,” Bolan commanded in a mild voice. “This’s no race war, and it sure as hell is no vendetta against the Italian people.”

  “What the hell you think the Mafia is?” Andromede said, grinning.

  “It’s Dago Power, man,” Washington said gleefully.

  Everyone except Fontenelli laughed. “Mafia don’t mean the same thing as Italian,” he said stiffly. “Who the hell you think was catching all the hell from the Maffianos back inna old days, back inna old country? Italianos got no love for those bastards. I never even knew anybody in the Mafia, in my whole life.”

  “Hey, kid, cool it,” Andromede said. “We’re just having fun.”

  “I got a better reason than anybody here to hate them bastards,” Fontenelli persisted. “They give the whole Italian race a bad name.”

  “Shit, I love the goddamn Italianos!” Andromede declared emotionally. “Especially the women! Oooo, them goddamn lovin’ women! Didn’t I tell you I was going back to Jersey with you someday? Didn’t I?”

  “Okay, so I’m oversensitive,” Fontenelli said grudgingly. He glanced at Washington and smiled.

  Washington winked at him. “They let black people in that Mafia?”

  Fontenelli chuckled. “Well, they used to call it The Black Hand.”

  “Oooo-eee! They gonna have to integrate all of me, man, not just my black hands.”

  Bolan was glad for the brief personal exchange. It had released some tensions. But time was growing short. “Okay, back to the war,” he said. “And back to Zitter’s question. I doubt that we’ll need to worry about the interior of DiGeorge’s house. If they retreat into the house, we will not go in after them. We’ll just strafe hell out of it and then abort the mission. Can’t take the risk of trying to smoke them out, because the cops will be on the scene damn quick—I feel sure of that. So—”

  Gunsmoke Harrington said, “You’re basing our strategy, then, on them breaking and running right after we make contact.”

  Bolan nodded. “Or soon after. There’s a … well, here’s my reasoning. The word is out, see. These people know that the police are planning a rousting operation, to begin tomorrow morning. Now. What’s the purpose of this council tonight? First, I figure, is to set the strategy for a counteroffensive against us. The second item of business will undoubtedly have to do with the police threat. I just can’t believe that they will want to go on home and wait for the cops to begin the harrassment. A lot of these people are living highly respectable roles, and they don’t like their names in the police news any more than any other respectable citizen would.

  “So here’s what I think they’ll decide to do. I think they will decide to join forces against us. I think they will decide to leave home for a while. The best possible place for them to achieve both objectives at the same time is at their hard site. I know damn well they have one somewhere in the area. In three different recorded conversations today, Varone mentioned ‘the family home.’ They have one—and we want to help them decide to go there. Okay?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Zitka commented.

  “Okay.” Bolan stepped over to a portable blackboard, on which was drawn a rough sketch of the DiGeorge neighborhood. “First I want to set the positions. Then we’ll run through the individual missions. Deadeye and I will be on this hillside to the west, with the long pieces. Bloodbrother is above us, on the rim of the hill, eagling. Chopper and Gunsmoke at the rear, here … and here … flanking with the automatics. Zitter and Boom on tracking stations, here … and here … I may have to call you in if things go sour, so be ready for a fire mission. Flower Child on the south flank, rear. Get your grenade launcher, Flower, and stake out a good spot to fly from.”

  Andromede grinned and wet his lips.

  “Chopper will cover you when you begin your grenade assult. Now—Gadgets will be inside the horse, Politician driving. Keep that big mother moving, Pol, and don’t get in too close. Gadgets will be monitoring the police radio nets and keeping us posted on their activities. I want every man in radio harness and his ears open. This could be—”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking about this,” Gadgets Schwarz said, interrupting Bolan. “And I’m worried.”

  “What’s worrying you, Gadgets?”

  “I’ve been wondering if these cops have the ability to ECM us. If they do, that van could become a Trojan horse in reverse.”

  “What is ECM?”

  “Electronic counter measures. Electronic spying, in other words. Like on our spy ships and spy planes. Remember the Pueblo? Well—”

  “Are you talking about radar?” Zitka asked. “How the hell could radar do them any good in a crowded area like this?”

  “Naw, hell,” Schwarz said disgustedly. “I mean—”

  “Radio direction finders,” Bolan muttered.

  Schwarz nodded. “Yeah, the same principle, only they got some mighty damn sophisticated stuff out now. They can scan-through and lock onto another transmitter in nothing flat.”

  “How do they do that,” Bolan asked musingly, “if they don’t know what frequencies are being transmitted on?”

  “I said they scan-through,” Schwarz replied. “They don’t need to know your frequency. They find your frequency with a scanner. Then, just like a computer, they lock on a couple of peripheral stations and get an automatic triangulation on you.”

  “Suppose you’re moving? Damn fast?”

  “Then they ECM you every time you transmit, and they track you. They plot a course, speed, the whole bit. Just like radar from that point on, except they’re depending on your transmissions to trigger their equipment.”

  “It’s pretty sophisticated stuff, Gadgets?”

  “Yeah. Damn sophisticated. I don’t guess these cops would have anything like that. Wouldn’t have that much use for it.”

  “Suppose they did,” Bolan said. “Could we counteract it?”

  Schwarz shook his head. “Not with the stuff we have. Our only defense would be to keep quiet as much as possible. Keep transmissions brief.”

  “How brief?”

  “Three or four seconds at a time. That brief.”

  “All right,” Bolan said. “We’ll play it that way. The radios will be used only when absolutely necessary. We will not acknowledge each other’s transmissions. Rely on code words as much as possible. Don’t say anything that may give away your position or route. Okay.” Bolan had drawn on a troubled frown. “I want every man in nightsuits, blackface, and as light as possible. You flankers will provide covering and diverting fire only. Trackers, I want you to …”

  The man of the squad listened in silence to the balance of the full-scale combat briefing, interrupting only to quietly request a clarification of some detail, each one clearly realizing the importance of a complete understanding. Each man present was fully aware that th
is was a rehearsal for the death game.

  “Listen, you get plenty of boys out in the open,” DiGeorge instructed Zeno Varone. “I want them everywhere, all over the place. Out front, out back, on the street, I want ’em swarming all over the place. If that guy is keeping tabs on us, I don’t want him getting any ideas to make a hit on this place.”

  “You think he’s watching us, Deej?” Varone inquired solemnly.

  “If he’s as smart as they say—sure, he’s watching us.” DiGeorge stepped to the edge of the patio and gazed off toward the distant hillside, darkly skylined against the starry night. “Maybe from up there someplace, if he’s all that smart. With a good pair of binoculars, he could look down my kitchen sink.”

  “Maybe he’d hit us from over there,” Varone observed nervously.

  “Hey,” DiGeorge scoffed, “if he’s that good, we don’t need to kill ’im, we need to convert ’im. Eh? Don’t be an old maid, Zeno. Don’t go looking under your bed and in your closet every night, eh? This Bolan is just a guy, like any other guy. He thinks he’s hell on wheels, though—a boy commando or something. When he hits, he hits with thunder and lightning. Eh? Look at the way he handled ’Milio. Both times, eh? Thunder and lightning, eh? He can’t do anything like that from a half a mile away.”

  “I guess not, Deej.” Varone was still gazing nervously toward the hills.

  “So get the boys out where he can see them, in case he’s curious. I don’t want no thunder and lightning around here. I don’t need that kind of publicity.”

  “Leonardo’s arrived,” Varone said, looking toward the house.

  “Yeah, okay, take his boys too. Make sure they understand, I want them to be seen. It’s about time to start. Go on, now, get those boys spread around.”

  Varone jerked his head in an obedient nod and set off quickly toward the house. DiGeorge walked slowly along the edge of the patio, his eyes absently searching the darkness at the fringe of the lighted area. He chuckled to himself and decided that he should listen to his own advice. This guy Bolan would not be so dumb as to try a hit here tonight. He wondered, though. He wondered just how many thunder-and-lightning tricks this guy had up his sleeve. Then he saw that the nephews were taking their places at the big table at the center of the patio. He pushed the boy commando out of his thoughts for the moment, fixed a big grin on his face, and strode commandingly to the council table.

  Deadeye Washington was lying prone in a shallow trough, a clump of umbrella trees to his rear, the long rifle supported by a small tripod. His right eye was fastened to the eyepiece of the large sniperscope, and he was smiling. Just to his left was Mack Bolan, like a twin, sighting down through the big twenty power and grinning.

  “Wish I could read lips,” Bolan grunted.

  “Yeah, man, that’d be cool,” Washington agreed quietly. “That’s Varone there on the right, the little guy. You figure white-hair is the big daddy?”

  “Probably. Looks the part. We’ll know for sure when they take their places at the table.”

  “You’re pretty sure about the range?”

  Bolan grunted. “Double check me, Deadeye. See the back wall of the house? Those cement blocks measure about eight inches from seam to seam, so … let’s say the top of the seventh block should be five feet off the ground.”

  “Yeah.” Deadeye emitted a long, hissing sigh, then said, “Okay, I get a scale of …” He pulled his eye off the scope and craned back to peer at a card that had been taped to the stock of the rifle. “You’re right, 600 meters is the range.” Deadeye sighed again and returned his eye to the scope. “Man, that’s a long ways off.”

  “Figure about one second for these Magnums to make the trip,” Bolan advised.

  “Yeah. A scared man could travel halfway across that patio in that time. I got quite an oversight, too, even with these Magnums. Your piece sighted in a little bit better than mine. I gotta hold over twenty inches at this range.”

  “Not exactly fish in a barrel, is it?” Bolan said. “Uh … what do you figure for the length of that table, Deadeye?”

  “Oh … I’d say … fifteeen feet. Hey! There’s a lotta people movin’ around down there now. Where’d white-hair go to?”

  “Head of the table, to your right. He’s your big daddy, all right. Hand me those glasses, Deadeye. Field of vision through this scope is …”

  “Like lookin’ through a microscope,” Deadeye finished. He passed the binoculars over without disturbing his own position at the rifle.

  Bolan took the glasses and raised up over his rifle. “That’s better,” he said, surveying the DiGeorge layout in the larger field afforded by the binoculars. “And you’re right. They’re moving the troops around. Plain sight. Now what the hell …?”

  “How many d’you make, Sarge?”

  Bolan was moving the glasses in a slow sweep of the expansive grounds. “Hell, about a full company in full sight,” he replied slowly. “And they’re turning lights on all around.”

  “Maybe they’ve flipped. Combat fatigue.”

  Bolan chuckled. “No. No … I think … maybe it’s meant to be a show of strength.”

  “Oh. Like a peacock raisin’ its tail, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Bolan replied, grinning. He swiveled his head toward his left shoulder, depressed the transmitter button, and said, “Horse. Anything?”

  Five seconds passed; then Schwarz’s voice replied, “Negative. Clear.”

  Bolan counted to ten, then punched the button again. “Flower.” (Pause.) “Take Able Four.” (Pause.) “Launch five on signal.” (Pause.) “Chopper, cover. Out.”

  “That’ll make Flower very happy,” Washington commented softly. “That man sure loves that little grenade launcher.”

  Bolan nodded grimly and again addressed the radio transmitter. “Caution, caution.” He waited ten seconds; then: “Company strength. Extreme caution.”

  “You’re not giving them cops much to zot on to,” Washington said, grinning broadly.

  Bolan smiled at Washington and fitted his eye to the scope. “Gadgets shook me up,” he admitted. “I don’t want to take anything for granted, not where these L.A. cops are concerned. I don’t give them one damn advantage.”

  “Those people down there sure giving us one,” Washington observed. “Even got the table turned our way.”

  Bolan’s heavy rifle was swiveling in its tripod as he slowly tracked along the faces at the council table. “Remember—one second to impact,” he reminded his partner. “The man to DiGeorge’s left, first one, the fat one, with his back to you. Got him in your field?”

  “Yeah, I got him. Don’t like the looks of those chairs, though. I’d like to take ’im above the shoulders.”

  “Any way you want, Deadeye. He’s yours. After the scramble, it’s sniper’s choice. I’m taking the guy to DiGeorge’s right.”

  “What are you holding on for your correction?”

  “I’m using the top of the glass door in the background.”

  Washington sniffed. “Okay. I’ll take about an inch offa that. What do your figure for wind?”

  “Let’s call it a dead calm.”

  “Dead is right,” Washington said. “I’m ready, if you wanta start the count.”

  “On five,” Bolan replied. He took a deep breath and began releasing it in short bursts as he counted, his finger tightening slowly on the hair trigger. “One … two … three …”

  Chapter Fourteen

  BEVERLY HELL

  Flower Child Andromede reached into the trunk of the automobile and hastily unwrapped the felt-covered grenade launcher, affixed it to his rifle, and snatched up a prepared pouch of rifle grenades. Then he slammed the trunk door and jogged around the end of the car and ran along a six-foot-high wall that fronted the property directly adjacent to the DiGeorge estate. About fifty feet before reaching the thick hedgerow that marked DiGeorge’s line, Andromede valted to the top of the wall and slithered along on his belly for another twenty feet, halting in the protective overha
ng of a date-palm froud.

  He could see the rear of the DiGeorge house clearly from this position and could even hear small groups of men moving noisily about the grounds, laughing and passing wisecracks back and forth. The entire place was brightly lighted. Two men were playing toss with a tennis ball beneath the floodlights of the tennis court. Another group was at the opposite side of the yard, rolling small balls along a luxuriously green runway. Bolan had been right, and then some. Andromede could spot a full company on this end of the estate alone. He smiled and fitted a grenade onto the launcher. It was going to be “liberation night” for quite a few earthbound entities.

  Andromede, however, did not feel quite ready for liberation himself. He carefully calculated an assault pattern to provide him the best possible chance for a successful withdrawal, arranged his grenades along the wall for a quick pickup-and-reload capability, then quietly awaited the signal. He was vaguely wondering where Chopper was, when a thick shadow detached itself from the hedges just forward of his position. He immediately recognized the squat bulk of Fontenelli and softly cleared his throat to signal his position. Fontenelli moved into the shadow of the wall and advanced silently, to stand just beneath him.

  “You see okay from up there?” Fontenelli hissed.

  “Perfect,” Andromede whispered. “I’m going to walk ’im in from right to left, up by the house. That oughta jar the piss out of ’em.”

  “Hope Bolan knows what he’s doing,” Fontenelli said after a brief silence. “That joint is crawling alive with some of the meanest hoods in the country.”

  “Better keep it quiet,” Andromede suggested. “Four of them were walking along the hedge there a couple of minutes ago.”