Apocalypse Ark

by Don Pendleton

  If so, it meant the Mafia had to be on board, at least for the Sicilian portion of the journey, since Custodes Foederis would have no pull with Italian police. Word was out, however quietly and classified, about the Axum raid, and no lawman with any self-respect or fealty to his religion would allow the Ark convoy to pass unless the wheels were greased, a cover story fabricated.

  On the other hand, they might be used to going blind when mafiosi moved their contraband, a longstanding tradition on an island where omertà and the vendetta had ruled life for at least a hundred fifty years. Police who stood against the Mafia were killed, along with prosecutors, judges, jurors who returned convictions, journalists who wrote the truth—most anyone, in fact, who dared oppose the Families. Conversely, those who played along and took the bribes without complaint would either be promoted or, at least, allowed to live in peace.

  “We’re gaining on them,” Halloran said, out of nowhere. “Don’t you think we must be?”

  “Should be,” Bolan granted. “Anyway, we know they’re still in Sicily.”

  So far. That knowledge coming courtesy of Stony Man, where Aaron Kurtzman’s team was shadowing a sat phone carried by the Axum team, accessed so far by two of the cult’s bishops they were sure of. It had been some forty miles ahead of Bolan when he landed at Giarre, and doubtless gained some while they hassled with the rental agency. But even with the Ark on board, the runners still were bound by all the laws of physics. They could drive only so fast on planet Earth, and Bolan had a chance—however slim it was—of overtaking them before they reached Messina.

  Maybe.

  Would they recognize the target when they saw it? For the Ark or whatever it was, they’d need some kind of van or truck, but there would also likely be at least one escort vehicle. He didn’t know how many raiders were involved at Axum, whether all of them were still on board, or if they’d picked up reinforcements somewhere on the way from Ethiopia to Sicily. None of that mattered now.

  He had to find the Ark, whether it had two escorts or two hundred. And he had to stop it cold.

  Or...what?

  Bolan was tired of speculating, wasted no more time on thinking about what could happen if a given hypothetical chain of events occurred. His job, as usual, was relatively simple: find the target, isolate it, then detain it or destroy it, as the situation might demand.

  And anyone who tried to stop him was expendable.

  Giardini Naxos

  “SHIT! IT HAS to be them, right?” Excitement hummed in Tito Grassi’s voice. “So many cars?”

  So many cars.

  That was the problem. Fabio Gravina counted five cars, plus the cargo van, with four men in the first sedan. Extrapolating, that meant he and his five soldiers were outnumbered four to one, at least. But maybe, with the critical advantage of surprise...

  He lowered the binoculars and snapped, “Get ready!” Stepping from the Fiat Scudo van, he took the FN Minimi with him, leaving its bipod folded and bracing the machine gun’s fifteen-pound weight across the joint where his open door met the van’s frame. Around him, his men were scattering for cover at selected points around the highway rest stop, cocking weapons as they ran. Peering through the Minimi’s sights, his index finger on its trigger, he left them to it and concentrated on his own part of the ambush.

  Stop the lead car, and the rest would halt—or, at the very least, be slowed enough to riddle them with bullets. Failing that...

  Failing that, he was as good as dead.

  Gravina opened fire when the lead car was sixty yards out, strafing its hood and windscreen, instantly aware that his bullets weren’t having the proper effect. Paint flaked from the target vehicle’s hood, its windshield sprouted misty splotches, but the slugs weren’t penetrating.

  Bulletproof!

  Cursing, Gravina shifted his aim to the grille and the tires, his troops already firing at other vehicles in the speeding convoy. And they were taking fire in return from gun ports in some of the escort cars. Unless Gravina stopped the lead car soon, blocking the motorway...

  Incoming bullets struck the Fiat Scudo, shattering its windshield, spraying him with pebbled safety glass. Eyes narrowed to slits behind his Valentino sunglasses, Gravina held his place and kept on firing, heedless of the blood that streaked his face from shrapnel slices. He could live with pain and scars, but not with failure to complete his mission.

  Counting rounds expended in the midst of battle was impossible, but at a cyclic rate of thirteen rounds per second, Gravina knew the Minimi was close to running dry. He let it rip until the bolt locked open on an empty chamber, then lunged back into the van, groping for the athletic bag filled with SureFire casket magazines, each loaded with another hundred rounds. There was an awkward moment while he removed the polymer ammo box, snapping a magazine into its place, then Gravina ducked back into firing position, raising the light machine gun—

  A bullet slammed into his shoulder, spinning him, the Minimi chattering skyward, spent brass cascading to the pavement around Gravina’s feet. He felt himself falling, concrete rushing up to meet him with a jarring impact that wrenched the light machine gun from his grasp. Around him, his soldiers kept firing, and one of them cried out in pain as dizziness swept over Gravina in waves.

  He found the strength to reach his cell phone, rip it from his pocket, turn it on and hit the top number he had on speed-dial. Three rings seemed to take forever, with the gunfire drumming in his ears and consciousness evaporating, then a voice came on the line, demanding, “What?”

  “Help!” Gravina blurted out. “We’re getting killed here!”

  “Where are you?” the voice demanded.

  “Giardini Naxos,” Gravina gasped. “Hurry! They’re getting away!”

  Custodes Foederis Headquarters, Rome

  “WHAT’S THAT THING?” Mania Justina demanded.

  “Shh!” Ugo Troisi hissed at her, feeling the anger warm his cheeks. Why did she think he’d entered her apartment with a finger pressed against his lips, if not to signal silence?

  “But—”

  A long step brought him almost kissing-close to her, and he clapped his hand over her mouth. Before she could escape, he leaned in closer still and whispered in her ear, “Quiet, for God’s sake! It’s a scanner. I must check for hidden microphones.”

  Troisi withdrew his hand an inch, and two, then clamped it back over her mouth as she said, “Mic—”

  Enraged by her stupidity, he cautioned her in urgent whispers. “Do. Not. Speak!”

  At last she nodded. He removed his hand and started sweeping the apartment with his scanner. Painfully aware of passing time, Troisi made a thorough job of it, finally satisfied that there were neither hidden cameras nor listening devices to be found within the bedroom or adjoining bathroom.

  “Clean,” he said, the first word he had spoken in a normal tone since entering.

  “You hurt my lips,” she told him, pouting.

  “Better that than the alternative,” he answered.

  “Oh? And what’s this about microphones? Why would you even think—”

  “I found one in my office,” Troisi interrupted.

  “Oh?” Not quite the tone he had expected.

  “Someone’s spying on me,” he explained, in case she was too dense to understand. “And on the rest of the Concilium, I think.”

  “And why would anyone do that?”

  “Security is Marco’s area, of course. He does as Janus orders.”

  “Have you asked him? I mean Marco?”

  There was definitely something in her tone. Troisi frowned and answered, “Not about the microphone. Only an idiot would dare confront him with it. When I told him Deodato and Federico thought their phones were tapped, he denied it, of course.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Are you not listening? I
found a microphone inside my office.”

  “But does that mean Marco put it there?”

  “One of his sneaks, more likely.”

  “And,” she said, “you thought the wisest thing to do was rush straight here? With people watching you?”

  As stunned as if she’d slapped him, Troisi said, “I came to warn you, Mania. I obviously couldn’t trust the telephones.”

  “But as you’ve proved yourself, no one is watching me. Unless they trailed you here, that is. In which case you’ve endangered me.”

  “I was not followed!”

  “Are you certain? What if there are cameras along the hallways?”

  Christ! He hadn’t thought of that, had been content to satisfy himself that no one followed him to Mania’s apartment. But if she was right...

  “The wise thing, I believe,” she told him, “is for you to stay away. For the time being, only. When you’ve settled this unpleasantness, perhaps...”

  “Perhaps?”

  “We can’t take foolish risks now, can we? Not when we’re so close to having everything.”

  Mania’s logic, for the first time in Troisi’s memory, seemed unassailable. He dipped his head, not quite a bow, and answered, “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  “Not as I wish,” she said. “As it must be.”

  Troisi left without another word and softly closed the door behind him, his mind awhirl with questions and emotions that collided, ricocheted and left him feeling dizzy. There’d been no discernible regret from Mania as she announced the moratorium on their relationship. No, state it plainly: she’d discarded him. To save herself from scrutiny attached to him? Or was there something else?

  Obviously, since he had heard a voice, it was someone else.

  Not Janus. But then...who?

  Rushing along the corridor, Ugo Troisi was determined to find out.

  Autostrada A18, Province of Messina, Sicily

  “POLICE BEHIND US.”

  Bolan saw the flashing lights in his mirror a split second before Halloran spoke. The squad cars—two of them, he realized—were racing northward, only switching on their sirens when they came within sight of the Alfa Romeo Giulietta.

  “Well?” Halloran asked.

  “Pull over,” Bolan said. “No guns.”

  Halloran sighed and did as he instructed. They sat waiting for a moment, engine idling, then the two police cars passed them in a blur, continuing along their northward route. Bolan watched them dwindle with distance, riding a wave of relief.

  “Somebody else’s problem,” he remarked.

  As soon as they were rolling, Halloran switched on the Giulietta’s radio and found a news broadcast. None of it was clear to Bolan, until Halloran began to translate. “It’s a special bulletin,” he said. “There’s been a shooting up ahead of us, at Giardini Naxos. The announcer says it’s Mafia-related. Several men are dead.”

  “Nothing about our guys?” Bolan asked.

  “Not yet. If they were involved—”

  “Your troubles could be over,” Bolan said. “Game, set and match.”

  “But who would try to stop them here?” Halloran asked. “Unless you called for help...?”

  “You know I didn’t, “ Bolan said. “But what about buddies from the CDF?”

  “Impossible,” Halloran replied. “I would have been alerted, at the very least.”

  “So, someone else, then,” Bolan said. “And if it’s not about the Ark...”

  “Coincidence? That seems improbable, to say the least.”

  “Agreed. But if the Mafia’s involved, they’d bring all kinds of baggage to the job.”

  “An underworld vendetta?”

  “Maybe, if they’re on somebody else’s turf, or enemies found out that they were escorting a convoy.”

  “Just a few more miles,” Halloran said. “If I can speak to the police—”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Bolan warned him. “Make one cop suspicious, and we’re both in custody before you know what hit you.”

  “But—”

  “If you believe the CDF can help, phone in and have somebody else touch base with the police, through channels. If they’ve got the Ark secured, then I’ll call home and see if that’s a wrap. But if the Axum team got through, we still have work ahead of us.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ten minutes later they were rolling into Giardini Naxos by the sea. Passing the checkpoint where police were steering traffic past the scene, Bolan could see it hadn’t happened long ago. A burned-out van, still smoking, sat on melted tires beside a service station where the windows had been blown away, stucco facade pockmarked with bullet holes. A team of firefighters was foaming down the wreckage and surrounding pavement. Funny that the fuel pumps hadn’t blown like rockets launching, but the flames couldn’t have reached them. Cops were photographing bodies where they’d fallen, other uniforms pushing the tourists back. They would have gathered quickly, once the shooting stopped and there was no more danger, rubbernecking sudden death.

  “You think that is the van?” Halloran asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bolan replied. “But while we’re trying to find out, I think we ought to keep on heading north.”

  Taormina, Sicily

  THE CONVOY STOPPED outside town, directed to a farmhouse off the highway by the leader of their escort. There, concealed from scrutiny by passing drivers, they assessed the damage to their personnel and vehicles.

  All the cars had taken hits, scarring the armored Mafia machines and ventilating Branca’s vehicles, which weren’t bulletproof. An oversight, of course, but who could have envisioned being ambushed by a pack of Camorra on the open road? Two of his men were hit, one seriously, with the black blood oozing from a wound between his ribs proof positive of lethal damage to the liver.

  “Do you want to take him with you?” Nino Riccobono asked.

  Claudio Branca shook his head. “He won’t last long. Better to leave him here, and first make certain that he cannot speak. I’ll take care of it myself. About the vehicles...”

  “I’ve called someone. He’ll send more cars, another van, but it takes time.”

  “How long?”

  “An hour, ninety minutes.” Riccobono shrugged. “I can’t be sure.”

  “Police may come by then,” Branca said.

  “If so, I’ll deal with them. They’ll find us quicker on the highway, driving shot-up cars. You couldn’t board the ferry at Messina with these wrecks, regardless.”

  “You’re convinced that it was the Camorra?” Branca prodded.

  “Who else? We’ve been at war for twenty years.”

  “And so they pick today, of all days, to attack?”

  “It is the nature of an ambush to be inconvenient,” Riccobono said. “The main thing is, we killed them.”

  “And if there are more?”

  “We deal with them, as well.”

  “I’m trying to avoid attention,” Branca told him, “not invite it.”

  Riccobono shrugged. “Things happen.”

  “That is all you have to say?”

  “It’s a fact. There’s no use stewing over it. You can’t change what’s already done.”

  “And you expect full pay for this fiasco, eh?”

  “Why not? Your cargo’s still intact. Most of your men are fine.”

  Branca reviewed his narrow range of options. Pressing on with bullet-punctured vehicles invited the police to stop his team, and after what had happened in Giardini Naxos, they’d be out in numbers, fully armed. He was compelled, therefore, to wait for the replacement van and cars. But once they arrived...

  Should he allow the mafiosi to profane the Ark by watching while his soldiers transferred it from one van to another? Would they even m
ove away when asked, or would he have to force them? And if trouble started, with the two sides nearly matched in numbers, could his people win?

  Perhaps, if they were ready when the moment came.

  “You’re right,” he said at last, reluctantly. “I should be thanking you for all your help.”

  That put a smile on Riccobono’s face. “Damn right, you should. And I accept your thanks, as I’ll accept your money.”

  Branca forced his own smile, nodding. “While we’re waiting, I just want to brief my people on the change of plans.”

  “Of course. Relax them, if you can. It won’t be too much longer now.”

  “I hope there will be no more camorristi waiting for us when we leave,” Branca said.

  Riccobono made a rude, dismissive noise. “Don’t waste another moment fretting over those pricks. We’ll take care of anyone who tries to interfere with our parade.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Chianchitta, Sicily

  Giardini Naxos was crawling with cops and coroners, forensic teams and journalists. Mack Bolan couldn’t wait there for a bulletin from Stony Man, nor could he tolerate the thought of pulling back to Fiumefreddo di Sicilia or Giarre if his enemies were still alive and rolling northward with the Ark. His compromise was driving on a mile or so farther to the village of Chianchitta and idling there until Kurtzman called back.

  It took the computer genius fifteen precious minutes from the time of Bolan’s call to come back with the intel. The soldier raised the phone and said, “Let’s have it,” skipping the amenities.

  “The phone we’re tracking was in operation and still moving as of five minutes ago,” Kurtzman declared. “Still north of you, but stationary when it made a forty-seven-second call to Rome.”

  “Headquarters?”

  “Right,” Kurtzman confirmed. “That phone stays on around the clock. It doesn’t leave the compound.”

  “So they’ve checked in since the shooting,” Bolan said.

  “Somebody did. Same phone, for sure. Of course, I can’t say who was using it or what they talked about.”