Death List

by Don Pendleton

  Sharpe looked horrified. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I told you,” Harmon said. “I want to make a point. Have you ever wondered, Eddie, why you are still alive? No? It’s because you are useful. Without you and your contacts in the Cave Spiders, I never would have been able to set up the network we enjoy now. Your business acumen, your ability to organize people, and the muscle that Veldt has been able to supply me on certain jobs...all have contributed to the man, the myth, the legend that is Vincent Harmon. And Vincent Harmon is very grateful. That is why you are still alive, Eddie. I killed my own mother because she wasn’t useful to me. If you’re ever tempted to think you don’t need me around anymore, Eddie, if you ever get it into your head that Veldt does not need Vincent Harmon and Vincent Harmon can make do without Veldt, remember that I killed my mother for less explicit a betrayal.”

  “Betrayal?” Sharpe asked.

  “She was my mother. She should have been more supportive of my desire to become self-employed.” He paused. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were nowhere to be found when the Feds picked me up this time out, Eddie.”

  “Stop calling me that. I’m the one that broke you out when they tried to lock you up the first time,” Sharpe said, retaking his seat. “We would have come for you eventually. You weren’t on the map, not anywhere. I couldn’t locate you, and no government agency was claiming credit for having taken you. I can hardly be expected to sleuth out all the black-site agency spooks the government has on the payroll. Once we had a fix on you, I’d have made arrangements. So don’t talk to me about betrayals, Vince. We’ve both profited from this arrangement.”

  “The more famous I become in international black-ops circles, the more job opportunities open up for Veldt on my recommendations,” Harmon replied. “It’s mutually beneficial. As you knew it would be when we first hatched the idea. Do you ever miss the sandbox, Eddie? Sometimes I do. Things were simple there. There was us, and there was them.”

  “Things were never simple in the sandbox. If they had been, Veldt never would have been kicked out. It took a lot of money to the right people, and a lot of influence, to prevent them from putting the whole company in jail, Vince.”

  “Leaving them vulnerable for you to buy them,” Harmon said. “With capital that I helped raise through a series of early contract killings. So, in effect, you owe your livelihood to the rules of engagement and the simpering cowards in our government...not to mention me.”

  Sharpe sighed. “Understood, Vince.”

  “As long as we understand each other... Eddie.”

  Sharpe bristled, but let it go. He swiveled in his chair to face the wall, then turned back again. It was a common tic for him. He stared at the wall when he was thinking and when he wanted to gather his thoughts.

  “I’ll provide my men in support for the Corinos’ hit list,” Sharpe stated. “That was never in doubt. But how certain are we that they’ll pay? They can’t be happy about the screwup.”

  “‘Screwup’ is putting it mildly. A government agent assumed my place and went so far as to take down the Toretto Mob in order to prove himself worthy of the assignment.”

  “He did what?”

  “Straight-up murdered the entire Toretto family, from what I could gather. You tell me, Eddie...what kind of federal agent does that? The body count is a serious one. We’re not talking about getting authorization to off a single confirmed scumbag, somebody the government would like to see dead or captured anyway. We’re talking about wholesale slaughter of dozens of soldiers. I guess the Toretto estate was burned down, too. The Corinos were tickled about that, given how many years they’ve been at odds with the Toretto family. They didn’t quite know how to take it when I explained that the guy who did them that huge favor wasn’t me.”

  “How did you get them to let you come back in?”

  “They need me,” Harmon said. “They’re between a rock and a hard place, as the old saying goes. They’ve initiated a series of hits that they can’t stop and they can’t change. The mission can’t be aborted. It either succeeds or it fails. With this impostor, this government con man, in possession of the list, they know that each of the targets will end up being taken off the playing field. One by one, they’ll lose their chance. I give them the option of following through with the plan. I give them a way out. I can not only take out their targets, but I can take out the impostor. They need that now more than ever. If the impostor lives, they end up looking like fools.”

  “Walker texted me before they took him out. The government operative’s name is Cooper. Or so he said.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Harmon told him.

  “What I don’t understand is why the government doesn’t just put each of the targets into witness protection. It neutralizes the Corinos’ list completely.”

  “And our payday,” Harmon reminded him. “Don’t forget that. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, yes, but look at it from the standpoint of the government. You’ve got a list of people. Some good, some bad, as you see it. A scumbag banker with ties to the Mafia. A United States congressman. The Mexican ambassador to the United States. A union organizer. A federal judge. All powerful people, some of them, like the ambassador, largely outside your reach unless you want to wade through weeks of bureaucratic red tape. Sure, you can put them all underground. But then you’ll never know when the next assassination attempt will come. You’ll never know when that target might be taken out.”

  “And with the Corinos’ negotiated list, you do.”

  “Exactly,” Harmon said. “That list can’t be changed because it would mean months of Mafia family negotiations to agree on a new one. It was all they could do to hammer out this agreement. If their paid assassin—me—tries and fails, they aren’t going to try again anytime soon. They’ll probably give up on the idea, figure out another way. That’s going to be the government’s reasoning, anyway. So it’s in everybody’s best interest that the hits stay on, the targets don’t know about it until their hero swoops in to save them, and the Corinos end up humiliated. We’re all playing out our parts. The only question is, which of us is going to win?

  “So what’s our next move?” Sharpe asked.

  “You and your boys hit the judge. I’ll take a second team as backup and take out the union organizer, Helman. Make sure you assign me guys I can trust. I don’t want any of these jokers developing a latent conscience in the field.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Sharpe said. “We psychologically screen everyone.

  “Only the finest psychos and hard cases, eh?” Harmon laughed. “Fine. Whatever. Once those two strikes are down, we’ll regroup and reassess manpower. A lot can happen in the course of those two engagements.”

  “A lot can happen...as in you think I’ll lose more men.”

  “If this Cooper shows up, you definitely will,” Harmon said. “If he faces me, things will hopefully go differently.”

  “Hopefully?”

  “It’s combat, Eddie. I don’t need to tell you that things can go south fast. And you know as well as I do that this Cooper has some serious mojo he’s bringing to the table. He didn’t just successfully impersonate me at a meeting. He pretended to be me while taking down a Mob army. That means he’s as dangerous as I am. Maybe more.”

  “I didn’t think you’d ever admit that.”

  “There’s ego, and there’s reality,” Harmon stated. “I’m the best there is. But this guy? Well... Let’s just say I’m not confident I could walk into the Toretto mansion and leave alive with the place burning behind me. Everybody’s got limits. Besides, I’m not a hero. You want to burn a house down, you burn the house down with the people inside it. Anybody comes out, you start shooting them. Lots easier than dealing with wading through the gunmen the hard way.”

  “He scaled the front of a building to get away from Walker’
s men. He may be a hero, but he knows his limitations.”

  “As every man’s got to,” Harmon said, nodding. “How big a hole does losing Walker put in your operation?”

  “It’s there, but we can absorb it. I’ve got lots more men. What I need to know from you is whether the payoff from the Corinos will be worth the losses we may continue to take following your hit list with you.”

  “Now that there’s someone out there determined to throw a wrench in the Corinos’ plans, the families have really upped the ante for each hit. If we take out just half the remaining names, we’re going to have money to burn,” Harmon promised. “Enough to retire. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to do this forever. I intend to spend my advancing years on a tropical beach surrounded by hot tail and cold beers.”

  “Really?”

  “What?” Harmon prompted. “What’s wrong with my retirement plan?”

  “I just can’t picture it,” Sharpe said. “It’s just that...well...”

  “Spit it out. It’s just that what, Eddie?”

  Sharpe swallowed. He looked Harmon in the eye and said, finally, “I just think you like killing people too much to quit.”

  13

  Washington, DC

  There were those who called federal judge Henry Markham “king of the activist judges.” Appointed for life, he wasn’t likely to be going anywhere, and he wasn’t shy about saying what he thought, on or off the bench. He’d said plenty that annoyed both sides of the political aisle over the years, but the reason he was likely on the Corinos’ hit list was—according to the Farm—that he had repeatedly rendered decisions that strengthened RICO antiracketeering laws.

  Henry Markham was no friend to organized crime, and with his death, the powers that be would be forced to appoint somebody else. According to Price, the leading candidate to replace Markham didn’t have the most spotless ethics record, if someone dug deeply enough. Chances were good such a judge would be seen as more favorable to the Corinos and the other crime families working with them.

  The designated time and place for Markham’s assassination was a speech he was scheduled to be giving in front of the Unity First Political Action Committee. Unity First was one of those catch-all groups that seemed to have its fingers in every pie in Washington. There was a reason Brognola called the place Wonderland. Politics was a battlefield much more complex and treacherous than any Bolan found himself walking on any given day.

  The speech Markham was to give was the primary reason, according to the Farm’s intelligence data, that the date and location of Markham’s assassination had been chosen. Unity First was backing a new initiative in Washington that would give increased search-and-seizure powers to local, state and federal law-enforcement agencies when confronted with illicit trafficking in drugs, weapons or human beings. In other words, it directly affected the Mafia’s ability to make money off its core businesses. Killing him there, as he gave his speech in support of the measure to a political action committee that also supported it, would send a powerful message: screw with the Mafia and you could expect to get dead.

  The venue for the speech was a small plaza that was a simple ribbon of asphalt when not in use. Bleachers had been set up on three sides, with a raised stage and podium on the fourth “wall.” Barricades had been set up in front of the stage. The main area in front of the stage was for those who wanted to stand and get closer to the action. Unity First was a big group, which meant the venue was packed. The bleachers were full and there was a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd filling the space before the stage.

  Hal Brognola knew the importance of finding Vincent Harmon and taking him down. It was up to Mack Bolan and only Mack Bolan to keep Markham alive. The presence of armed security and federal agents would put more people in harm’s way.

  The Executioner was prepared for this setup. It was a fairly standard one for Unity First, which had held events at this site several times before. The intelligence files transmitted by the Farm had included detailed diagrams of the surrounding area, as well as satellite photos and even some conventional internet mapping at street level. He had more than enough intelligence.

  He also had a suitable weapon for the task at hand.

  A blacksuit courier from the Farm had met him and Grimaldi at the airport. There, Bolan had taken custody of an M-110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System. The M-110 was based on the AR platform but chambered in 7.62 mm NATO rounds. Fitted with a bipod and a scope, and equipped with 20-round magazines, the weapon had seen service in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was gas-operated via a rotating bolt and had an effective range of nearly 900 yards.

  Grimaldi was back at the airport with the Osprey. Bolan had no way to use Jack effectively in a support role this time out, so he’d opted to have the pilot stand by with the aircraft. That way, when they left for the next leg of the mission, they could get under way that much more quickly. Besides, Bolan figured he had this one pretty much sewed up. It was an overwatch job, something he’d done as a military sniper countless times. This was the Executioner in his element: at elevation, with a powerful rifle in his hands.

  Bolan racked the bolt and put the first 7.62 mm into the chamber of the M-110. He had a portable radio in his pocket and an earbud in his left ear only. He was listening to running news coverage of the Unity First event below. Markham was running late for his big speech, but it was a highly anticipated one. Bolan had been in position for some time now, sweeping the crowd and looking for potential threats.

  He had found several.

  Bolan was on the top floor of a parking garage adjacent to the venue. Access to the garage was strictly controlled, and only the roof had a commanding view of the Unity First event. That meant enemy snipers wouldn’t have access to it. Hal Brognola had made a series of calls to local law enforcement to make sure a certain Agent Matthew Cooper of the Justice Department would be permitted past the ground-level security to access the parking garage. Cops were keeping absolutely everyone else out, so Bolan could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t have any other company. It also meant that there were no enemy snipers elsewhere overlooking the plaza. His was the only suitable vantage within shooting range.

  To make their play, the enemy—Harmon, the mercenaries working with him, or both—would have to come at Markham from the ground. Through the scope of the M-110, Bolan had tagged several men whose body language or clothing suggested hidden weapons. All of the shooters he had flagged were also very focused on the stage. Other people in the crowd were chatting with each other or craning their necks this way and that for any evidence that Markham was making his entrance. The few potential shooters Bolan was noting through his scope were patiently but doggedly watching the podium, as a man did when he’d ranged his target.

  Putting himself in the mind-set of a Mafia killer or, more practically, a mercenary hired by an assassin working for Mafia killers, Bolan had asked himself what he would do in a similar situation. The goal here wasn’t to commit mass murder. They weren’t looking to slaughter people in the crowd. That served no purpose. No, the Mob had no particular reason to care about innocents, or to shield spectators from violence, but nothing was gained by killing people unnecessarily. The target was Markham. The audience was just that; they were to witness the crime so that their horrified screams would play on the news channels as Markham’s public assassination was broadcast far and wide. Over and over again, the footage would paint a very final picture of what happened to a man who crossed Mafia interests. It was exactly the kind of public theater the Mob favored.

  Bolan had not seen Vincent Harmon anywhere. The assassin was either staying under the radar or had sent his mercenaries to do the job. The Farm was still investigating the full extent of the relationship apparent between Harmon and the hired killers. They were still processing “Walker’s” true identity.

  There was renewed activity from the crowd below. Bolan took at that
as an indicator that Markham and his entourage were finally about to show up. A judge usually was not treated like a rock star in this day and age of cynicism, even though the court on which Markham sat was one of the highest in the country. But his flamboyant style and penchant for making political statements were part of what made him such a notable figure. Half the country thought he was a hero, unafraid to tell things the way they were and take a stand for whatever ideals he was pushing at the moment. The other half of the country thought Markham was a dangerous ideologue who inappropriately expressed partisan political positions both in and out of the courtroom.

  No matter what happened to Markham today, Bolan guessed somebody would be happy. But that was not his concern. His concern was saving Markham’s life and foiling this item on the Corinos’ death list.

  The problem was that Markham was going to be a sitting duck up on that stage. There was no way Bolan could take out each and every one of the potential hitters present in the crowd.

  He had decided, therefore, that he wouldn’t try.

  Bolan took out his secure sat phone and dialed the Farm. “Striker here,” he said when Price answered. “I need to confirm, Barb. Are there any law-enforcement assets present on my location?”

  “None, Striker. Uniformed police are all outside the venue. It was a request from the Unity First group. There’s been a lot of friction in the news lately about cops and political rallies, violence at protests and so on. The cops have set up a cordon outside, but there are none within the perimeter.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be in touch, Barb.”

  “Be careful, Striker.”

  “Thanks. Striker out.”

  Markham was walking to the podium. The attack, when it came, would probably happen once he was stationary behind the stand. He would be a sitting duck for a bullet to the head, fired from somewhere in the bleachers or the standing crowd. They’d go for the sure thing, head-on and unmoving, not the riskier shot that was Markham moving across the stage.