Monday’s Mob

by Don Pendleton

  Flames were beginning to lick the underside of the abandoned car when someone inside the building decided to lower the overhead door. Unfortunately the burning vehicle was in the way; the door had hardly settled onto the roof of the car when her gas tank exploded. The door tumbled from its tracks as the exploding vehicle leapt several yards deeper into the interior of the building, blowing much of her fire into the gasoline-paint-solvent-whatever-laden enclosure.

  An immediate chain reaction of explosions marked the effect there as Bolan grinned solemnly and went on with the destruction of the massed vehicles outside.

  Round after searing round came down off that hillside in a cooly methodical pattern that soon had every third car in flames, with ensuing firestorms reaching out to envelop the whole yard of expensive automobiles.

  The barrel of the Weatherby was too hot to touch when Bolan put her down for an assessment of the strike.

  It was enough.

  Much more than had been hoped for, actually.

  There would be no illicit product yield from this recycling plant today. Indeed, there was no more recycling plant. The whole joint was a roaring inferno, flames leaping spectacularly high through jagged holes in the metal roof, walls bowed and gaping from the intolerable pressures inside. Stunned men in work clothing were crouching in frozen groups at safe distances to watch helplessly as the doomed building devoured itself.

  Bolan also watched for a moment, then he retrieved his weapon, turned his back on all that, and strolled to the top of the hill.

  A Ford station wagon was parked in the grass there, beside a utility pole. A young woman was perched atop the roof of the wagon, her shapely legs crossed Indian fashion at the ankles, eyes glistening.

  “What’re you doing up there?” inquired the tall man.

  “The view is better,” she explained. “Like a ringside seat to the burning of Rome. How’d you do that?”

  Bolan ignored the unnecessary question as he stowed the Weatherby. “Did he take it?” he asked the lady.

  “Yes, sir, he took it.” She detached a small tape recorder from the utility pole and handed the device to Bolan. “He called a number in the 812 area.”

  “Did the number record?”

  “Sure did.”

  Bolan grunted with satisfaction, rewound the tape, and punched the playback. The guy took it, yeah.

  “Put him on! Quick!”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Ben Davis, dammit! Put him on!”

  “He ain’t here, Mr. Davis. You sound—maybe you better let me have it. This’s Harry.”

  Frantically, then, “Harry, we’re getting hit!”

  Pause; then, “Whattaya mean you—who—what?”

  “I don’t know! Somebody’s shooting us up! The whole place is going up!”

  “Is it feds or locals? Because if—”

  “It’s not a raid, Harry! It’s not a damn raid! It’s a hit!”

  Very quickly, then, “Awright, listen, cool it. Just cool it. Call that deputy and get his ass out there on the double! Save all the stuff you can but get rid of all the paper. Understand me? Burn everything that—”

  “I told you, it’s already burning! All of it, everything!”

  A sudden, inspired thought, then, from 812,

  “How much dirty product you got sitting around there, Ben?”

  “What? I got—what?”

  “You get in there before the firemen come, dammit! Throw acid on everything that’s still dirty! You know what I mean!”

  Very tiredly, “I know what you mean, Harry. Okay, I’ll try. But listen, dammit, we’re under fire. Those bastards are gunning us down! Must be a hundred of ’em up in the hills over our head! I want some damn—”

  That was the end of the conversation from the Kentucky side. The connection popped and sizzled briefly, then died away completely. The guy at 812 shouted a couple of times into the open line, then hung up muttering.

  The girl atop the station wagon beamed brightly at the tall man as she declared, “So that’s how you did it. A hundred of you, huh?”

  Bolan was rewinding the tape.

  “Looks like we’re going to Indiana,” she observed spritely.

  He helped her to the ground. “If that’s where 812 is, yeah—that’s where we’re going.”

  “It’s in central Indiana,” the lady informed him. “I mean, the prefix he called. Actually, 812 covers most of the state south of Indianapolis. But that’s a Columbus number. Indiana, not Ohio.”

  Bolan showed her a small smile and said, “Right off the top of your head, huh?”

  “Sure. That’s what this head is for—isn’t it?”

  He could think of another use or two for that lovely head. He placed a quick kiss on it and told her, “It’s for staying on top of your shoulders, Number One. Remember that. Get in the car.”

  “We’re going to Columbus—right?”

  “That’s where we’re going,” he assured the lady.

  For damned sure, yeah.

  The guy at 812 had to be one Harry “the Apeman” Venturi, chief gunbearer to Carmine Tuscanotte.

  And Mack Bolan had not come to the Midwest to make war on automobiles.

  He’d come to hang the mark of the beast on Carmine Tuscanotte.

  CHAPTER 2

  APRIL ROSE

  The lady had come with the deal. She’d been selected to babysit Bolan’s warwagon—the twenty-six-foot GMC motorhome that, beneath that RV exterior, housed a most formidable capability for making war—and she was the one who’d loaded the cruiser aboard the C-130 at an air base in New Mexico for transportation to Louisville.

  Bolan had been forced to leave his big cruiser behind when he responded to the urgent summons from Tennessee, but he definitely needed it for the planned six-day romp that would ring down the curtain fully and finally, one way or another, on his war with the Mafia.

  As for the lady—she was something else. Something extravagantly else. The name was, believe it or not, April Rose. She looked like anything but. A tall girl and very strikingly put together with flaring hips and exploding bosom—dark, silky hair and luminous eyes—she would have been well received onstage at Moulin Rouge. Brognola had described her as a “project technician”—which could mean most anything, in Brognola’s world. According to the data sheet, she held a degree in electronics and had done considerable graduate work in solid-state physics.

  “The lady has it all together,” Brognola assured Bolan. “She can be a lot of comfort and you’re a damn fool if you don’t utilize her talents to the fullest.”

  “Just what are her talents?” Bolan had warily inquired.

  “She can run that bloodmobile for you, I’ll guarantee that. The lady could write the book on that Buck Rogers communications gear you have in there. That’s mainly why she was selected. I was afraid to turn just anybody loose with that stuff. But she’s a lot more than a babysitter for computers. Believe it.”

  “What exactly does she do, Hal?” Bolan persisted.

  “Electronic spying,” the head fed muttered, and apparently intended to leave it there.

  Bolan grinned and allowed the matter to rest, knowing Brognola’s sensitivity to the subject. And he trusted the guy’s judgment when it came to personnel. He’d built the most impressive domestic security force ever to emerge from the Washington bureaucracy—and the most effective.

  Yeah—Bolan trusted Hal Brognola’s judgment.

  Until he actually put eyes on the lady. By that time, Brognola was back in Washington and April Rose was comfortably ensconced in the warwagon’s command chair.

  “You don’t like what you see,” was the lady’s first words to Mack Bolan.

  This was not entirely true. Even in a baggy military jumpsuit, the lady was a knockout. “I love what I see,” he corrected her. “I just don’t like where I’m seeing it.”

  “Would I look more in place flat on my back between satin sheets?” she inquired saucily.

  He gave
her the level stare as he replied, “Maybe. Look, I—”

  “No need to apologize,” she said, smiling. “I’m resigned to the reaction. Anyway, I never lay flat on my back.”

  Bolan could believe that.

  But she had not given him much time to think about it.

  “I took advantage of the flight time to check out your gear. Where’d you get this stuff? I’d like to meet the person who designed it.”

  Bolan noted that she did not say the man who designed it.

  “It’s straight from outer space. Many of these designs have never been released to public use. Most of this stuff is classified. Where’d you get it?”

  Bolan said, “Look, I think you—”

  “Those optic systems—how did they combine laser principles with infrared illuminators? And this navigation system—you have terrain following together with—”

  Bolan growled, “Hey, hey.”

  She smiled nervously and said, “Okay, so I’m showing off. I always do that when I’m scared. You make me nervous when you look at me like that. Stop scowling, will you? Actually, no, I’m—well, yes I am. I’m scared to death. Mr. Brognola told me who you really are, of course. That was necessary. Oh, don’t worry, you’re Striker—that’s it, that’s all, no questions asked—but really … yes I am scared to death.”

  He said, “Shut it off. Right now.”

  She shut it off, dropping those great eyes with a resigned swoop toward the floor between them.

  He said, “I’ve been trying to tell you that you’re welcome aboard. The fault is entirely yours if you don’t work out. So forget about the male-female thing and just remember that we’re making war, not love. I’m the boss—and that has nothing to do with male-female, either. You do what I say when I say it and we’ll get along fine. We may even remain alive. Understood?”

  “Okay,” she replied soberly. “But do we have to scowl all the time?”

  He said, “Wear your own face the way you like it and leave me to mine. Anyway, we won’t be seeing that much of each other. You’ll be staying with the plane until it’s time to airlift this rig again.”

  “That’s a mistake.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a mistake. Mr. Brognola warned me that you would—look, if it’s not the sex then what is it? I’m a trained operative. I can be a real help to you.”

  “Trained how?” he inquired, seriously interested.

  “Electronic intelligence. I can—”

  “Field intelligence? Or are you an incubator baby?”

  Color rushed to that lovely face. “I had field problems at the academy. But this is the first practical—”

  He asked, “Can you climb a pole?”

  She tucked that firm little chin into a pert nod of the head. “Like a monkey.”

  “Know how to tap into telephone carriers?”

  “That’s kindergarten stuff.”

  He sniffed. “It’s going to be dangerous as hell.”

  “I know that.”

  The Bolan decision was characteristically quick, as much from the gut as from the head. “Okay. We’ll try it. But get out of that jumpsuit and into something feminine. Don’t downplay that fabulous body. A good soldier uses every tool available.”

  She was already stripping it off. “What exactly does that mean, Striker?”

  He turned his head, more for his own peace of mind than as a concession to modesty. He growled at her, perhaps to cover the effect this lady was having on him. “If you’re a good soldier, you’ll figure it out for yourself. Just don’t ask me to be your conscience. The object is to get the job done and come out alive. That’s the whole object.”

  The technically nude young lady was moving toward the rear of the motorhome. “In which order?”

  He growled, “What?”

  “You said get the job done and come out alive. If there’s a conflict between those two, which comes first?”

  She was slithering into a silky, formfitting chemise. And it was quite a form to be fitted. Bolan told her, “That’s nice.”

  She said, “Please note that I brought it with me. Also—you haven’t answered my question. Which comes first?”

  He very soberly addressed her question. “There’s no formula for that decision, April. It comes from the gut, not the head. If your gut is reliable then you’ll never have to ponder the question. If it’s not, then you’re in the wrong line of work.”

  “Trying to scare me off?” she inquired quietly.

  “Maybe,” he admitted.

  She stepped into delicate little shoes and said, “Okay, I’m fittingly frightened as well as fittingly dressed. And I’m still in. Aren’t I?”

  She was. But deeply enough only to allow the lady to feel useful and worthy. Bolan had no intention of testing April Rose’s combat guts. None whatever. He’d seen too many fail the test. And some of those, yeah, had been every bit as pretty and talented as April Rose … before the test.

  CHAPTER 3

  ON TRACK

  The Ford was in tow behind the warwagon and the track had been due north from Louisville on interstate Route 65. The C-130 aircraft had been ordered on to Indianapolis, there to await further flight instructions.

  Bolan wore faded blue denims, a sweatshirt, ankle-high moccassins. April Rose was seated at his right hand. She’d doodled theoretical problems in solid state mechanics on a scratch pad through much of the hour-long drive from Louisville. The conversation had been sparse and light, all of it initiated by the girl.

  As they peeled away from the interstate at Columbus, she said to him, “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

  He replied, “Not much, no.” He flicked a glance at her scratch pad as he added, “I guess I’ve been doodling, too.”

  “In your head?”

  “Yeah—if that’s what you call it.”

  She sighed. “Sometimes it helps to talk. When we get time, let’s—would you look at that! Did you see that signboard?”

  “City marker?” he grunted.

  “Yes, but did you see what they called it? The Athens of the Prairie. Is this a prairie?”

  He replied with a grin. “Well, it is pretty flat.”

  “Have you ever been to Athens?”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “Neither have I. But this looks nothing like the pictures I’ve seen.”

  He suggested, “Maybe it has something to do with the frame of mind.”

  “It certainly can’t be the architecture,” she said wrinkling her nose. “This is pure Midwestern Gothic.”

  Bolan chuckled and pushed the command console toward her. It was sort of nice, for a change, to have a companion. “Punch it up on the navigator,” he suggested. “She knows all, tells all.”

  “What’s the program?”

  Bolan gave the lady the program as they crossed the White River and entered the downtown area. It was not a bad little town, after all, prairie or not. Many signs of recent construction—a new downtown mall rising in the shadow of an ancient cupola and spire courthouse—a modern new post office building with trick glass walls nestled alongside crumbling warehouses of an earlier era—all, somehow, very appealing and inviting.

  “There are signs of progress,” he told the girl.

  “I bet I can tell you why, too,” she replied as she scanned the monitor display. “Lots of money here. Columbus is the home of the diesel engine. The man who developed it lived here. Cummins Engine seems to be the lifeblood of the area. Many other plants, too. It’s not Athens, Striker. It’s little Detroit.”

  “What’s the crime pattern?” he asked absently.

  “Saturday night stuff,” she replied, sniffing. “Nothing I can see here to intrigue a man like Tuscanotte.”

  “Drugs?”

  “A little action there. Grass, mostly, sez here. Usual small town pattern. The local cops are pretty tough on it. It says Indiana has a paraphernalia law. A two-ounce bust would probably make the local headlines. All in all, looks
pretty clean.”

  “Gambling?” Bolan inquired, his mind only partially into it.

  “The same. Small time. Football pool cards and the like. Indianapolis distributors, though. Nothing very exciting. Same for prostitution. Very disorganized, local girls, massage parlor quality. I really can’t see a thing here for Tuscanotte.”

  “That’s why he’s here,” Bolan told her.

  “Low profile, huh?”

  “You’ve got it. No profile whatever, actually. The guy dug a ditch and buried himself in it.”

  “In a prairie Athens,” she added.

  “It’s still in the shadow of Chicago,” Bolan pointed out. “It’s a marvelous age, April. Ninety minutes or so by fast plane and he’s right back in the homegrounds.” He pulled the big rig into a public parking lot. “Or ten seconds by telephone. The phone will be easier to find. Go find it, Tinkerbell.”

  She smiled tolerantly. “What’d you call me?”

  “Be a nice fairy and go find the telephone. Just be sure that no one knows what you’re after.”

  She said, “You’d better drag that station wagon out of the street or the Prairie Athens police will show you what they’re after.”

  He watched her halfway to the telephone company building, then sighed and pulled the Ford on into the parking lot, blocking off several meters in the process. A meter maid walked by, eyeing the tandem vehicles with casual interest. He stepped outside and fed coins into the meters, grinned at the lady, and went back inside. Then he smoked a cigarette and studied the area map display on the console while April Rose did her stuff in the Bell offices.

  The city seemed adequately served by a network of highways in addition to the interstate route. Nice location, really. Louisville an hour south, Cincinnatti an hour east, Indianapolis and that great interstate hub less than an hour north. There was a small airport and an auxiliary naval air station nearby.

  The general layout of the town itself, though, seemed rather chaotic, with state roads and a U.S. highway traversing the inner city in virtually every direction. The business district was very compact, encompassing just a few square blocks, with outlying shopping centers grouped northeasterly, and industrial development to the south—except for Cummins—which appeared to dominate the city proper. The river rather effectively curtailed western expansion except for a tourist-related buildup at the accesses to the interstate highway.