Monday’s Mob

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan thoughtfully replied, “Yeah, okay—that’s the reading I’m getting at present place. I just wanted it confirmed. Where’d you get yours? Chicago?”

  “Uh huh. Can you call me on a laundry line?”

  “Not right at the moment, no,” Bolan replied, sighing. “I have the tiger by its tail and I hate like hell to let go. It could drag me anywhere and I don’t much like the looks of this jungle. But if I let go … well, I’ve got this time problem, you know. This could be the golden opportunity.”

  “It could be the land of the beyond, too, buddy,” Brognola said heavily. “Our figures indicate an overwhelming superiority on the other side. And that’s not Miami Beach, you know. Frankly I don’t see much comfort for you there.”

  “I’ll just have to clear a comfort zone, then,” Bolan said. “Are you reading another Miami Beach?”

  “On a regional scale, yeah.”

  “How much region are we talking about?”

  “You’re in it, pal,” Brognola replied, with a sober laugh. “We’re talking about all of it.”

  “The heartland,” Bolan muttered.

  “You’ve got it.”

  Bolan sighed into the radiophone hookup and lit a cigarette.

  Presently, Brognola said, “Striker?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “What are you skulling?”

  “The golden opportunity.”

  “Don’t try it. That’s my friendly advice. I can’t move into that area without tipping everything. About the best I can offer is after the fact. And that could be damn little comfort for you, pal.”

  Bolan said, very quietly, “I know.”

  “We don’t think it’s worth it, Striker.”

  “Then nothing’s worth it,” Bolan replied tiredly. “This is the very thing I—hell, I can’t let them have it. It’s the Monday coalition, Hal. If they make it here, then all of the past has been in vain. All the sanctified past, buddy. I cannot give them that.”

  Brognola knew it. The long, resigned sigh from 800 miles out told it all. “Well … maybe we were a bit premature with the happy prognosis. This not the same ballgame we discussed in Derby Town, you know. Not at all. Let me suggest a, uh, review of the situation. I don’t think we should—”

  “It’s a go, Hal.”

  “Uh, well, okay … no one can make that decision but you. But I still think …”

  “Contact the lady helper, will you. You should find her in the lounge at the Ramada, present place. Order her on to Indy. That’s a no-fail, Hal.”

  “No-fail, okay. Keep me posted, dammit—will you? And here’s a local clue for you. Divine Light.”

  “Come back?”

  “With a capital D and a capital L. Divine Light. Sorry, that’s all I have. But look for it.”

  Bolan chuckled solemnly and assured his friend in Wonderland that he would look for that.

  Then he terminated the contact and turned back to present place.

  One of the vehicles that had been parked at the dirt road turnout had peeled about onto the blacktop and was advancing on him at a high rate of speed.

  He backed the cruiser into the driveway of a farmhouse and locked the optics onto that approaching vehicle, then energized the fire control system.

  The roof-mounted rocket pod quivered in her concealed nest below the sliding panel, awaiting the command to rise and lock.

  But that command was not necessary. The speeding vehicle hardly slowed for the 90-degree curve, roaring on past the cruiser with quickening acceleration.

  That was a gun crew in there.

  A scouting party, maybe. Bound for Stoney Lonesome, perhaps, to verify a reported hit in the home grounds.

  The other vehicles in that column at the vee junction were now rolling on, proceeding along the gravelled road toward the camps for boys and girls.

  And there was, Bolan suspected, more than camps for boys and girls along that twisted road to nowhere. There was also an encampment of another kind, maybe—a Shangrila?—where all the disputatious hoods of Monday’s Mob were coming together in conference assembled. Seeking the Divine Light?

  It was, yeah, a golden opportunity.

  But yes, Hal, it could also very well become the land of the beyond for Mack Bolan.

  But, then, that was the land of the Executioner’s birth—wasn’t it? It was where he had lived throughout all that sanctified past.

  So how about it, April Rose? What could the pretty lady possibly know about it? Mack Bolan had known a lot of sacred lives. And he’d met them each and every one in Hell.

  It had a name—Clay Lick Road—and it served a narrow, sparsely settled and rolling valley that had probably been formed in ages past by what was now the creek or “lick.” Bolan had noted that the hills in this area seemed to be succession of finger ridges, oriented generally toward an east-west lie. Some were quite high and steep; others lifted gradually into elevated slopes or rolled gently away at bisecting angles. Moraines, perhaps, left by the recession of the glaciers at the end of the last ice age. Whatever—it was rugged and beautiful country. And Bolan could understand Venturi’s confused “autumn trees” report. Except where small patches had been cleared for farming, the entire countryside was densely wooded with a variety of trees whose autumn leaves would no doubt provide a stunning and spectacular color display. Bolan was no expert on forestry, but he could recognize hickory, walnut, birch, dogwood and laurel in abundance.

  The first half-mile or so along Clay Lick was like a tunnel with overhanging trees forming the roof, a steep ridge rising abruptly along the one side and the rain-swollen creek raging along the other.

  And there was no comfort here, no, for the man in the warwagon.

  But then the creek formed an S-pattern, crossing twice beneath the narrow roadway to form a wider valley with a gently sloping rise leftward. Several neat homes and cultivated fields appeared there—some corn, and another crop that Bolan did not instantly recognize as tobacco. Cows grazed on the higher elevations, just below the timberline.

  Clay Lick meandered away in the midst of that pastoral beauty, crossing toward the far side of the valley—a distance of less than a quarter-mile at the broadest point. The road kept its place beside the steep ridge and topped a gentle rise below which evergreen saplings—Christmas trees?—replaced the other crops; and then, quite abruptly and just over another brief rise, the Christmas trees were replaced by Divine Light.

  Yeah.

  Thanks, Hal—it was quite a clue.

  Clay Lick had found its way back to within fifty feet of the roadway. A narrow drive with a broad turnout sprang away to the left to cross the creek and enter parklike grounds, which rose gracefully to forested ridgeland deep within. No structures revealed themselves to casual view; all that showed was a tree-lined drive flanked by acres of well-tended lawn, which was flanked in turn by dense timberland. An earthen mound suggested of a dam appeared to lift the drive in a curving rise to the ridgeland beyond—and Bolan caught a flash through the trees that he read as the column of vehicles disappearing into those depths.

  There was no fencing. Apparently none was needed. The surging creek provided a natural barrier. A narrow, concrete bridge designed to allow waterflow across it was chainblocked in a manner similar to the joint on Stoney Hill.

  A couple of guys in shirtsleeves were playing catch with a football just inside the grounds. Another rode slowly across the grass on a small motorcycle.

  “No Trespassing” signs abounded at the approaches—but the sign most interesting was a handcarved rustic affair of perhaps two feet square that was nailed to a tree—rather immodestly proclaiming in burnt letters Divine Light Retreat.

  Shangri-la, yeah, maybe. And a damn large chunk of it, at that—perhaps hundreds of acres.

  It appeared that Monday’s Mob had found themselves the perfect joint—a sanctuary, as it were, in the heartland. And Mack Bolan would have to see about that. But it was no place to go a’blundering. He needed, first, their
numbers and nameplates—and he needed to know precisely where they were and what they were doing.

  There was too much confusion here, at the moment.

  Brognola had hinted at an organizational summit meeting, involving all the gangland principals of the Midwest region. On the other hand, Harry Venturi had sworn on his life that Tuscanotte was meeting with a couple of state guys.

  Knowing the Mafia mind as he did, Bolan was almost positive that the information from Venturi was solid as far as it went. A guy like Venturi, in those circumstances, would not risk an out and out lie. He would hedge, postulate, and withhold—but he would not challenge Bolan’s instincts for the truth with an outright lie.

  So … put it together.

  There had been a three o’clock meeting scheduled at the Ramada with some state officials. And there was a congregation of heartland hoods at a place called Divine Light.

  So something large was brewing … sure.

  A simple hit on the person of Carmine Tuscanotte would not be enough to kill the brew … not now.

  And there was this time problem.

  There was only one logical step next in line for Mack Bolan. As disheartening as the thought might be, he had to penetrate that joint. He had to get inside and sort it out.

  He had to take that step beyond.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE SORT

  It was nothing but marshy floodplain backed up by impenetrable thickets for the first several hundred yards beyond the entrance to the hardsite. The creek had disappeared, angling off again into the thickets while the road maintained position in the shadow of the ridge. But then suddenly Clay Lick returned to shoot across beneath the roadway and run along the right side, between road and ridge. And it was a godsend. Just beyond that point another driveway came down from a farm house set upon a grassy hillside.

  Divine Light—or access to it—probably lay just over that hill, beyond the farmhouse. The terrain display from the navigation computer seemed to verify that. He was at the northeast corner of the hardsite—on the backhill side, if the contour map knew what it was talking about. Which was probably as close as he was likely to get in a vehicle.

  The farm looked deserted.

  He pulled into the drive and made the approach with optic and audio scans probing—and these confirmed the naked sense impressions: there was no one about. From the looks of things, there had not been for some time.

  He took the cruiser on to the rear and parked it behind the house, then went to the light table in the war room and patched the NavCom display for an inch by inch scrutiny of the terrain features. Twenty minutes later he knew the territory like a native.

  There was a large lake up there—perhaps covering five to six acres—formed by throwing up a dam across a deep ravine. That explained the earthen mound eyeballed during the cruise by. The lake was oriented almost precisely north-south, long and narrow. The sector map had no way of knowing about water depths, of course, but it had been made after the lake was built and the dam itself was contoured on the map, revealing—with an acceptable margin for error—the approximate surface elevation of the lake. The result was a rugged shoreline with steep banks everywhere except for the final few hundred feet on each shore at the south end—the dam end. Those steep banks were the sides of the ravine in which the lake lay. Ridges, yeah—a half-dozen within easy gunshot of the creek, lying like gnarled fingers upon the land, chaotic contours on the terrain chart.

  And that could be good.

  Or it could be bad.

  No man-made structures showed on the map. There was no way to know what was really up there, without physical penetration. And there was no way to know in advance just how security conscious those people might be.

  It was tempting to believe that the land itself would lull them into a false sense of security. They had it all going for them—except against a most determined foe. And Bolan had one small scrap of intelligence working for him. He thought that he had glimpsed the column of cars crossing the dam and climbing the second ridge.

  So okay.

  He climbed into the Mafia mind and drew a defensive network. What did they have working for them? Up front, at the eastern boundary, they had a swollen creek and a single, guarded access to the property. Working back from there, they had several hundred yards of open lawn, a wooded ridge, a dam, a lake, and another very steep wooded ridge upon which—maybe—perched the central camp. To the north, west, and south they had chaotic and densely timbered ridgelands. The entire area was a forest, except for a small scoop here and there carved out for isolated human habitation.

  It could make a guy from the big city streets feel pretty secure … sure.

  So okay. Defend it. Put a couple of guys down at the bridge and give them something to play with so they wouldn’t look too obvious to casual passersby. Give another guy a trailbike and let him patrol the creek from the inside. And maybe, just maybe, a silent sentry at each corner of the property ilne. For double safe, another trailbike to patrol the ridges. That would do it up brown. The land itself would do the rest.

  Okay.

  Bolan went aft and again changed clothing. He got into army camouflage fatigues and combat boots, strapped on a web belt with ammo pouches for the big Weatherby, added the Beretta shoulder rig and affixed the silencer, draped binoculars from the neck, thought twice and decided on the long stiletto and a couple of nylon garrotes. Then he quickly fieldstripped the Weatherby Mark V and made her shiny clean in all her parts, put in a load of .460 bonebusters, shoulder-slung the heavy weapon, and went EVA.

  Several minutes later he had to score a point for the streetcorner soldiers from Chicago. They had a sentry at the northeast corner. But the guy must have thought the bosses were crazy. He was taking a sun bath, stripped to the waist and sprawling on a claybank in the open, staring into the western sky with a hand shading his eyes. A neglected shotgun lay beside him.

  It was cleared ground—though long neglected and growing kneehigh grass wherever it would grow—where evidently some years earlier evergreen saplings had been planted to grow into God’s own Christmas trees. But the crop had never been harvested. Mature Scotch pines now stood in choked rows along the ridgeline—and at the edge of the cleared area a savage from Chicago lay basking in the same radiant energy that made the pines grow.

  Bolan came out of tall grass and vaulted rusted barbed-wire to penetrate the enemy turf.

  The guy came up quickly and snatched at the shotgun as he whirled to confront the interloper. “You’re trespassing, dummy,” he snarled, perhaps more angry at being startled than anything else. “You can’t hunt here!”

  Bolan said, “Do tell,” as he pulled two pounds on the Beretta once from the hip. The black pistol sneezed softly and the guy swallowed his snarl—lips, teeth, chin and all.

  Bolan seized a foot and dragged the remains into the pines. A wallet identified the guy as Edward Kramer. He was not a brother of the blood but a one-time freelancer who’d made Bolan’s personnel file under various sponsors. Not exactly a reliable type—and that confirmed a growing feeling that the Chicago Outfit was relying more and more on mercenaries from outside the bloodlines, an indication that the manpower problem was getting serious.

  He went back and scuffed the earth with a foot to cover the bloodstains, then stashed the clothing and shotgun near the body and went quickly on.

  There was a lot of ground yet to be covered. And he had to cover it all before contemplating any open assault. Bloodless mercenaries or not, it was no place to go a’blundering.

  Ten minutes later, he knew that he was in for a hell of a fight.

  He was seated at the top of a sheer rock bluff near the north end of the lake, studying the lie with binoculars. Two large houses stood upon the west bank, at the south end near the dam. Another smaller house was set back away from the east bank, on much lower ground but commanding the access drive at the point where it met the dam.

  The west bank, below the larger of the two houses, was ent
ertaining a large number of people. There was about an acre of terraced lawn there, sweeping gracefully down from the house to the lakeside where a small pier provided tie-ups for several rowboats. A rack of canoes stood at the shoreline twenty feet or so north of the pier.

  Shangri-la for sure, but most of those guys did not seem to know what to do with it. Many wore business suits—coat, tie, the whole bit. A couple in shirtsleeves stood on the pier, staring vacantly at the lake. A few had ventured onto the water, via a pontoon barge with a canvas awning; one of these was playing with a fishing rod.

  While Bolan was studying that situation, a vehicle appeared suddenly at the east side and swung onto the dam, paused there for a moment, then went on across and disappeared as it climbed through the trees of the west bank.

  A hell of a fight, yes.

  He had caught only a quick glimpse into the interior of that vehicle but it was glimpse enough with no possibility of mistaken impression. It carried four persons—two in the front seat and two in the rear.

  The guy on the passenger side up front was sometimes called, by his brothers, the Ape-man.

  Seated directly behind Venturi was a woman—a very pretty and frightened young woman.

  And that was, sure, none other than April Rose.

  No further sorting of the characters at Divine Light was necessary.

  Bolan knew, now, that all sorts would fall out the same. The only questions remaining were those of time … and combat capability.

  And all the educated answers were entirely dismal … for the pretty lady who loved all mankind.

  CHAPTER 12

  COCK O’ THE ROOST

  Venturi was scared as hell. He’d never seen this joint before or even dreamed of its existence. But it was very obvious what it was. And he just couldn’t believe it. How long had Carmine been double-dealing him this way?

  Shouldn’t the head cock, by God, know about a joint like this on his own turf?

  Willy Frio pulled hard on the wheel and sent the car careening into seemingly open air. But it was not open air. It was a narrow roadway with room for one-way traffic only—a straight plunge for about fifty feet off to the left, a goddam lake lapping at the other side just a few feet away.