Cleveland Pipeline

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan had planned the infiltration for dawn, when the forces of heredity and chemistry override training to produce sluggishness and torpor in the most alert of sentries. That hour was fast approaching. Off to the east, across the dry bed of the Santa Cruz River, the first gray fingers of dawn backlighted the darker mass of Tucson. To the south and west, the San Xavier Indian Reservation lay in pitch blackness, its inhabitants awaiting nature’s signal to open another day of struggle and deprivation. Bolan was on the south perimeter of the rectangular compound, where the wire barrier drew closest to the clump of buildings.

  He had earlier tested the fence for electricity and found none. He removed a pair of wire cutters from their holster at his waist and cut an entrance through the chain-link barricade in five minutes of concentrated effort. And then he was inside, a deep blotch of shadow which had shifted from one side of the fence to the other as if following a moonbeam.

  Inside the compound, Bolan moved with speed and purpose. He crossed the expanse of ground between fence and buildings in a semi-crouch, sacrificing some concealment for the greater speed of long strides. His target was the longest of the structures, a squat rectangle of corrugated steel which stood like the head of a “T” in relation to the other buildings. Bolan gained the midnight shadow of that wall without encountering obstacles and merged silently into it. A long moment passed as his straining ears and keen night vision scoured the blackness in search of foes he never found.

  Satisfied that he was alone to this point, Bolan moved out, edging along the wall of the building. He had traversed one-third of the structure’s length when he encountered a door, secured by an outside hasp and padlock. He crouched with his ear close to the door panel before touching the lock, striving in vain to pick up the telltale sounds of human presence. There were none. The lock yielded to the probings of a specially constructed pick, and the hasp swung open with a faint grating sound. Again Bolan froze, every muscle tense in anticipation of impending attack.

  He gave the moment all the numbers, then slipped quickly inside to stygian darkness, electing to risk the advantage of a needle beam from his penlight. Folding chairs, small tables, metal lockers lining one wall—then yawning emptiness to the far wall where heavy mattresses formed a backdrop from ceiling to floor—just hanging there, suspended … and shot all to hell. Those mattresses were riddled with holes, their cotton innards trailing in spidery strands to the packed-earth floor. To Bolan’s eyes it was obvious that the pads had formed a backdrop for an indoor shooting gallery, from which the actual targets had since been removed.

  Interesting, sure, but not particularly revealing. More interesting was a small blackboard affixed to one wall behind the tables. Someone had been illustrating a talk—or a strategy of some type—with chalked arrows and other cryptic marks which, standing alone, had no meaning whatever. Beside the blackboard was posted a well marked-up street map of the city of Phoenix. Bolan removed the map and consigned it to a slit pocket as he moved silently outside.

  The remainder of the compound was laid out before Bolan like a miniature town. Or, more precisely, like a miniature combat training base. A second glance revealed that the double row of “buildings” was in fact a mockup of a town, false fronts complete with occasional open doorways and windows. A make-believe town. Mack Bolan had seen this sort of town before.

  It was a shooting gallery, or—more correctly—a combat range. The mockup was used by the military, the FBI, and many metropolitan police forces to hone the combat reflexes of their line personnel. The trainee walks through the “town,” and life-size photos of friends, foes, and innocent bystanders pop into view in the vacant windows and doors. It was a hypothetical survival course, with the trainee required to make split-second decisions of life and death, whether to fire or hesitate, whether to live or die. Bolan himself had run a similar practice course on several occasions, earning a “master” rating each time.

  Easing the silent Beretta from its sheath, the Executioner moved cautiously down that dark and lifeless street. As he walked, he was reminded of the climactic showdown in High Noon. The tall silent stranger with a gun, stalking his villainous prey as he fought to “clean up the town.” Bolan did not overlook the apt comparison between that mythical crusade and his own grim war without end.

  He paced off the street of that hollow town with measured strides, every sense on the alert for danger, the slim Beretta nosing out ahead of him like a sensor of peril. Bolan was ready, therefore, when a subtle alteration of the shadows to his left brought him spinning into a confrontation with death.

  A dark man-shape filled one of those empty doorways, and faint starlight gleamed on polished gunmetal as the man brought his heavy automatic to bear on Bolan. The Beretta got there first, sneezing out a pair of silent words to discourage the foe. The deadly parabellum slugs sighed in on target, punching twin paths through head bone barely a finger’s width apart. The human silhouette dematerialized, leaving the doorway empty again.

  Bolan crossed quickly to the plywood facade, examining his fallen enemy as much by touch as by sight. A middle-aged man, his body lean and hard under the rough work clothes he had worn in life, the remaining features of his face thick and swarthy.

  Mafia.

  The Executioner moved on, stepping more quickly along the blackened street of the combat range. At the far end of the mock town he found deserted barracks and an equally empty combination kitchen-dining room. There was nothing exceptional about either building, nothing of interest to Mack Bolan.

  The dead man had been alone.

  Bolan knew it with certainty as he left that place behind, moving across the compound with no effort at concealment. The guy had been on nightwatch, in the wrong place at the wrong time. His tab had come due to the universe for past wrongs, and the bill had been collected in full. That was the end of it.

  But not for Bolan.

  He had come in search of a clue to the purpose of that enigmatic “joint in the desert.” And, at least in part, he had that answer. The place was—had been—a school. A school of death, a finishing academy for gunmen.

  And the pupils were gone.

  The maneuvers Bolan had witnessed earlier had plainly been the mechanical actions of a cleanup crew, tidying in the wake of the Mafia’s graduating class.

  And where were those “graduates” now?

  Already bent upon their missions of pain and death?

  The mob had never taken this sort of trouble before to train its palace guard, and Bolan had no reason to believe they were starting now. The pupils of this death academy would be intended for some special postgraduation exercise.

  The Executioner’s Arizona blitz had begun as a relatively simple thrust against the heroin traffic, a logical culmination of Bolan’s progress from the Cleveland hellgrounds, but it had suddenly become much more.

  A new element had been introduced into the Arizona game—a wild card element that had to be identified and understood if the chains binding this desert state were to be broken. All the indicators pointed to the existence of a paramilitary force under mob sponsorship. Who were they? Where were they now? What was their mission? Such were the questions being raised by the answers discovered on this desert encampment.

  A subliminal tremor shivered Bolan’s spine.

  What was awaiting the Executioner in these new hellgrounds?

  He quit that place and returned quickly to the gully where he had stowed the warwagon. The answers would find him. He was positive of that. Those answers always seemed to find their way to Mack Bolan’s door.

  CHAPTER 2

  JOKERS

  The Mafia had come to Tucson in the 1940s, when enemies from without engaged the nation in global war, leaving the enemies within to devour the vitals of society. Niccolo “Nick” Bonelli, an underboss and junior partner of Cleveland’s Bad Tony Morello, had visited the desert spa while recovering from gunshot wounds and decided to stay. Morello had looked askance at his new desert outpost, until Bonelli en
lightened him about the miracles of geography and Mexican politics. Overnight Bad Tony’s scorn had been converted to admiration for Bonelli’s foresight. For three decades Nick Bonelli had mined the illicit Arizona goldfields in his master’s behalf, always reserving a healthy slice of power and profit for himself. Of late, Bad Tony had become more concerned with his own eastern machinations, content to let Bonelli run his arid fiefdom at will, so long as the usual percentage found its way home to the Cleveland coffers. And when at last Tony lost it all in his clash with Mack the Bastard Bolan, Nick Bonelli was on his own, free at last from the puppet master on Lake Erie.

  Niccolo Bonelli, at age 55, now headed the most powerful Mafia family between the Rockies and the Pacific. He had climbed the ladder of illicit power from gambling, prostitution, and wartime black-marketeering to achieve ultimate status as the heroin king of the Southwest. His hopes and fortune lay south of the border, and the Mexican heroin his pilots ferried across from Sonora biweekly had financed Bonelli’s excursion into more legitimate forms of enterprise. The California families relied heavily upon Nick’s southern connection, as did the dons in Cleveland and Detroit. Augie Marinello had used Nick’s services before he bought the farm in Pittsfield. Lately, rumor had it that the flow of drugs reached as far as Alaska and the boom towns opening along that last frontier.

  Nick Bonelli’s strong right arm, underboss, and heir apparent was his son Paul. Paul Bonelli had “legs,” everybody said so. Legs and balls. He had “made his bones” with a contract hit at age nineteen and ably assisted in the family’s administrative business ever since.

  Bolan dredged these facts from his mental index file as he piloted the GMC warwagon north along Interstate Highway 19 into South Tucson. He caught the interchange onto Interstate 10 there, nosing the sleek battle cruiser across the desert toward Phoenix.

  During his week in Tucson, the Executioner had searched out Nick Bonelli’s hardsite home and his major centers of operation. Automated intelligence “Collectors” were installed on the phone terminals of the hardsite, Paul Bonelli’s suburban palace, and the desert capo’s major underground clearinghouse. The warwagon’s super-sophisticated electronic collection gear could reap the harvest of that data in a ten-second drive-by, and Bolan felt secure in leaving Tucson behind him for the moment.

  All of Bolan’s combat senses told him that the immediate crisis lay to the north in Phoenix. His days of reconnaissance had uncovered no likely hiding place in Tucson for a paramilitary troop such as the one he sought, and the captured map of Phoenix was another pointer to the next battlefield.

  But Bolan had no idea what he would find there.

  Phoenix is the state capital and the seat of Maricopa County, widely proclaimed as one of the nation’s fastest-growing cities. Bolan’s preblitz recon had found tourism, mining, and the manufacture of chemicals and electronics gear vying for first place as the state’s leading industry there—plentiful targets for a Mafia strike force, but Bolan could not read the minds of unknown men at long range.

  Phoenix was also the mob capital of Arizona, the seat of government for a corrupt ruling commission with fingers in every important pie in the state. And these guys were not Mafia, at least not in the blood. Second and third generation descendants of immigrants from Eastern Europe, amoral renegades paying blasphemous lip service to the religion of their fathers. Jews in name, yes, but Nazis in their souls, savages and cannibals devoted to the subversion of every ideal held sacred by their ancestors. They blackened the name of their religion just as the Mafia godfathers blackened the name of an entire race.

  Yes, Bolan knew them. And he knew their city. His computer banks and mental mug file were crammed with their names and various connections to the workings of the Mafia’s ruling commissione. Wherever the Mafia had grown and prospered since Prohibition, these other savages were there as well, ever clinging to the shadows as the more flamboyant amici filled headlines and mortuaries, lending their advice and financial acumen where it was lacking in their Mafia comrades. Siegel, Buchalter, Cohen, Lansky. Bolan knew their names and their games.

  And he had wanted no part of them in Arizona.

  Sure, they were well deserving of the Executioner’s attention. He had hung the mark of the beast on one of them as recently as the Cleveland battle.

  But Mack Bolan needed no new enemies. He had more than he could handle in a lifetime simply dealing with the Mafia’s brothers of the blood, where the battle lines were more or less clearly drawn, the enemies generally recognizable at a glance.

  Any expansion of the war would necessarily mean an escalation of uncertainty and the corresponding potential for disastrous mistakes. The fine line between innocent bystanders and civilian savages would necessarily become more difficult to distinguish.

  In the past, Bolan had deliberately avoided confrontation with what one observer of the syndicate scene had dubbed the “Kosher Nostra,” but there could be no avoiding them now.

  He was headed full tilt into their capital city.

  And the whole deck was wild now in the Arizona game.

  The Executioner was in effect facing not one, but two crime syndicates, and he had no idea at the moment whether they were cooperating or at war. And to complicate matters further, there was that lethal “something else,” Nick Bonelli’s own private army, a paramilitary force of unknown size and strength, traveling unknown paths toward completion of an unknown mission.

  Too many wild cards for the Executioner to formulate campaign strategy in advance. He would have to play by ear in Arizona, riding his instincts to the ultimate end of success or total destruction.

  Bolan punched in a geo-plot on the warwagon’s console viewing screen, consulting the automated index for the microframe desired, then locking in the display for the area he was traveling.

  Interstate 10 approaches Phoenix from due south, looping through the suburb of Tempe before curving away northwest past Sky Harbor International Airport and into the downtown heart of Arizona’s capital as Interstate 17. Bolan flipped on the overhead light to consult the “liberated” street map of Phoenix which was covered with cryptic markings. There were thick black crosses, which he took to designate some sort of staging areas, and four separate potential targets had been circled with bold strokes. Drawn between the staging areas and target zones were the routes of access and retreat, with primary routes marked in red and emergency alternates in green.

  Bolan recognized three of the targets—one from simple knowledge of geography and the other two from a working acquaintance with the Phoenix crime scene. The fourth target remained an enigma, but for the moment three were enough.

  Two of the targets were private homes, and Bolan recognized them by the street names and progressive block numbers printed on the map as belonging to the major organized crime figures of the city. If an inter-mob war was brewing, these targets would come as no surprise.

  The third target riveted Bolan’s attention.

  The state capitol building.

  Bolan urged his warwagon on to greater speed, giving the big Toronado engine its head in the race toward Phoenix and an almost certain confrontation with holocaust.

  In fact, only the death card was certain now in what had started as the Tucson game, then shifted to the Phoenix game.

  It was the Arizona game now.

  The other cards were all jokers, and the jokers were wild.

  CHAPTER 3

  PARADISE

  Bolan swung the warwagon off the Interstate and onto Central Avenue, powering smoothly along the thoroughfare toward the heart of Phoenix. He passed Union Station and the county office complex on his left, and soon spied the multimillion dollar bulk of the new Civic Plaza looming two blocks over to his right on the east flank.

  The Executioner’s target of the moment was not downtown. Technically, it was not in Phoenix at all. He was homing on the elite suburb of Paradise Valley and had elected the Central route to save time wasted on a maze of residential streets. The sleek
battle cruiser powered on, leaving behind the campus of Maricopa Tech and the Phoenix Art Center in its wake. Bolan left Central far from the heart of town, swinging east onto Camelback Road and homing on his target as common homes began to bloom and blossom into mansions.

  Bolan was well versed on the peculiar pedigree of Paradise Valley. The exclusive “in” community boasted three private country clubs, yet another private golf course, and a theoretically public “tennis ranch,” and some years back the socialite inhabitants had cast their mayoral votes for gambler and stock swindler Gus Greenbaum. Old Gus hadn’t been a bad mayor really, since he spent most of his time visiting with co-investors in Las Vegas gaming ventures. The Nevada connections had proven hazardous for Gus, and he went the way of all flesh in 1958, when one of those dissatisfied partners slit his throat from ear to ear and left him leaking on the posh carpet of his palatial home in Paradise.

  And Paradise had been truly a paradise for the Phoenix mob, a retreat and sanctuary, a home away from the daily details of corruption and murder, a breath of clean air amid the reek of the syndicate charnel house.

  Mack Bolan came to Paradise one morning in early spring and found the Serpent already there … or, at least, the Serpent’s lair.

  He drove on by and pulled up three blocks further on, beside the rolling greenery of a well-trimmed public park. Selecting a nondescript jumpsuit and blue hardhat from his wardrobe of disguises, the Executioner quickly transformed himself into a telephone lineman. A tool box, safety belts, and climbing spikes completed the outfit.

  Bolan quit the warwagon, jangling off along the quiet lane toward his destination. He chose a phone pole at one corner of the walled estate he sought and began to climb with easy practiced movements. His crow’s nest at the terminal box provided him with an excellent vantage point for viewing the entire estate: scattered trees, gently rolling grounds, and a charmingly extravagant manor house at the end of the graveled drive.