Cleveland Pipeline
Page 15
A dragon lived within those walls, a corrupt old serpent in human form. Morris Kaufman—Moe to his old friends in Detroit and the new ones here in Paradise—had once been jokingly referred to as “the Yiddish Augie Marinello,” a reference to the Mafia’s late and unlamented Boss of Bosses. A joke, of course, but there was more truth than humor in the analogy, and the joke was on Phoenix society.
Like Nick Bonelli, Moe Kaufman had come west in adversity, one propitious jump ahead of a crusading grand jury in Detroit. And he had built an empire in the desert, growing along with his adopted city in wealth and influence. He outranked Bonelli in seniority and sheer wealth. More importantly, he pulled the political strings for much of the Grand Canyon State from his de facto position as the mentor and financier of rising lights in government. Of late there had been speculation as to how far his influence might reach into the upper ranks of state government and beyond, but one investigative reporter had already “committed suicide” in recent months, and the rest was silence.
A dragon, yeah. A scabrous old parasite living to eat the bowels of the society that sheltered him. But maybe a dragon in trouble.
The Kaufman estate was one of those “marks” on Bolan’s captured battle map.
Bolan opened the terminal box and plugged in. He found a line in use on the second try, and what he heard instantly riveted his full attention. A man’s hard voice was growling in the earpiece.
“… else is here. She’s alone here with the houseman and a maid.”
“Shit!” An answering male voice, deep, with a hint of southern twang.
“We had to burn the houseman. So now what?”
“Dammit! He was supposed to be there!”
“Think we should wait?”
“No! No waiting! Did the maid get a look at you?”
“Sure she got a look.”
“Okay. Take care of that. And put a sack on Miss Boobs and drag her over here. We’ll bring the guy to us.”
“Ten-four, gotcha. We’re on our way.”
The line went dead.
Bolan hurriedly clipped in a miniature recorder-transceiver and tidied the tap with some quick camouflage, then quit that perch, descending immediately and shedding his lineman’s tools as he trotted toward the ironwork entrance to the Kaufman estate.
A car engine coughed to life somewhere within those grounds, and the squeal of tires along the drive signaled the coming confrontation. Bolan opened the jumpsuit and sprung the silent Beretta from its armpit sheath as he jogged into that meet. The iron gate was humming and rattling as it slowly withdrew along the remote-controlled pulley chain. A four-door sedan was approaching, slowing for the gate. In the split second before his brain impulses were translated into lethal action, Bolan ran a rapid sizing on that fated vehicle. Four heads were behind that glass—two guys in front, another guy and a young woman in the rear. With hardly a break in stride, Bolan swung into the confrontation with Beretta raised and steadied in classic combat crouch. The silenced weapon coughed four times in rapid succession, dispatching two parabellum manglers into the auto grillwork and two more at precise points through the windshield. Two heads snapped back, imparting a mingled spray of life forces into the compact atmosphere, splattering the other passengers with wet streamers of crimson and gray.
The sedan lurched to a stop, its punctured radiator spluttering its death rattle. The girl was going crazy, her mouth yawning in a soundless scream, but her companion in the rear seat retained more self-composure. A side door sprang open and ejected that hardman in a diving headlong roll, his frantic hands clawing for gun-leather. The Beretta chugged out a deadly double message, and the guy’s graceful dive suddenly became an awkward blood-drenched wallow of death.
Bolan moved swiftly to the car and leaned inside. The front seaters were both dead as hell, the backs of their skulls missing and replaced by sodden muck. The fourth passenger, however, was very much alive.
And, quite naturally, scared as hell.
Her screams were winding down to a breathless series of panting little gasps. At sight of Bolan and that ominous black blaster, she began screaming again, shrill, strangled sounds, eyes bulging and face reddening. She was dressed only in a wraparound bathrobe, and that was blotched with spreading patches of blood.
The kid was lapsing into hysterics. It was no time for sophisticated handling. So he slapped her. Twice. Hard, stinging blows across each pale cheek. She sobered immediately, her wheezing cries dying to an injured murmur.
“You’re okay,” he said, the tone firm and reassuring. “Cool it. Who are you?”
The girl’s mouth worked for a couple of seconds before the sounds emerged. “I—I’m Sharon Kaufman.”
Oh yeah. Wonderful. Bolan’s cup fairly runneth over. He pulled the girl out, slung her across his shoulder, and without wasting a precious moment, hurried to the warwagon with his “prize.”
The going was not all that easy, though. She was no frail wisp of a girl but a substantial chunk of womanhood with long, flowing lines and plenty of nice womanflesh packed onto that feminine frame. Bolan sized her out at about 130 to 140 pounds and close to six feet in height. If she’d wanted to put up a fight, he would have had his hands full. But there was no fight in this one. She was still obviously terrified, confused, perhaps only partially conscious.
He deposited her on a bunk in the warwagon and peeled away the bloodied robe. She shrank from that invasion of personal privacy but made no move to interfere with the inspection. “Miss Boobs,” for sure. Not just big but big and firm, proud and—in most any other circumstances—tantalizing.
“Please!” she whispered. “Don’t … don’t.…”
“Relax,” he said pleasantly. “I’m just looking for hurts.” He closed the robe and told her, “You pass. A-OK. None of the blood is yours. You’ll feel a lot better after you’ve scrubbed it off.” He pointed out the shower stall to her. “Don’t waste the water. It’s a small tank.”
He patted her hand and gave her a friendly smile, then went forward to send the battle cruiser to softer ground. Circling the streets of Paradise, Bolan drove with one portion of his mind while using the rest to probe the new dimensions of his problem.
Moe Kaufman had been the hit team’s primary target, no doubt about it. He wasn’t home, the voice on the phone had said—the girl would bring him to “us.” So far it played. But had the crew been looking to hit the Jewish capo or merely abduct him? And to what ultimate end?
Sharon Kaufman was yet another wild card in the game. The Serpent’s daughter, a pearl before swine. With the old man missing, her abduction had been the logical and inevitable move. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed …
And where did Bolan’s new “prize” fall in the scheme of things? A healthy and apparently vibrant young woman, but a serpent’s daughter all the same. Where would she stand when the cut came?
Another imponderable in the Arizona game.
The players were multiplying like rabbits, and it was getting hard to tell them apart without a program. There was more than one serpent in Paradise now, and they were at war.
Bolan found himself joining the Arizona game late, already several moves behind. But he had captured a queen on his opening gambit, and it just might be enough. Enough to scatter the players, and maybe—just maybe—enough to upset the whole damn board.
The Executioner drove on deeper into Paradise.
Searching for serpents.
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About the Author
Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful th
at it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author᾿s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1977 by Don Pendleton
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8582-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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