Missouri Deathwatch Read online

  Annotation

  A Mafia hit team is trying to gain control of St. Louis. The Executioner is only too aware that if the attack succeeds, it would be a major setback in his everlasting war.

  Mack Bolan returns to the Missouri killground to settle an ancient blood debt. And the leader of the hit crew and his Black Ace — one of the brotherhoods assassination elite — are marked for death.

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  Don Pendleton's

  Prologue

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  Don Pendleton's

  Mack Bolan

  Missouri Deathwatch

  To the families of the 2,489 MIAs who keep the candle in the window. Keep the flame burning bright!

  Cowards die many times before their deaths;

  The valiant never taste of death but once.

  Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,

  It seems to me most strange that men should fear;

  Seeing that death, a necessary end.

  Will come when it will come.

  Shakespeare: Julius Caesar, ii, 2, 1599

  My death, when it comes, will not be premature. And I'll be going out fighting.

  Mack Bolan

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contributions to this work.

  Prologue

  Mack Bolan stood atop a bluff, gazing at the broad Mississippi. At his back the midnight lights of St. Louis silhouetted him against the velvet sky. And on his hilltop perch the man in black could feel a stirring of the city's ghosts.

  The Executioner knew this town, this battlefield, from personal experience. A bitter skirmish in his private war against the Mafia had been enacted here — how many lives ago?

  It seemed a thousand years... and only yesterday.

  Chuck Newman's urgent message had been channeled to the warrior through his brother, Johnny, and it was enough to bring Bolan back to these killing fields where so much blood had been spilled out in the pursuit of his long crusade. To see, perhaps, if the St. Louis soil was thirsty once again.

  Chuck Newman had been an up-and-coming politician, favored as a candidate for governor, when members of the Mafia discovered certain indiscretions by his wife. A would-be actress in her younger days, she had appeared in certain films that would have, if aired in public, scuttled any hopes her husband cherished for elective office. Newman had got in touch with Able Team — a slick investigative outfit in those days before the terrorist wars — and thus Mack Bolan was attracted to St. Louis, carrying the cleansing fire.

  Between them, Bolan, Schwarz and Blancanales had broken the chains that held Chuck Newman. He had retired from politics and concentrated on the law, advancing in a few short years to reach the upper strata of Missouri law enforcement.

  Building on the lessons learned from Bolan, he had dealt some telling blows against the hoodlums of the Show Me State, recording some convictions that had drawn attention from the media... and won him mention as a candidate for transfer to the Justice camp, in Washington.

  But there was trouble again in St. Louis, and when Newman found himself beyond his depth, he sent a message out along familiar channels. Word reached Able Team, already occupied with other tasks, and it had been relayed to Johnny Bolan, at the San Diego Strongbase. The younger Bolan listened, understood and made the call.

  Dusty phantoms were stirring to life, their chains already clanking in the soldier's mind. No victory could ever stay absolutely won in everlasting war. Frustration was a constant in Mack Bolan's private war. He learned to live with it, to make the most of what he had when time and circumstance allowed.

  But victory — that exhilarating moment when the last foe sprawls before you in the dust and no more rise to take his place — was ever and eternally beyond his reach. The Executioner was doomed to fight a grim containing action — striking lethal blows against the savages wherever they appeared, but never damming the tide of new replacements who replenished the hostile ranks.

  His enemy was Savage Man, and the battlefield was everywhere. Bolan was historian enough to know that his crusade was not a new idea.

  The struggle had been going on since prehistoric times, and it would not be finally decided by the outcome of a skirmish on the Mississippi.

  But he had to try.

  It was his destiny.

  And it was lime to do it all again in old St. Louis. This time maybe it would stick.

  Mack Bolan turned his back on the silent river, put the overlook behind him, moving out to join the ghosts.

  He owed it to them.

  And to himself.

  Okay, more from the beginning, with feeling.

  From the heart.

  1

  The guard dog never knew what hit him. For an instant, he was on alert, every sense attuned to something strange on his turf. At first, it was no more than a smell, fleeting, but lingering in his cerebral cortex long enough to set alarm bells jangling and raise the bristle hairs along his spine. The night eyes could detect a shadow movement now, and he was snarling, circling to face the intruder, when there was a gentle popping sound and a sudden stinging pain against his flank.

  The dog sat down, his hind legs suddenly refusing to obey the fevered brain's command. He felt the darkness closing in, and he was whimpering now, afraid, incapable of understanding as it carried him away.

  The shepherd was inert and breathing softly by the time Mack Bolan reached him, already tucking the Crossman Pellgun away in his web belt. He used a moment to retrieve the tranquilizer dart and run a hand along the guard dog's muscled flank in mute apology.

  The dog had been responding to his instincts and the training that had turned him from a gentle family pet to something swift and sinister. This animal was not the enemy, but they were close now. Bolan felt their nearness as he merged with darkness, homing on his primary objective.

  The Executioner was dressed to kill, his blacksuit clinging to him like a second skin, the hidden pockets filled with slim stilettos, wire garrotes and other tools of silent death. The sleek Beretta 93-R nestled in its armpit sheath, and the silver AutoMag, Big Thunder, rode its thunder spot on Bolan's hip in military leather. Canvas pouches circling his waist held extra magazines for both weapons, interspersed with hand grenades arranged to let him pick them out by touch alone.

  The soldier came prepared for a soft probe this time out. Still he knew from grim experience how chance and circumstance could foil the best-laid plans of any warrior, turning a soft probe into something hard and deadly. He was navigating by ear this time, and he was primed to kill if he encountered any solid opposition on the way.

  The grounds were familiar to him from another visit, in another lifetime. Closing on his target, Bolan reached the wall, melding with the midnight shadows to scrutinize the house some fifty yards away.

  The crumbling estate was situated in a small, exclusive neighborhood on the city's west side, nestled among the mansions of the nouveaux riches. It struck Bolan that the aging palace was symbolic of the empire it had come to represent. Already weakened — superficially, at least — by weather and the ravages of time, it seemed an easy mark.

  But the warrior knew a dragon dwelled within those walls, and age had not entirely robbed it of its fire. The Executioner was well aware that overconfidence had killed more soldiers
in the field than any other single enemy, and he was not about to join their ranks.

  Bolan had a good view of the house — its broad front doors, one side, a portion of the glassed-in porch out back. Beyond his line of sight would be the swimming pool and sauna, tennis courts — unused for years — and private putting green. The carport, with its pair of carbon-copy Continentals, was positioned to the rear at the end of a looping, graveled driveway.

  On his first invasion of the dragon's lair so long ago, Bolan had entered by the porch, but now he focused full attention on an upstairs window, which showed muted light through the draperies. Giamba's study would be there, unless the aging don had gone in for remodeling of late... and Bolan's instincts told him nothing much had changed inside the manor house.

  He eyed the trellis that rose to a balcony above, and knew that he could scale it if it would bear his weight. The problem would be getting there, with fifty yards of open ground between him and the house, a free-fire zone where he would be exposed to any errant sentry, any watcher from a darkened window, scanning for intruders on the grounds.

  He had encountered no resistance yet except the dog, and Bolan wondered if Giamba's own survival sense was failing in his twilight years. There might be hidden guards, of course, and yet he had to take a chance.

  The warrior had not come this far to let the opportunity escape. He needed to obtain a handle on the situation in St. Louis, and Giamba could provide the necessary insight.

  A final scan to either side, and Bolan made his break, a darting shadow that erupted from the base of the wall. He crossed the lawn with loping strides, quickly merging with the darkness pooled around the manor house itself. Here, huddled in a combat crouch, while respiration normalized, the numbers running down without a cry of warning in the night.

  When he was satisfied, the soldier made another sprint toward the trellis, pausing once again for safety's sake before he reached up and tugged at the wooden structure, testing it with his weight. It held and Bolan scrambled upward with the practiced movements of an acrobat. He scaled the railing of the balcony, and flattened up against the wall beside the sliding windows.

  Another breathless moment, waiting to discern if hearing more acute than Art Giamba's had detected his arrival. There was no sound beyond the glass. He tried the sliding window, found it locked and knew that he would have to force his way inside the study.

  A slim stiletto filled his hand, and he was bending toward the window latch when headlights flashed along the curving drive. Bolan sought the shadows and watched as two sleek limousines pulled up outside Giamba's door, their lights and engines killed in unison.

  He moved to peer across the rail, already counting as the Cadillacs began disgorging men and guns. He tallied six, added the wheelmen, and came up with a hit team.

  Whatever had been going on around St. Louis before, the heart of it was coming down right here, right now. And Art Giamba was about to entertain, some unexpected callers.

  As he wondered how this crew had gotten through the gate, he heard a door opening below him. A startled voice was barking questions, and then the muffled chug of silenced automatic pistols answered the houseman's challenge.

  Four of the intruders disappeared inside, their backups seeming almost relaxed as they leaned against the cars, their weapons dangling at their sides. They were professionals and everything about them told him they had come expecting nothing in the way of true resistance.

  Muffled shouting now, a single shot within the house, and then the four emerged carrying a fifth man. Despite the semidarkness and the altitude, the rumpled hair and smear of blood that masked his profile, Bolan recognized the mafioso he had come to see.

  And Art Giamba was in trouble.

  Again.

  A sense of deja vu was nagging at the Executioner, but he had no time to sit back and think it through. He had to act, or watch his "handle" disappear before he had a chance to gather the intelligence he needed for his own campaign.

  They reached the cars, and Artie was propelled into the back seat of the Caddy first in line. The Executioner was out of numbers, and he would have to make his move right now or let it go.

  He moved, vaulting the railing of the balcony, a grenade with pin released now in his hand. With half a heartbeat left to touchdown, Bolan pitched the fragger. He registered explosive impact on the second Caddy's windshield, startled hands upraised to shield the driver's face from flying glass, and then the warrior's mind was fully occupied with grim survival.

  Bolan landed squarely on the point car's roof and used it as a springboard, dropping out of sight behind the tank before the startled gunners had a chance to realize what was happening. He hit a combat crouch, the sleek Beretta in his hand, and he was ready when smoky thunder tore the night apart.

  The second crew wagon exploded, raining shattered safety glass on the estate grounds. The thunderclap swallowed up the driver's dying screams as flames licked at empty window frames, the front doors flapping from the shock waves like a dying condor's wings.

  The first concussion flattened three of Bolan's opposition, and the rest were scrambling away from the heat and shrapnel, when the soldier showed himself. Beretta braced in both hands, tracking into target acquisition. The leader of the team was swiveling to meet a different kind of heat. The silenced autoloader chugged its greetings, opening up a vent between the startled eyes. The gunner toppled backward, lifeless, and Bolan pivoted to bring another target under fire.

  The second mark was lining up an Army-issue .45, already squeezing off when Bolan's parabellum mangier drilled his jaw, boring on to clip his spine and lodge between the lumbar vertebrae. The .45 roared and Bolan felt the bullet's passage only inches from his face as he moved into confrontation with another target.

  The standing gunner held a stubby shotgun in his hands, the cut-down muzzle leveled square at Bolan. And at this range he wouldn't have to aim to take out his target, providing that he got the chance.

  A fleeting movement in the corner of his eye distracted Bolan for a moment, and he registered the Caddy's driver struggling to free himself from the entanglements of seat belt, steering wheel, the Colt revolver in his fist forgotten briefly as he wrestled with his door. Another instant, and he was free, lurching from his seat and circling around the open door to face the warrior, precisely as the shotgun man behind him opened fire.

  The buckshot scarcely had a chance to spread before it struck the wheelman, crucifying him against the Caddy's fender. The life had flickered out behind his bulging eyes before he fell away, and Bolan was already sighting down the black Beretta's slide, when a secondary detonation from the dying tail car's gas tank rocked him, spewing liquid fire in streamers through the night.

  The standing gunner became a dancing human torch, the stubby scattergun discarded as he stumbled back and forth, attempting to beat out the fire with blistered hands. His wailing voice was like an echo out of hell.

  A gentle squeeze, and the Beretta bucked in Bolan's fist. A parabellum round punched in betwen the ovaled lips, imparting mercy to a tortured soul. The blazing scarecrow melted backward, throwing off a shower of sparks as he touched down on the driveway.

  Bolan circled the tank, slid behind the wheel and cranked the big V-8 to life. He had not planned to exit from Giamba's hardsite in a set of stolen wheels, much less with any passenger in tow, but circumstances had been altered radically by the arrival of the hit team. From here on out, until they found a temporary haven from the hostile guns, the soldier would be running on his instincts.

  Fighting for his life.

  Bolan dropped the Caddy into gear and powered out of there, the tail car's funeral pyre a dwindling beacon in his rearview mirror as he held the pedal down along the drive. He left the lights off, navigating by the moonlight filtering through the overhanging trees.

  A short two hundred yards until they reached the gates, and he would see then whether they were clear or if they had a fight in store for them. If the gorillas at t
he house had backups on the gate, there might be no escape.

  He shrugged, and concentrated on his driving, on the figure slumped across the back seat, showing signs of life.

  It would be Bolan's task to keep that life secure, at least until he had the answers he required.

  If he could get them off the ground and find a temporary shelter for the mafioso.

  If he did not lose his own life in the process.

  It was a challenge, and the Executioner would meet it in the only way he knew.

  Head-on.

  2

  With fifty yards to freedom, he kicked the headlights on to high beam, illuminating gate and guardhouse, trees and undergrowth, a stretch of manicured lawn. If there was any ambush there, the soldier wanted time enough to take evasive action before the gunners opened fire.

  Nothing.

  Wrought-iron gates were standing unattended, open on the night. Alert to any sign of treachery, he slowed his charger long enough to take a look around.

  And on his first scan Bolan spied the gateman lying off to one side, his body tucked away beneath a hedgerow. Blood was seeping through the khaki uniform where half a dozen slugs had punctured flesh and fabric.

  The hit team would have taken him before he had a chance to warn the house of their approach. It would explain their entry to the grounds, and the advantage of surprise that had defeated Art Giamba's housemen.

  It explained a lot of things, except why they wanted Artie, or who they were...

  Had been, he corrected himself. The hungry guns weren't anybody now.

  Bolan and his passenger swept past the gateman's body, accelerating as the Caddy's tires encountered pavement, gaining traction now that they were finally off the gravel driveway. Turning left toward town, he stood on the accelerator, laying rubber as he put Giamba's house of death behind him.

  But they did not make their exit unobserved.