Acapulco Rampage Read online

  Acapulco Rampage

  The Executioner, Book Twenty-Six

  Don Pendleton

  For my ladies;

  God love them all.

  dp

  Your message I hear, but faith has not been given;

  The dearest child of Faith is Miracle.

  —Goethe

  If I can’t kill them, maybe

  I can convert them.

  If I can’t convert them, maybe

  I can at least induce belief.

  In the end, though,

  I will probably have to kill them all.

  And that could take a miracle.

  —Mack Bolan

  (from his Journal)

  Prologue

  “I will shake their house down!”

  So declared the young sergeant fresh from Vietnam, at the beginning of his homefront war against the Mafia. He had not, however, expected to shake the entire world. In that beginning, the organized underworld lay at Sgt. Bolan’s own doorstep—localized there, in his awareness, as the visible tip of an iceberg and personalized there in the untimely deaths of his mother, father, and kid sister.

  Yeah, he would shake their house down.

  From within, as it were, even while knowing that the collapse of that putrid structure would undoubtedly bury him in its debris.

  But it did not bury him. Mack Bolan emerged from the ruins of the Pittsfield house of Mafia a bit wiser, a whole lot stronger, and totally dedicated to a war unto death. The only uncertainty seemed to lie in the question of who would be the first to die: Mack Bolan or the Mafia? And even that very basic question seemed to be purely rhetorical. The odds were overwhelmingly against the one-man army. The Mafia was a very old idea … and a very strong one. Their numbers were legion, their influence all-pervasive, their power seemingly unlimited. Their “friends”—amici di l’amici, friends of the friends—were everywhere in positions of quiet power: as cops, judges, legislators, politicians of every stripe and station, bureaucrats, businessmen—kingmakers and moneymakers, wherever the dollar was God and power was the key to the kingdom.

  A worried U.S. attorney general had already conceded the existence of “an invisible second government” when Mack Bolan declared his war without end upon this twentieth-century version of the powers of darkness. The national infrastructure became quickly apparent to Bolan himself. The “House of Mafia” became a palace of many rooms, an international house with a maze of corridors stretching across all boundaries of geography and politics and reaching into every nook and corner of the civilized world.

  “Today Pittsfield, tomorrow the world,” might well have been Mack Bolan’s battle cry in that beginning. Except that he was not a comic-strip hero, some sort of superman. He was not all-knowing, all-wise, all-powerful. He bled, like other men—knew fear and self-doubt, like other men—made mistakes, like other men.

  “I will shake their house down!” was his promise to himself. He had not known, though, the dimensions of that house. He had not been aware of the fullness and complexity of its design, the foundations of its many rooms nor the directions of its endless corridors.

  At Pittsfield, Mack Bolan made a promise to himself—and to his beloved dead. And then he began to understand what it was he had promised.

  He had promised to shake the world.

  So, okay—he would do that, too. If he could.

  1: Bone Yard

  The range was 700 meters—or a little more than a half mile. The big Weatherby .460 was the natural choice of weapons, blowing a muzzle energy of more than 8,000 foot-pounds to propel a heavy 500-grain bullet along that three-second course.

  At such a range, the impact velocity would fall to something like a thousand feet per second. For this reason, he’d selected a controlled-expansion Nosier partition bullet for sustained penetration during expansion—he was going for bone, not mere flesh—for a sure kill, not a medical challenge.

  This punch needed to be quick, stunning, shaking!—enough so to propel hardened men into panicky reaction—enough to put the fear of judgment into those who’d long thought themselves above any such mortal measurements.

  The one under measure at the moment was smiling into the crosshairs of the high resolution sniperscope, apparently a contented man with nothing on his mind more pressing than the question of which tantalizing woman to lie down with next—or whether to take her beside the pool or in the water in an Acapulco crawl.

  Sure, the guy had it made. That lazy smile which nearly filled the 20-power field of vision told it all. One of the golden ones, a super-macho of the jet set, whiz kid of the world money markets, confidant of the power elite. Yeah, this guy had it made. So big, and so well made, that he’d earned a code name—“Butch Cassidy”—from the feds who’d been trying to nail him all these years. Real name: Bobby Cassiopea. Real occupation: laundryman for dirty money. Real affiliation: Mafia.

  Once written up in a national magazine as “the playboy financier of the Western world,” the guy was a representative sample of the rapidly emerging new look in international hoods—suave, educated, untainted by overt association with known criminals but covertly as savagely rapacious as any street soldier and probably more so. More dangerous, certainly. This type dealt in big misery. And yeah, Bolan knew Bobby Cassiopea. The guy consorted with sheiks and prime ministers, Zurich bankers and Monte Carlo high-rollers, multinational tycoons and movie queens.

  Cassiopea was, in mob language, “a natural.” He was also a nobody, a nonperson in the invisible second government of the world. The mob owned him, body and soul. They’d raised him, educated him, financed him and arranged a “marriage of convenience” with an Italian noblewoman, which provided him social station and worldly visibility. The guy was a walking and talking fabrication, a “dummy” for the wiseguys who sat behind the curtain and pulled his strings.

  But, sure, Cass Baby had it made. There was something essentially sad in that. A ghetto kid killing time on a street corner owned more than this guy did. A made man could never claim his own soul. Not while he lived.

  Bolan shrugged away the thought as the Weatherby swung gently on the tripod and another face moved into focus—this one more at home on a movie or television screen—fiftyish, puffed and lined with the dissipations of a life too eagerly spent, still handsome and probably still capable of producing pitty-pats in a few million female hearts. The one and only John Royal. Bolan knew the gentleman by reputation only, and it was a mixed and questionable bag.

  He sighed and continued to scan. Lou Scapelli and Eduardo Fulgencio, the Central American junkmen, completed the set at poolside—discounting the six bikini-clad decorations scattered about on sunning boards. A servant in white uniform stood unobtrusively at a small bar in the background. A couple of the girls were sucking separate straws and sharing a coco preparado, a local favorite featuring gin in a green coconut. Fulgencio had a beer; the other men were toying with highball glasses.

  Two guys in swim trunks and brightly colored shirts patrolled the beach below the pool area. Another remained with the boat which had brought Scapelli and Fulgencio to the Royal villa for the poolside parley.

  So the range was 700 meters and the stage was set. Bolan grimaced and consulted the trajectory graphs for the Weatherby, then ran a wind calculation.

  It could be a tricky shot. The wind was coming over his right shoulder at about four o’clock, steady at about ten knots. This was on the heights, though. Something of a swirling effect was evident down there at target zone. Marksmanship was a science, sure, but the mathematics could take a guy just so far. Then the principle of uncertainty took over, increasing proportionately to the distance traveled. An error of only one-twelfth minute of angle—at this range and with the uncertain wind situatio
n—could translate into a target error of a foot.

  Bolan could not tolerate that degree of error.

  He wanted headbone. He wanted it surely and methodically.

  Good marksmanship, in the final analysis, becomes a matter of almost supersensory “feel.” A guy took care of his mathematics and worked them to the finest point. Only “feel” or luck could carry across the zone of final uncertainty. And the Executioner could not afford to rely on mere luck.

  He quickly double-checked the ballistics considerations, then went through the target zone choreography. The sound wave would ride in with the bullet, or no more than a step behind. The reaction down there would be immediate and instinctive.

  The marksman projected himself into that target zone and into each target, reading the physical layout and the most likely instinct path for targets two and three.

  So, yeah … allow two seconds for realization, another second for galvanization and full flight to cover.

  Scapelli was small, nervous, quick. He’d take off running—probably heading for the patio wall, twenty paces away. A scared man could cover a lot of ground in three seconds—and that was about all the guy would have. Bolan gave him ten paces, and marked the spot.

  Fulgencio was a heavy, ponderous man. He would opt for lighter cover, closer. The pool. Bolan traced the shortest path and marked the intercept point on that route, then concentrated fully on the windage problem.

  Two clicks adjustment into the wind, and he was ready.

  The Weatherby was ready, with one massive round in the chamber and two more in the magazine. And the target zone was ready.

  The one and only John Royal was not a target—not this time around anyway. He was leaning back in his chair, signaling for the barman. No problem there.

  Cass Baby was semireclining on his chaise longue and smiling at something being told him by Scapelli. Full face front, no likelihood of lateral displacement … target positive.

  The “horse master” himself was bent forward at Cassiopea’s right, feet flat on the ground, talking with a lot of hand motion and really into what he was saying. Target probable for running intercept.

  The Honduran, Fulgencio, was seated crosswise on a sunning board, sucking beer and staring with undisguised interest at the thong-bikinied sunbathers, who were nowhere near the target zone. His expression seemed to be saying: “Let’s get this over with and get the broads over here.” Target positive for scrambling intercept.

  Bolan was in firing prone, at an elevation of several hundred feet above the target zone. From his position, he could view the full sweep of Acapulco Bay and follow the Costera Miguel Aleman, the bay drive, from Gran Via to Guitarron Beach. It was a stunningly scenic panorama—too beautiful, really, for the grisly events unfolding in its midst.

  But, then, there were those cannibals down there, you see …

  Bolan grimaced and sent his mind back to his work.

  The crosshairs took station on the base of Cass Baby’s nose. The superb marksman took a long, measured breath and let half of it out, then sighed an audible “One” as he squeezed into the pull.

  The big piece thundered into the recoil as he grimly rode it at the proper eye relief to get impact verification—reacquiring target on the four-count and just as the 500-grain Nosler reached destination. It smacked in just above the right eye. The rest of that once-handsome head seemed to collapse around that point, the smiling face contorting into a destruct-grimace, the entire field of vision instantly converting to a red froth as Target One disappeared from view.

  Bolan was still counting as the crosshairs swept on, past blurred images of energetic motion. He reached Mark Two on the six-count and squeezed off again, firing at nothing more than a mental mark on a wall—then again quickly working the bolt and tracking on to Mark Three. But then a subliminal quiver of psyche stayed that round; he tracked quickly back along the instinct path and picked up his target.

  Basic miscalculation, yeah.

  The fat man was on all fours, crawling slowly and hesitantly toward the pool, dragging the overturned sunning board along with him. Some cover. A couple inches of expanded plastic or plexiglas.

  Bolan corrected two clicks right, set the crosshairs squarely on target, and let it fly. The big bullet crunched in precisely three numbers later and dead on, punching through the flimsy barricade and finding head at kill velocity.

  The Executioner lifted off the weapon and used the big four-inch spotting scope for target zone evaluation. The still form of Bobby Cassiopea was lying facedown beside an overturned longue. Lou Scapelli lay in a grotesque sprawl near the patio wall, right arm jerking spasmodically, bleeding from the mouth. Sloppy hit. It had caught him in the back, between the shoulder blades. Eduardo Fulgencio had died at mid-crawl and curled into a fetal ball; the top of his head was missing, the brain exposed and leaking.

  John Royal was standing woodenly beside his chair, staring uncomprehendingly down upon the still form at his feet. The barman had come unglued and was beginning to move slowly toward his employer. The girls were just beginning to understand what had happened and were scrambling together for safety.

  The two beach guards were nowhere to be seen. The other guy was apparently in the water, alongside his boat.

  So okay. He’d given them a boneyard to contemplate—and apparently he’d stunned them. Another twenty or thirty seconds and the mood down there would shift into another gear. It remained to be seen whether or not he’d managed to shake anything loose.

  He gathered the expended cartridges and formed a little triangle with them on the ground, then added a marksman’s medal to the design. They’d find it. And they’d know.

  Thirty seconds later, he was stowing his gear in a candy-striped jeep and pitching his mind to the next point of contact.

  Yeah. Very quickly now, they would know that a war had come to Acapulco.

  2: The Rattle

  It was unbelievable … some kind of crazy dream. One moment they’d been having a friendly drink over a casual business meeting. The next moment this! For God’s sake!

  Royal shuddered and scrubbed frantically with a napkin at the spatterings on his own face and arms then took a quick step away from the flow of blood advancing upon his feet from the shattered head of Bobby Cassiopea.

  He dropped the napkin over that unsettling mess and shakily lit a cigarette, trying to collect himself and sending an unblinking gaze across to the huddle of stunned women. He reacted with a start to the sudden appearance of the Mexican barman at his elbow.

  “The gringo is dead, señor?” the barman inquired in a funeral-parlor voice.

  “You better believe it,” Royal grunted, between pulls at the cigarette. “Take the ladies inside, will you, Jorge? But keep them here. Don’t let anybody leave.”

  The head of one of the beach guards appeared at the wall as the barman moved woodenly across the patio. The guard’s eyes did a double take on the human litter scattered there.

  “You okay, Mr. Royal?”

  “Yeah. I guess so. Would you look at this mess? Would you look at it?”

  The guard was looking at it, all right.

  Mere seconds had elapsed since Cass’s head had disintegrated right before John Royal’s eyes. He had not even seen the hits on the other two.

  Crazy, yeah. Unbelievable. Incredible. It didn’t happen this way, did it? Not in real life.

  The barman was herding the girls into the house.

  Both security men were now scrambling over the patio wall from the beach and moving warily toward the victims.

  Incredible!

  “This one’s alive, Mr. Royal … but just.”

  The guy was crouched over Scapelli. The actor winced at that news. It was easier to accept a dead gangster on his patio than a grievously wounded one.

  “This one’s gone,” was the other report. “Brains and all.”

  Cut and print. It’s a wrap.

  Why not? Wasn’t that the way it was usually done? Then the victi
ms got up and had a chummy drink with their assassins.

  It’s not a movie set, JR. You can’t wrap this one.

  No? Why not?

  “We better get an ambulance, Mr. Royal.”

  That’s why not.

  “You crazy?” Royal growled at the guard. “He’d be DOA, anyway. Look, I’ve got no stake in any of this. I want these guys out of here. Put them on the boat.”

  “I’m not getting paid to bury bodies at sea, sir.”

  Unbelievable! Wake up, dammit—wake up!

  “You are now,” Royal heard himself replying to the reluctant accomplice. “Get to it. I have to call the Man.” He turned dazed eyes from the scene of carnage and lurched toward the house.

  “It’ll cost you a thousand for each of us, sir—with or without the Man.”

  Royal whirled about, arm outstretched at shoulder level, punctuating his angry words with a stiffly jabbing forefinger. “It will cost you your fucking head if you don’t!”

  He went blindly on, then, to the door and stepped inside.

  What the hell! He hadn’t asked for any of this. It was his villa, dammit—his, not the Man’s. Keep the goddam garbage where it belonged. He didn’t need it here.

  The “ladies” were sprawled about in little islands of gloom. One of them was bawling—for what possible reason, Johnny Royal could not fathom. The others simply appeared frightened, thoughtful—perhaps with the same sobering thoughts now occupying Royal’s own mind.

  The starlet of the moment, Angie Greene, placed a hand on his arm as he tried to brush by, fixing him with a solemn eye.

  “What happened out there, Johnny?” she asked calmly.

  “Why ask?” he growled. “You saw the same thing I did.”

  “I saw nothing,” she told him in that same controlled soundstage voice.

  “Just remember that,” he said, and went on to the telephone.

  Christ! How long had it been? A minute! No more than two, for sure.

  He got his connection and spoke coolly into it. “This is JR. Tell the Man.”