Chicago Wipeout Read online

  Chicago Wipeout

  The Executioner, Book Eight

  Don Pendleton

  The deeper responsibilities of life are eternally found beyond the self; human values are sometimes dignified only by a willingness to fight for them. This book is dedicated to all of the good fighters everywhere.

  So it’s their stronghold, their sanctum city, and no one has been able to put them down in Chicago. But the mob has to be shown that there are no sanctuaries in this war. I’m hitting Chicago and it’s going to be a wipeout … them or me. It matters, somewhere, which side wins. The universe cares. I consign my fate to the needs of the universe.

  And I consign the Mafia TO HELL!

  —Mack Bolan, THE EXECUTIONER

  If this life be not a real fight, in which something is eternally gained for the universe by success, it is no better than a game of private theatricals from which one may withdraw at will.

  Man’s character is his fate. —Heraclitus

  PROLOGUE

  Mack Bolan knew what he was walking into at Chicago. There were no illusions of his own invincibility, and certainly no misjudgement of enemy power in this stronghold of organized crime. This was the city that the mob owned, the self-professed crime capital of the Western World, the locale of the mob’s deepest entrenchment anywhere. And Bolan’s challenge was knowingly hurled into the teeth of that vast empire which was characterized by The Chicago Tribune as:

  A world in which wrong is right—in which all incentive for honor, justice, suppression of crime, and even fundamental discipline has disappeared from broad divisions of the police department, the courts, and the all-pervading political party machine that has a strangle-hold on Chicago proper.

  What sort of man would single-handedly invade such a province of power with the intention of subduing it, of “shaking their house down,” of breaking the chains which had held this city captive for decades? What motivates a man like Mack Bolan—how does an ordinary young man become transformed into a methodical death-machine pledged to wholesale slaughter and unending warfare?

  The truth of this particular case seems that, simply, there was no “transformation”—Bolan appears to be the same man in Chicago that he was in Pittsfield, scene of his original confrontation with the Mafia. The same skills which had carried him safely through two years of combat in Southeast Asia were moving him through this new jungle of violence and terror. The same scorn of death that had accompanied him into deep penetrations of enemy territory in Vietnam had walked with him into the enclaves of syndicated corruption and criminal power.

  It should not be concluded that Bolan was a “wild ass warrior” who recklessly stormed a superior enemy in suicidal attacks. He had a contempt for death, not for life. He did not fling his life into the hands of the gods and demand a safe passage; Bolan possessed a genius for warfare and had the combat instincts of a battlehardened soldier. He also had a knack for equalizing the balance of power between himself and his enemies. This professional soldier was entirely human, and subject to all the dreams, desires and anxieties of any normal human being.

  Perhaps the most revealing insight into the character of this warrior was provided by an ex-army buddy with whom he became re-involved during his French adventure. Wilson Brown told Bolan, at the height of the Riviera rampage, “You know, I guess what I dig about you, man, is your guts … you’ve got a weird combination there, Sarge—tough guts and warm heart. Most cats don’t know how to carry both.”

  Tough guts and warm heart, and indeed Bolan knew how to carry both at the same time. On many occasions in Vietnam he had jeopardized his own life and mission to provide emergency assistance to stricken villagers. Though he had earned his tag, The Executioner, through his proficiency as a military sniper, he had also been quietly recognized among local medics as Sergeant Mercy, the guy who seldom returned from a penetration strike without one or several wounded or sick Vietnamese civilians in his care, usually children.

  This facet of Mack Bolan had carried over to his war on the Mafia. Though he was one of the most wanted “criminals” in America, he had never engaged police authority in a shootout, and there is no record of harm befalling innocent bystanders as a result of an Executioner “hit.” He planned his operations with great care to insure that only the deserving tasted his war. On various occasions, he broke off and retreated when it became obvious that such conditions could not be met; often these retreats were undertaken at great personal hazard.

  In any composite picture of Bolan the man, a central and unshakeable fact emerges: this is a man responding to a high call to duty—and with this response costing him everything that had ever held meaning for his life. No kill-crazy goon, no mentally-disturbed victim of combat-fatigue, no arrogant superman glorying in his power over life and death—but an often wearied and frightened and lonely and continually harassed human being who was simply doing a job that needed doing. No zealot was Bolan—his greatest enemies were his own self-doubts, which were often immense, and a frequently overpowering revulsion for this life of gore and terror.

  His war had not begun on such a high plane, of course. It started as an act of simple vengeance. Bolan had been fighting the war in Vietnam when his mother, his father, and his younger sister suffered violent deaths at home, indirect victims of a Mafia loansharking operation. The grieving soldier returned home to bury his beloved dead and to learn that “the omnipotent outfit” was beyond the reach of the law. They were not, however, beyond the reach of this combat-tested “executioner.” He remained in Pittsfield to take justice into his own hands in a cooly calculated campaign against the Frenchi Family, declaring, “I am not their judge. I am their judgement. I am their executioner.”

  The battle of Pittsfield (The Executioner: War Against the Mafia) left that Mafia arm a shambles and provided Bolan with deeper insights into the spreading menace of organized crime. In his personal journal, he had written: “It looks like I have been fighting the wrong enemy. Why defend a front line eight thousand miles away when the real enemy is chewing up everything you love back home? I have talked to the police about this situation and they seem to be helpless to do anything. The problem, as I see it, is that the rules of warfare are all rigged against the cops … what is needed here is a bit of direct action, strategically planned, and to hell with the rules. Over in ’Nam we called it a ‘war of attrition.’ Seek out and destroy. Exterminate the enemy. I guess it’s time a war was declared on the home front. The same kind of war we’ve been fighting at ’Nam. The very same kind.”

  During the course of that “very same kind” of initial engagement, Bolan rejected the protection of a sympathetic police official and vowed unending warfare against “this greater enemy.” It is problematical whether or not Bolan’s vow could have strongly influenced the course of his life from that point. The fact of the matter was that the syndicate had also declared Bolan dead. His name was entered upon a Mafia death certificate, or “contract,” with a face value of $100,000. It was open season on Mack Bolan and the big hunt was on, with every ambitious hood and freelance gunman in the country anxious to collect the bounty. So even without a personal commitment to battle the Mafia kingdoms, Bolan would have been forced into a purely defensive mode of warfare, with lifelong flight or imprisonment as the alternatives.

  While rationalizing his own position and formulating an offensive posture, Bolan allowed his jungle instincts to take over. He faded from the scene of original combat and resurfaced shortly thereafter in Los Angeles with his battle plans firmly in mind, and he recruited a squad of former combat buddies to carry this war to the new enemy. It was to follow this battle plan: “We’ll hit the Mafia so fast, so often, and from so many directions they’ll think hell fell on them. We steal, we kill, we terr
orize, and we take every Goddamn thing they have. Then we’ll see how powerful and well organized they are.” (The Executioner: Death Squad.)

  But Bolan’s challenge was not only accepted by the enemy—it was taken up also by the Los Angles Police Department, and the Los Angeles battles became a personal tragedy which also revealed the full scope of this seemingly futile contest against insurmountable odds. Only partially victorious, Bolan again faded—resolving to never again involve others in his private war with the syndicate—and again he was alone, desperately seeking to evade police dragnets and with all the hounds of hell baying along his trail.

  On the California desert he located another battlefield friend, now a cosmetic surgeon, who gave Bolan a new face and at least the prospect of a new orientation to life. Again Bolan opted in the direction of duty, and he used the new face as another combat tool, infiltrating the inner family of Julian DiGeorge with a quiet ferocity that left this Southern California kingdom in reeling ruin. (The Executioner: Battle Mask.)

  With the new face now as much a liability as the old one, the one-man army followed a trail from the dry sands of the southwest to the glittering beaches of Miami Beach to crash a nationwide Mafia summit conference attended by all the families of La Cosa Nostra. A new dimension was added to the Bolan Wars at Miami, and a new determination was forged in the mind of the man now universally feared and respected by the underworld, Mack the Bastard Bolan. (The Executioner: Miami Massacre.)

  In this new determination, the mission was to remain alive and to carry the war continually to the enemy—to keep them frightened, to harass their programs and sneer at their delusions of grandeur, to hurl their omnipotence back into their teeth and reduce it to a trembling impotence—these were the desired effects of the new dimension of Bolan’s war.

  Meanwhile, remain alive. And this was not easy, with every law enforcement agency in the nation geared to his apprehension and with armies of bounty hunters swarming his trail. In this interest, Bolan unintentionally found himself in France and involved with a continental arm of the mob, and soon all of Europe (plus an American expeditionary force) was trying to crush him. (The Executioner: Continental Contract.) It was here that Bolan came to the realization that, “To be truly alive, you have to be ready to die for something. Harder still, there are times when you have to be willing to kill for something.”

  Bolan found that he was both ready to die and willing to kill. In an act of compassion and loyalty, he rejected the compelling tug of “Eden” and the loving arms of a dazzling French movie star to rescue a group of Parisian joie girls who had befriended him and were subsequently suffering from the vindictiveness of a local Mafia chieftain. Putting his war where his heart was, Bolan exposed himself to the most comprehensive threat to his existence yet undertaken as he launched a series of lightning assaults against the combined forces of international headhunters. His battle magic and utter scorn for personal danger blazed a trail of destruction across France and Bolan learned that there are “no crossovers between Hell and Eden.”

  When again we encountered Bolan, The Executioner, he was in England and searching out a homeward path. His search, however, quickly became Assault On Soho, and Bolan discovered that, “… I am living in an invisible domain of violence that follows me wherever I go.” He also found that all pathways home were crossed with extreme jeopardy, and swinging Londontown very quickly began to throb to the Executioner’s battlecry. Diverse forces were closing in on Bolan in England, and he learned the hard way that the Mafia held no monopoly over evil.

  Nevertheless he overcame the coalition of underground power in London and dealt another mortal blow to a cancerous tentacle of Mafia influence, but not without taking on a new appreciation of fear, and disgust for this spreading menace.

  He returned to New York with the personal commitment to “bust this kingdom of evil if I can live that long.” But New York turned into a nightmare and an orgy of bloodletting that shook even this combat veteran to the very depths of his being. (The Executioner: Nightmare in New York.)

  It was here that he encountered the master plan of Cosa di tutti Cosa, or the total domination of American life by underworld interests. In his own unique way, Bolan postponed the realization of that master plan even while accepting the fact that he could never, by himself, totally destroy the Mafia. It was a war of impossible dimensions which one man alone could never hope to win. Thus began the new phase of the Bolan Wars, the war of frustration. If he could not cut out the heart of this cancer, he would at least sever an arm here and there, keep them off balance, and keep hacking at them until the world awakened to the reality of this many-tentacled giant bent on devouring it.

  Thus also, Chicago. If New York had been a nightmare, then Chicago must surely be the grim awakening, the model city for The Thing of All Things, Cosa di tutti Cosa, the Thing already come to pass. For Mack Bolan, Chicago was the inevitable next scene of confrontation with the mob. Certainly he was knowledgeable regarding that triumvirate of power described by bestselling author Ovid Demaris in his masterful work on Chicago, Captive City:

  “Today it is nearly impossible to differentiate among the partners—the businessman is a politician, the politician is a gangster, and the gangster is a businessman.”

  So what sort of man is it who single-handedly challenges such a power combine? Is he indeed the same naive soldier who returned from the battlefront of Vietnam to bury his own beloved dead—and then to avenge their deaths? Could any sensitive and normally intelligent man undergo the gory violence and continual jeopardy of the Bolan Wars without also undergoing a radical alteration to his personality? It would seem not. Bolan had been growing into his own destiny—certainly into a deeper understanding of the dimensions of his conflict—and most probably into a finer appreciation of the reasons for this war.

  Shortly before his entry into Chicago, he penned this thought in his personal journal: “… it’s going to be a wipe-out … them or me. I have lost the ability to judge the value of all this. But I’m convinced that it matters, somewhere, which side wins. It matters to the universe. I consign my fate to the needs of the universe.”

  A man’s character is his fate. The same could be said of a city, or of a nation.

  But what sort of man would willingly and alone walk into The Chicago Wipe-Out?

  Whatever else he might be, Mack Bolan, The Executioner, is that sort of man.

  1: THE CHALLENGE

  In a matter of seconds, Bolan knew, the Chicago War would be on. The face in his crosshairs was the one he had been patiently awaiting for two hours on this crisp winter afternoon beside Lake Michigan. Faces had come and gone through the hairs of the 20-power, but this was the one he had wanted. Once it might have been handsome, or at least it might have possessed a potential for comeliness. Now it showed the indelible tracings of an inner rot, of power and greed too long unrestrained—a face that had seen death and brutality and atrocity far too many times to remain comely in the mirror of humanity—and, yes, this was a face to launch the War for Chicago.

  For a second The Executioner hesitated. Some deep uneasiness over this hit was gnawing for a quick mental review of the situation. Two days of patient and cautious recon had failed to produce any intelligence which would dissuade him from making the strike at this particular time and place. The big lakeshore estate was reasonably secluded. There was no evidence of a hardset defense—the staff of this Mafia joint appeared both modest and relaxed—a small force of hardmen. Bolan had counted only four identifiable gunbearers—one at the gate in front, one acting as a doorman, the other two alternating on relief. The inside crew was made up of a cook, a bartender and a waiter. The guests seemed to bring their female companions with them; there was no whore-corps in residence. The two-story joint had six bedrooms on the upper level. The lower level was taken over by the kitchen and dining room, lounge, game room, and a large library that probably served as a conference room.

  Bolan could find no reason for his uneasiness
. His own position had been carefully selected and was as good a drop as he could reasonably expect to find. He was comfortably situated in the garage apartment of an adjoining estate which had been closed for the winter. He had the wind at his back and a bird’s-eye, unrestricted view of the target area. His line of withdrawal provided several acceptable alternate routes of retreat, and he would be firing along a three hundred-meter range—well beyond any effective retort from handguns.

  So why the uneasiness? Simple fear, maybe. Or an instinctive recognition of … what? Bolan shook away the feeling. The flash review had crowded his mind for only an instant and the long-awaited image of evil was still crowding the vision field of the sniperscope. The target was standing beside the vehicle from which he had just emerged, his face thrust aggressively into the raw wind slanting in from the lake, and he was evidently giving some instructions to his driver. His woman had already gone inside—a luscious blonde in a fur coat who displayed a wiggle that promised everything.

  The intense magnification of these big scopes created a distortion of reality; Aurielli’s face seemed to be just hanging there—discarnate, a blob of humanity that had somehow managed to insinuate itself in the lens. And, yeah, a war was waiting. Last minute fears or not, the moment had arrived.

  Bolan sighed, and his finger knew no compunction as it caressed the trigger of the big Weatherby. The high-powered rifle thundered into the recoil as the .460 Magnum missile tore along the one-second course. Bolan grimaced and rode the recoil, his eye flaring into the scope in the effort to maintain target continuity as the image disintegrated in a frothy implosion of blood and bone and tissue—and Louis Aurielli, Mafia underboss, suddenly ceased to exist in the space-time world.

  The bolt-action moved swiftly and smoothly as the Weatherby immediately swung a few degrees left and the long barrel elevated an inch or two to acquire the next target. The dumbly-dismayed visage of Aurielli’s pretty-boy bodyguard, one Adonis Sallavecci, hung there for a frozen instant in the framework of doom as it contemplated the inexplicable behavior of a disintegrating boss. The sound-wave bearing the rustling report of that first round reached the target area at about the same instant that the second Magnum mushroomed into Sallavecci’s once-pretty face, and another target was fragmented and flung beyond the vision field of the sniperscope.