Canadian Crisis Read online

  Canadian Crisis

  The Executioner, Book Twenty-Four

  Don Pendleton

  “For every social wrong there must be a remedy. But the remedy can be nothing less than the abolition of the wrong.”

  —Henry George, Social Problems

  The Mafia is cloaked in one color, black. There are no shades of gray, no shreds of white. And spilling their blood is the only sure method of eradicating the black stain of their existence.

  —Mack Bolan, The Executioner

  PROLOGUE

  “Life is a competition and I am a competitor. I have the tools and the skills, and I must accept the responsiblities. I will fight the battle, spill the blood, smear myself with it, and stand at the bar of judgment to be crushed and ingested by those I serve.” So declared one lone warrior as he set upon his road to hell. Mack Bolan was no crusader. He was, simply, a man doing his duty as he saw it. “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. I am both ready to die and willing to kill.”

  Bolan had been “ready” throughout more than a score of campaigns against his natural enemy. He knew them, he knew their ways, and he knew the only way to stop them. “They live by the law of the jungle. It is the only law they understand and respect. And the jungle is my own place. They will find me on every trail, in every movement of the wind, in every shiver of the night. Until I die.”

  He had not, of course, expected to live so long. A man alone does not set himself against the most powerful crime syndicate in history and expect longevity in the bargain. He had not honestly expected to live through the first pitched battle. Nor the second, nor the third. By then, life for Mack Bolan had become an endless series of bloody battles, a war without end. Each stunning victory led only to the next battleground and another “swim through blood river.”

  There had been many times when he would have welcomed death, release from the commitment, final peace. But he was a stubborn sort of warrior. He was also a realist, and he knew that his war had accomplished very little in real value to the world. The enemy was as strong as ever—and, actually, becoming stronger with each passing day. Bolan had long ago given up any notion that he might actually destroy the Mafia, as he had once so boldly promised to do. Only an aroused society could write finis to such an all-pervading presence but, so far, most of the world seemed to be unconcerned or unaware that a monster malignancy was gnawing at their vital organs, that a determined and well-organized criminal conspiracy was laboring night and day to establish the law of the jungle to rule the affairs of the world.

  Bolan could not allow himself the luxury of death. Not yet. He was fighting a delaying action, and he knew it. Men with their lofty ideals of morality and justice could not make peace with a superior force of savages; Bolan knew that. The savages sneered at lofty ideals, spat at justice, were unable to recognize morality. They understood one law, one ideal.

  Yes, Mack Bolan knew his enemy.

  Until the world became ready, until good men could “stay hard” against the creeping cancer of organized crime, there was but one answer to the Mafia:

  I am not their judge.

  I am their Judgment.

  I am the Executioner.

  1: BORDER PLAY

  A sleek GMC motor home wheeled silently into the parking lot of The Natural, a modest bistro on Buffalo’s north side, and came to rest near a dimly lit rear entrance. The time was precisely midnight, the parking lot about half-filled. The amplified sounds of a western band spilled into the misty night from within the bar.

  Two men appeared from the shadows at the corner of the building near the rear entrance to gaze suspiciously at the big vehicle—dark, burly men with “torpedo” patently stamped into their aggressive stance and scowling faces.

  Most men would have quietly turned and walked the other way to avoid an encounter with these two in a lonely place.

  Not so the occupant of that “motor home.”

  He descended quickly and silently, a barely discernible moving shadow of the night, and had closed half the distance to that rear door before the guardians could react to his presence there.

  The reaction, when it came, was instinctive but well coordinated—quick, decisive, deadly to the ordinary interloper. Each whirled in a beautifully choreographed crouch, putting distance between each other, pistols appearing from nowhere and swinging into a quick lineup on that gliding target.

  This “target” was no ordinary interloper, however. Clad in a black outfit that clung like skin, tall and graceful with a carriage that spoke of superb physical conditioning, his response was instant and final. Without a noticeable break in his forward movement, twin muzzle flashes erupted from the bulbous tip of a weapon in his right hand—silent pencils of flame performing a small arc that told the tale of death for two on the wing. It was a seemingly impersonal and uncalculated act, almost automatic in its spontaneity yet bizarre in its quietly sighing effect as the silenced weapon chugged the whispering emissaries of death into the night.

  Thus died “Ponies” Latta and Harry the Hearse, two of the “meanest boys” in Buffalo—torpedo scowls intact to the end though now collapsing into the center of the red fountains of their faces, educated trigger fingers still several pounds of pull too shy—pitching simultaneously onto their backs with only gurgling sighs to mark their souls’ departure.

  And the man in black went on without pause, striding between the carcasses and straight to the door and through with a well-placed kick which carried him inside and along a darkened hallway to another door. He passed on by that one, going to a curtained doorway overlooking the barroom.

  A bartender was rolling dice with a couple of sleepy-eyed patrons. Scantily clad cocktail waitresses roamed here and there through a listless crowd at tables. Three musicians in bright western costumes struggled to entertain indifference while a pretty kid in a G-string boredly bounced bared breasts in the background.

  The waitresses and the dancer were the only females in the place.

  A gleam of satisfaction stirred briefly from the icy depths of the tall man’s gaze as he turned back to the mission goal. He rapped lightly on the closed door then went on in without awaiting an invitation.

  Robert “Naturals” Gramelli sat at a battered wooden desk, his back to the wall. Naturals was the boss of this side of Buffalo. He was holding court with his two caporegimes, Ben Mazzo and Charley Cantillo. A fourth man sat nervously in the background, smiling at his clasped hands.

  Only Gramelli’s head swiveled to the open doorway. His jaw dropped, eyes bulging—and the final image recorded upon those horrified retinas was a tall figure in black occupying that doorway, a silent flame blowing from a long black pistol extended into the room at waist level, and perhaps—in that final instant of heightened awareness—the sizzling little projectile itself which thwacked in between those eyes.

  Mazzo and Cantillo hardly had time to appreciate the event, themselves sprawling floorward under an identical impetus. The nervous young man at the back wall smiled on, his gaze traveling from clasped hands to a brief inspection of carnage to Judgment in the doorway.

  “Mack Bolan,” he calmly declared, moving nothing but his lower lip.

  “Your name Chebleu?” inquired the cold voice from the doorway.

  “It is.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “You have come for me?”

  “I didn’t come for them,” replied the man in black, that gaze flicking briefly floorward. He tossed a military marksman’s medal into the room and repeated, “Let’s go.”

  Andre Chebleu, survivor—a ghost from the past with name and face that recalled pain and rage for the man in black—quietly got to his
feet and followed the Executioner outside.

  “You look like her,” Bolan told him.

  “With you, I will probably end like her,” the Canadian replied.

  “Either way,” Bolan said, sighing. “Your cover is blown here. They were setting you up for the kill. Tonight.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Bolan directed Georgette Chebleu’s brother to the warwagon and told him, “I’ll show you. Then you’re going to show me something, brother Andy.”

  That soft smile passed without a quiver over the crumpled remains of the outside guards as Chebleu hurried to the vehicle.

  “What could I show you?” he asked quietly.

  “The other side.”

  The undercover operative from Canada stepped into the motor home with a quizzical smile playing at the worried eyes. “The other side of what?”

  “The other side of hell,” Bolan told him. “That’s where we’re headed.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now,” said the Executioner.

  2: THE SIDES

  The “warwagon” was a cleverly disguised marvel of space-age technology—a rolling battleship, scout car, and base camp—outfitted with the most sophisticated electronic systems and combat capabilities. It housed the man and provided the necessary animal comforts. It kept him informed of enemy movements and even their plots and schemes. It gave him mobility, cover, logistic necessities, and “big punch” capability. More importantly, perhaps, the warwagon gave Mack Bolan a home—and the home certainly fit the man.

  Her optic systems provided him with the vision of a hawk by day, an owl by night—even the “sight” of a bat in zero-visibility conditions. In open country, her audio scanners could detect a sniffle at a thousand yards; radio scanners covered the entire UHF/VHF spectrum to provide constant monitoring of combat-zone radio communications—including police radio. Her “surveillance” console had the capability to automatically “trigger” remote listening devices to collect, record, sort, and store intelligence data at millisecond speeds.

  Bolan was justly proud of his combat vehicle.

  He did not disclose all her secrets to Andre Chebleu but he did “show” the man how he had tumbled to the intrigue in Buffalo, then sat him down to read the intelligence file gathered in that area.

  While Chebleu studied the file, Bolan pulled dungarees and a flannel shirt over the combat suit, donned an old fishing hat, and sent the warwagon powering north along the Interstate toward Niagara Falls.

  At Tonawanda, Chebleu came forward to drop into the seat opposite the command chair. He gazed thoughtfully at the stoic profile of his host and said, with a soft sigh, “Amazing.”

  “What is?” Bolan asked, his gaze remaining on the road ahead.

  “All of it. You. This fantastic vehicle. The file. All I was sent here to learn, you possess in that file. I have been here for three months. How long have you?”

  Bolan grinned. “Three days. I didn’t design the gear, Andre. I simply use it. You guys could use the same thing.”

  The Canadian spread his hands and made a wry face. “It is against the law.”

  “So am I,” Bolan said quietly.

  “Yes. So you are. And I am the law. So what does that make us?”

  “Soldiers of the same side,” Bolan replied. “As long as you want it that way.”

  “And suppose I want it differently? When we cross the border?”

  Bolan shrugged. “Then you go your way and I go mine. I didn’t kidnap you, guy. I sprung you. Say the word. I’ll stop and let you out.”

  Chebleu lit a cigarette and relaxed into the seat, turning his gaze onto the roadway. They drove in silence, the powerful engine pulling the big rig effortlessly along just under the speed limit. The traffic was heavy but moving nicely. Now and then a speeding vehicle would surge past them, Chebleu stiffening with each such instance. The full implications of the night were obviously just beginning to settle onto the guy. After some miles of this, he told Bolan: “Perhaps I owe you my life. Thank you.”

  The guy did not like him, though, and Bolan knew it. He fished the AutoMag from its special pocket in the command chair and handed the big silver pistol to his guest. “Thumb off the safety,” he growled. “Now put the snout to my ear.”

  The Canadian merely stared at him.

  Bolan chuckled and held out his hand. “Give it back, then,” he said. “Now I owe you my life. We’re even.”

  Chebleu laughed faintly as he returned the pistol. “How did you know I would not?”

  “I didn’t know,” Bolan assured him. “Now I do.”

  Both laughed, together, and Chebleu offered his rescuer a cigarette. Bolan accepted it, took a deep drag, then said, “We’re not quite even yet, Chebleu. I think you know what I mean.”

  “Georgette,” the guy replied immediately.

  “Yeah. Were you given the details?”

  Georgette’s brother shook his head solemnly. “Just an unofficial communiqué from your government, expressing sympathy and confirming her death. I have not yet fully accepted—I keep hoping …”

  “Stop hoping,” Bolan said quietly.

  “Until there is a body, I will not—” Something in Bolan’s tone produced a delayed reaction, shutting the guy down in mid-sentence. He dropped his eyes and said, “Tell me.”

  “Just take my word.” The voice was taut, saddened, sympathetic all at once. “Georgette is dead. She lived large and she died large. Now bury her that way.”

  “Tell me,” the guy insisted.

  Bolan sighed, eased off to the minimum speed, and told the guy. “Crazy Sal sentenced her to fifty days in a turkey doctor’s chamber of horrors.”

  “What?” Chebleu croaked.

  “You know what a turkey doctor is?”

  The guy was shaking his head, obviously hoping that he did not know.

  Bolan said, “Think of Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and the madmen who played medical games there with human meat. Then think of that sort of mentality transplanted to this time and place, give it the absolute power that is enjoyed by a mob boss, and turn it loose on a cute kid who got too cute with that same boss. You can forget names and identities now, because there’s nothing left but screaming turkey. It must have been about the forty-ninth day when I found Georgette.”

  The guy turned very pale, covering his eyes with a hand, fighting for control over his emotions.

  Quietly, Bolan said, “I released her, Andre. With that same weapon you were just holding. I put a 240-grain bullet where her eyes had been. And her soul thanked mine. Bury her, guy. Bury her very, very large.”

  It was several quiet minutes later when Chebleu lit another cigarette. He handed it to Bolan and lit another for himself. The voice, when it came, was rock hard. “This was in Detroit?”

  “Yeah. On the back porch of hell.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “You had a right to know,” Bolan said.

  “So now I know. You left very little in Detroit.”

  “I took what I could.”

  “So, now … Canada is next.”

  Bolan sighed. “That’s right. And if you studied that file closely, then you know …”

  Yes, Chebleu knew. The entire province of Quebec had suddenly gone up for grabs. A governmental crisis was brewing up there—a national convulsion being fed by separatist politics, economic woes, fierce nationalism, the spirit of open rebellion. Beneath that cauldron the American Mafia was now building a bonfire. Bolan had been aware of the situation for some time, and had been quietly probing the American side for a likely angle of entry. Andre Chebleu had come as a gift from heaven.

  “The mob is getting ready to eat Quebec,” Bolan told him.

  The guy grunted at that, then added, “They will find it indigestible.”

  “Chewed is chewed,” Bolan pointed out. “They don’t want your problems, friend. They just want your juices.”

  “Your heart does not beat for Canada,” the guy sa
id, eyeing his host with a trace of displeasure. “If you seek only a battlefield, seek it elsewhere.”

  Bolan checked his rearview, signaled, slowed, and pulled off the road onto the shoulder. He opened the door from the master control and told his guest, “Good-bye. Stay hard.”

  “You will need help,” the guy said, grimacing with some inner emotion.

  “I’ll find it where I need it,” Bolan told him.

  “Close the door,” Chebleu growled. “What is your plan?”

  “Very simple,” Bolan replied, as he resumed the vehicle’s forward motion. “I’ll be blitzing Montreal.”

  “You will find that not so simple.”

  “It never is,” Bolan said.

  “You cannot blitz Montreal,” Chebleu insisted.

  Bolan shot the guy an oblique glance and told him, “Sit there and watch me try.”

  “Montreal will prove to be Detroit times one hundred for you.”

  “For them,” Bolan corrected him.

  “For you as well, my friend,” the Canadian said, sighing. “For you as well.”

  “The question may be academic, anyway,” Bolan replied, his attention at the rearview mirror. “We have a tail.”

  Chebleu slowly shifted his gaze rearward. “You are positive?”

  “I’m positive. They have one headlamp just slightly off focus. See it?”

  “I see it.”

  “Been with us since we left Naturals’. When I pulled over, just now, those lights suddenly disappeared. Now they’re back.”

  Bolan was busy with the command console. He swung out a small viewscreen and activated the Nitebrite Optics. The screen glowed with a dull reddish light. Bolan adjusted the azimuth control and refined the focus. A vehicle appeared there, in close-up—a heavy limousine, heavily loaded, cruising the warwagon’s backtrack.

  “Bingo,” Bolan said quietly. “It’s a crew wagon.”

  The Canadian agent’s nervousness was returning.

  “You knew that when you ordered me outside,” he declared accusingly.

  “I wouldn’t have let you go,” Bolan said with a small smile.