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  Terrible Tuesday

  The Executioner, Book Thirty-four

  Don Pendleton

  For my mother, who raised me to be a gentle man—and nearly succeeded;

  For my wife, who took over the terrible task—and led me to the typewriter;

  For my daughters, who make gentility not only desirable but mandatory;

  For all, because they remind me that gentle is not soft, and that a man’s treasures are worth protecting.

  It is a common prejudice advanced by the intelligentsia of every age that soldiering is a mindless profession undeserving of any moral respect, as though somehow the preservation of the estate of mankind is a minor effort to be left in the hands of fools and brutes.

  —Don Pendleton (unpublished memoir)

  Away with those that shall affirm learning to surpass arms; for I will say unto them … they know not what they say.

  —Miguel de Cervantes (Don Quixote)

  Not all scholars are soldiers. But I have never known a good soldier who is not also a constant scholar.

  —Mack Bolan (from his journal)

  PROLOGUE

  “You’ve done your mile in hell,” Brognola told him. “Now it’s time to end it. More important work awaits you.”

  Hal Brognola was the nation’s number one cop in the official war on organized crime. He was also the President’s chief advisor on internal security matters. Curiously enough, he was also among Mack Bolan’s closest friends and supporters—in a covert sense. Bolan was an outlaw. He was wanted by the police in virtually every major city in the country and in various foreign capitals, as well. He was at the top of the FBI’s “most wanted” list. If he were to be tried in each court having jurisdiction over his various “crimes,” he would die of old age long before the final charge could be heard.

  Except that Bolan had always known that he would never die of old age, nor would he ever stand that first day at the bar of justice. Because others sought Mack Bolan and his day of “atonement” with much more fervor and determination than all the police agencies combined. He would not survive the first night behind bars—and Bolan had forever known that. Those “others” were the Mafia—and Mack Bolan was their mortal enemy. From the first clash of arms in his unofficial war against the Mafia, Bolan had been fully aware that he had embarked upon that “last mile” of the condemned man. There was no turning back, no reversal of the inexorable law of the jungle to which he had consigned his destiny.

  An ancient sage had observed: “A man’s character is his fate.” Bolan understood that. And accepted it. He’d been a deathmaster in Vietnam—“the best of the best,” as described by a former commanding officer—but it seems that the Bolan character had been rather well formed even before the Vietnam experience.

  In an early Vietnam journal, the young soldier had written: “I am beginning to understand this enemy. I am in Quai Tho—or what is left of Quai Tho after the VC withdrew. It numbs the mind. Compared to these guys, even napalm seems merciful. If they do this to their own people, what would they do to my people if they had the chance. Yes, I understand them now, I think—but there is no hatred in that understanding. This is the twentieth century, and civilized men will not hate the savages. But we cannot allow them to have their way. I believe I understand why I am here, even if most of the world does not. The savages cannot be allowed to inherit the earth. I try to picture them sweeping into Pittsfield the way they swept Quai Tho. The very image stuns the mind. I am glad we are fighting them here, not there. I don’t claim to be a scholar, but I have studied military history and I know that the story of mankind has forever been a contest between negative and positive—the barbarians versus civilization. And I guess that is why I am here, today, in the ruins of Quai Tho.”

  A couple of Vietnam tours later, back home now in Pittsfield, that same warrior would write: “Why defend a front line eight thousand miles away when the real enemy is chewing up everything you love at home?”

  The real enemy … this was Mack Bolan’s awakening to the understanding that human savagery knows no geographical boundaries. Mack Bolan had met the Mafia … and now he could understand this enemy, as well.

  “A man’s character is his fate,” said Heraclitus.

  “I have seen the enemy,” said Mack Bolan, “and I cannot turn away.”

  Heroes may be made in heaven, but they are realized only in hell.

  Which is, perhaps, why the offer from Washington was so difficult to refuse.

  “End it,” urged Brognola, following Bolan’s 32nd devastating campaign against that enemy at home. “You’ve beat them … in every practical sense. There’s nothing left now but the mop-up—and others can handle that as well or better than you. We need you in Washington. You’ll be given full amnesty—a new identity, a new life, a whole new reason for living. Can’t you accept the obvious? You’ve won! You beat that damnable last mile! Your time in hell is finished!”

  But Bolan was not so sure. The military mind did not see the situation in precisely the same terms as the police mind.

  He had to be sure.

  “I’d like to come in, Hal. I want to. I really do. I am sick to death of this whole business. Please tell the President that I am flattered and warmed by his offer. But I have to set my own timetable. I have to do it my own way … in my own time.”

  It had something to do with character.

  “You’ve just got to do that second mile, eh?” Brognola replied, already resigned to the idea.

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” Bolan quietly told his friend. “All I need, though, is six days.”

  Remarkable. The guy wanted six days, during which he intended to finally sweep the country clean of the remaining strongest pockets of Mafia infestation.

  Impossible!

  But Hal Brognola had learned long ago that—for Mack Bolan—the impossible was merely a way of life. Of course, it could also quickly become a way of death—and that was the line which Mack Bolan had trod throughout his Mafia wars.

  But the President wanted the guy—wanted him in the worst way, to head up the country’s official but covert response to the threat of world terrorism and militant anarchy. He was prepared to give Bolan everything that had been taken away by the Mafia wars—and it was a second chance, which no sane man would lightly spurn. Brognola had known how difficult it was for Bolan to make his decision. The “six days” thing was a salve to the Bolan conscience. After all he’d been through, the remarkable warrior still felt uncomfortable with any thought that he may be turning away from a commitment. So he had to go that second mile. And Brognola could respect that. So could the President.

  “Give him his six days, then,” said the chief. “But, Hal—I want you to make this your personal responsibility—I want to see the man here, alive and well, at the end of that six days. I want you to see to that. He is to have every support possible.”

  Which was a hell of a laugh. There was no way to support Mack Bolan—not in any meaningful sense. The guy played his own game, his own way. Direct support was out of the question. It would also be illegal … and terribly dangerous for any government officer. Bolan did not read a victim his rights before he blew him away. So there was really no way to offer direct support as long as the guy was blitzing the domestic theater. The best Brognola could do, anyway, was to pace the edge of the war zone and hope for the best. The first leg of the six day blitz had gone okay. Bolan had taken on the new Midwestern kingpins and walked away with their heads. Literally. And that took care of “Monday’s Mob.”

  But now it was Tuesday. And the man from blood was descending on the West Coast for the second leg of his own version of the Six Day War. He would find a vastly different setup here in California. Much of the Mafia po
wer left in the country was now being consolidated in the western branches of the organization—brokered by a shadowy coalition of once minor hoods under the intriguing banner of the California Concept.

  No one in the straight world had yet been able to gain any understanding of what was happening in California, these days. All of Brognola’s intelligence wires had been broken at about the same time that the whispers had begun about the California Concept. Not even Bolan had been able to gather any meaningful pre-intelligence from his usually productive sources.

  Brognola was feeling very jittery about the whole undertaking.

  And all he could do was pace the edges of the war zone and hope for the best. And maybe that would not be enough . .. not for Tuesday, Terrible Tuesday.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE START

  Both were naked. He was a hairy guy of maybe thirty years, lean and well-muscled. She was hardly more than a kid, with silky brown hair all mussed and tangled, the pretty face frozen now in an expressionless mold while the awakening eyes tried to understand what was happening.

  The water bed sloshed and undulated as the guy made an angry lunge for the covers.

  Bolan shoved him back with a foot on the bare chest and a cold caution. “Huh uh. Stay.”

  The guy growled a menacing, unintelligible response and glanced nervously at the girl.

  He was Terry Fortune—nee Tanto Fortinelli—once apprenticed to primo hitman, Jersey Jake Natti—recently rumored to be a freelance contractor available to any with cash enough—mean as a snake and twice as dangerous.

  She was, Bolan hoped, one Darlene McCullough—daughter of a wealthy and politically influential Southern California businessman with strong underworld connections.

  The girl was giving Bolan a long, appraising look—apparently unruffled by her exposure to his cold gaze—the eyes dwelling and expanding upon the wicked black Beretta with oversized snout that seemed carved into his big fist.

  He instructed her: “Go to the bathroom and get your clothes on.”

  “Why?” she asked sleepily, still staring at the Beretta.

  “Then don’t,” Bolan said. “I just thought you’d rather not share a bed with a dead man.”

  The guy shifted his weight uneasily, sending more strong ripples across the surface of the waterbed, worried eyes beginning to search the corners of the room for a solace that was nowhere to be found. “Who sent you?” he inquired in a choked voice.

  The girl said, “This isn’t necessary.”

  “We can work it out,” the guy quickly added.

  “No way,” Bolan said quietly as he sent a nine millimeter hole to sprout and gush between Terry Fortune’s shocked eyes.

  The girl let out a horrified yelp and tumbled from the bed. Bits and pieces of Terry’s unfortunate remains had splashed onto her. She was shuddering and gasping, nearly hysterical in her attempts to rid herself of the organic muck.

  Bolan picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. He shoved her into the shower and wet her down good, then pulled her out and toweled her off. The eyes were large and rounded but uncomplaining as he fitted her into blue jeans and blouse. She left the Sunset District apartment at his side, without comment and without looking back, and got into his car with a resigned sigh.

  As he started the engine and put that place behind them, she slouched into the far corner of the seat and muttered, “You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?”

  “I guess I am,” he quietly replied.

  Sure. That went without saying. And Tuesday had only just begun.

  “McCullough is scared to death of Terry Fortune,” Leo Turrin had reported to Bolan. Turrin was a longtime friend and ally. Thanks in large part to Bolan’s efforts, he was now privy to the secrets of La Commissione, the Mafia ruling council. He was also a federal cop. “He doesn’t want the kid playing around with the guy, but at the same time he’s afraid to make an issue of it. Terry knows damned well that the old man don’t like it, but he’s just that kind of guy—and that may be the only reason he’s interested in the kid. Whatever, it’s a potentially explosive situation out there—so I think it’s as good a place as any for you to make your start.”

  “How’d you get onto it,” Bolan had wondered.

  “Hell, McCullough sent word. He wants someone to take Terry Fortune off his back—or out of his kid’s crotch.”

  “You mean he actually sent a complaint? Through channels?”

  “Not through official channels, no. See, it’s very chaotic out there right now. Nobody knows who’s calling the plays.”

  “Who’s their man on the commission, now?”

  “Willy Nick—but he’s just a figurehead, a mouth. We get the idea they’re pulling out—setting up their own thing—or at least getting ready to. But, see, McCullough is just an amici d’amicu—a friend of the friends. He’s got no standing so he can’t really make much noise. And apparently he couldn’t find anyone in the local shed who was willing to handle his complaint.”

  “This complaint came to you through Willy Nick?”

  “No. It came via a guy in Jersey. The guy calls me and says, ‘Look, Leo, our friend McCullough has done us a lot of favors out there. Now he’s calling the tab. We owe him. Let’s get that guy off his back.’ That’s about the gist of it.”

  “So who’d you send?”

  “We sent nobody, yet,” Turrin replied. “They’re still kicking it around. They worry a lot, lately, you know.”

  Yes, Bolan knew about the shaky men of La Commissione and their recent worries.

  “Also, they’re trying to figure a way to make it pay. You know?”

  Yes, Bolan could understand that consideration, also. When a territory as large and important as California seemed to be breaking away from the national cartel, then the men back east would quite naturally be looking for some handle to keep the thing cozy.

  “Send the word back through your man in Jersey,” Bolan requested. “Make it a very quiet word.”

  “Okay.” Turrin understood perfectly. “No names mentioned.”

  “No names, right,” Bolan said. “Just tell him that a friend will be looking in on the problem.”

  It was a good enough place to start, sure.

  So now it was started.

  It was not quite dawn when the “friend” delivered an errant daughter to the worried father.

  The girl evaded a fatherly hug and flounced up the stairs without a word.

  McCullough was a large man with thick gray hair and deeply suntanned skin. Maybe fifty, maybe not quite. He’d made a fortune in land speculation and development but not without the right friends in the right places.

  He fiddled nervously with his dressing gown as he watched his daughter disappear up the stairs—then he turned to Bolan with an embarrassed grin and warmly clasped his hand.

  “You fellows work fast,” he said admiringly. “I just got the word a few hours ago that they were sending someone.”

  Bolan did not return the smile. “I know nothing about that,” he replied soberly. “I ran across the kid and I brought her home. That’s all there is to it.”

  McCullough winked knowingly and said, “Sure. I understand. Look—I want to go up and have a few words with Darlene. Can you—would you like some coffee? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Bolan allowed himself to be persuaded to stay awhile. He was shown to a breakfast room from where he could watch the sun rise over the Santa Monica mountains while the host went upstairs for a parley with the rebellious daughter. A silent little man in a white coat brought coffee and a tray of breakfast pastries. Bolan’s trained eye noted the presence of a small revolver concealed beneath the white coat.

  “Things are tense,” Bolan said quietly as he accepted the coffee.

  “Yes sir, very tense,” the little guy replied. He returned to the kitchen without adding to that brief conversation.

  Bolan sipped the coffee and tried to cast his mind into the mood and atmosphere of that brooding home, reachi
ng for an understanding of the forces at work there beneath the surface. He’d been alone for perhaps a minute when a divine creature in flowing silk breezed in and took a chair opposite him at the table. She was too young to be the mother, too old for a sister—and far too beautiful for that hour of the morning.

  Bolan showed her a solemn smile and said, “Hello.”

  She wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’m told you brought Darlene home.” It was a gentle, melodious voice—neither warm nor cold.

  Bolan cocked his head and took his time lighting a cigarette. Then he said, “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  He tasted the coffee as he replied, “Who’s asking?”

  “Mrs. McCullough is asking.”

  “Then you should be asking Mr. McCullough,” Bolan told her.

  “Are you a private detective?”

  He grinned. “Not hardly.”

  “Why doesn’t everyone just leave her alone? She’s an adult, perfectly capable of choosing her own friends and—”

  “And her own poison?”

  The woman lowered her gaze, took a deep breath, and asked, “Where did you find her?”

  Bolan said, “Not even her daddy asked me that.”

  “I’m not her daddy.”

  “Obviously.” His eyes roamed that lovely face as he added, “Nor her mommy.”

  “I’m the only mother the child has known,” she replied calmly.

  “You just said she was an adult,” Bolan reminded her, tiring of the little sparring match. He smiled suddenly and asked, “Have I seen you in the movies?”

  “Fat chance,” Mrs. McCullough told him in that same melodious voice, neither warm nor cold. She rose gracefully and breezed back out of there.

  Bolan’s mind had barely uncoiled from that interchange when a shriek from the kitchen sent him whirling to his feet, the Beretta unsheathed and seeking direction.

  But the “direction” was all too obvious.

  Several handguns were sounding off simultaneously from behind the swinging door to the kitchen.

  That door bounded open as the little guy in the white coat toppled through and slid into the breakfast room on his own blood.