The Killing Urge Read online

  Annotation

  To avoid federal prosecution, high-ranking members of the Giancarlo Family turn state's evidence against Benito Villani, Chicago's biggest crime boss.

  But when a security leak permanently silences two of the witnesses, one Fed decides it's time to call in a troubleshooter.

  Protecting underworld figures like the Giancarlos turns Mack Bolan's blood to ice, but the Executioner has no choice: he either holds hands with the Mob or allows innocent people to burn.

  * * *

  Don Pendleton's Executioner

  The Mack Bolan Legend

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  * * *

  Don Pendleton's Executioner

  The Killing Urge

  What do we mean by patriotism in the context of our times?.. A patriotism that puts country ahead of self; a patriotism which is not short, frenzied outbursts of emotion but the... steady dedication of a lifetime.

  Adlai Stevenson, August 27, 1952

  Crime is the darkness that tries to extinguish the light of civilization. I've dedicated my life to keeping the flame burning.

  Mack Bolan

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike McQuay for his contribution to this work.

  The Mack Bolan Legend

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name — Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan's second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society's every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior — to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies — Able Team and Phoenix Force — waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an "arm's-length" alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

  Prologue

  Vic D'matto played the flashlight over his new white silk suit and white shoes, grunting at the blood that had spattered liberally all over himself and the small deckmate's cabin of the fifty-foot yacht.

  He turned the glare of the light on the face of his brother-in-law, Tony, and wished again that Angela had let him find her a nice husband in Sicily before going to the old man with this white trash Neapolitan. Wasn't a smart one in the bunch. Not a one.

  "You stupid son of a bitch," he hissed. "Look what you've done to my new suit. How the hell am I supposed to clean blood off of silk?"

  "Whydya blame me?" Tony said, holding up the claw hammer. "Is it my fault that the jerk wouldn't die?"

  A small stream of blood ran off the grooves of the hammer, dripping on D'matto's pant leg. "Damn! You did it again!" he said, and grabbed the hammer out of Tony's hand. "I ought to take this damn thing to your head!"

  "C'mon, Vic. Cut me some slack."

  "Aaah, hell, paesano" He reached out and cuffed the kid playfully on the cheek. "But you've got to replace the suit."

  "Sure, Vic."

  D'matto played the light on the corpse of the big Cuban, which lay on the floor beside the bunk they were sitting on. He'd been a tough kill, all right, all muscle and no brains to bash out.

  He kicked the body once more for good measure, then turned around in the bunk to open the porthole. The thing didn't open like a regular window, but he figured it out quick enough and opened it to a blast of salt air and a vision of the Biscayne Island moorings where the boat was tied up, the lights of Miami twinkling enticingly in the distance. Vic sure wished he hadn't been sent down here with Ferrari. He'd love to spend some time trying to get to know a few rich Miami beach broads, but he'd be damned if he'd give his sister's husband any ideas on that subject.

  "Man, I wish this damn thing would stop moving," Tony said, a hand to his stomach.

  "It's a boat, stupid," Vic said, shoving the claw hammer out the porthole to slip into the dark, churning water, "it's supposed to move."

  "Tell my stomach that."

  "I told you to lay off the linguine," Vic returned, his attention directed to movement along the Venetian Causeway that connected the mainland with Miami Beach by way of the islands. "But you wouldn't listen."

  "It's not the linguine, it's this damned boat."

  "Shh," Vic said. "I think somebody's coming."

  He looked down the long dock full of power boats covered with canvas, and watched a white Cadillac exit the causeway and pull up near the end of the dock. "Looks like Jughead's traveling in style," he said.

  Tony turned and got up next to Vic, both men taking turns shoving each other out of the way to look through the port. Vic heard the sound of laughter first, then watched Enrico "Jughead" Pallonatti slide his large bulk out from behind the wheel of the Coupe Deville, followed by two young women, a redhead and a blonde, both dressed for the streets.

  "Oh, man," Tony said. "Lookit them broads!"

  Vic slapped him. "Would you stop with the broads?" he said. "I don't want to have to make a widow out of my sister."

  "Hey, I was just lookin'."

  "Don't look. It's bad for you. C'mon. Help me stow this meat, would you?"

  As Jughead and the prostitutes made their way down the long pier, Vic and Tony got down on the floor and shoved the Cuban under his bunk, having to drape the spread down to cover him. The old man had waited a long time to repay the insults the Giancarlo family had heaped upon him, and now the payback would begin.

  "Hey!" came Pallonatti's voice from the pier. "Jorge!"

  "Do we take him now?" Tony asked.

  "No," Vic answered. "Let's wait and see if he takes it out where it's quieter. We'll hide in the galley."

  "The what?"

  Vic shone the flashlight in Tony's face again. "The kitchen," he said. "The kitchen."

  "Well, jeez. Why didn't you say so?"

  As they made their way out of the cabin and down the dark, narrow hallway toward the galley, they could hear the women giggling as Pallonatti helped them on deck.

  "I told that son of a bitch I wanted to take it out tonight," came Jughead's muffled voice. "He's probably laying off drunk someplace."

  Vic led Tony through the narrow, short door and into the galley, enough light spilling into the room from the marina for them to move around. The galley was small but fancy, all polished wood and stainless steel. As Tony moved to hide in the pantry, Vic picked up a large cleaver from a butcher-block table and joined him.

  "Here," he said, handing the heavy knife to Tony, "hang on to this." He squeezed into the pantry with his brother-in-law and half closed the louvered door. The smell of spices was strong in the confined space.

  "Is he gonna be carryin' heat?" Tony asked as he swished the cleaver around, playing with it.

  "Jughead always carried a
.38 in his back pocket and a box knife in his sock," Vic said, pushing Tony's arm aside. "And watch out for him. He's rough for an old fart."

  "Jorge!" came Pallonatti's voice from the hall. "Albert's boat is real nice, but he sure needs to get him a crew he can trust."

  "Do we need him to take out the boat, Pally?" asked a female voice.

  "Pally?" Tony stifled a laugh.

  "Would you shut up?" Vic whispered.

  The other woman spoke. "Maybe it's better this way. More cozy."

  "Sure," Jughead said. "You girls can be my crew. Why don't you cast off the lines and I'll get us outta the slip."

  Their voices retreated back down the hallway. Vic and Tony came out of the pantry, Tony still holding his stomach. "God, this rocking."

  "It's going to get worse," Vic said. "I think he's going to take us out in the ocean. Hey, look."

  A pair of female legs without shoes moved past the galley port, hurrying to cast off as the sound of the engine sputtering to life rattled the pans on the wall.

  Within minutes they were under way, Vic keeping an eye out the porthole, watching the marina and the lights of Miami fade out of sight. He was itching to get this taken care of and get back to dry land. The movement of the boat wasn't doing his stomach any good either, though he'd never admit that to Tony. His ancestors had been fishermen, but it sure didn't seem to be in his blood.

  Another five minutes passed and the boat's engine died. Vic smiled. Jughead, the big sailor, was probably afraid of getting too far away from land. On the other hand, he probably had other things to occupy his mind.

  Vic turned to Tony. "Let's do it," he said.

  The younger man's eyes glowed in the darkness. "Yeah," he said eagerly, holding up the cleaver.

  Vic reached into the waistband of his ruined pants and pulled out the nickel-plated .45. He snapped a load into the chamber and cautiously pushed open the small door, moving out into the dark, empty hallway.

  The two men moved slowly, cautiously down the hall, pausing at the short flight of steps that led up to the main deck. "I got Jughead," Vic said. "You make sure the broads don't do anything crazy."

  Tony nodded, licking dry lips. It bothered Vic somewhat that the kid liked this part of it so much. It was business, after all, not fun.

  Slowly, carefully, he moved up the stairs to the push-open double doors at the top. Staying low, he used the barrel of the .45 to shove one of the doors open a crack. Jughead was sprawled on a lounge chair, the redhead, naked except for black bikini panties, on top of him, kissing his balding head. He looked ridiculous, an old man trying to appear young, with an open shirt and gold chains all tangled up with his gray chest hair. Vic shook his head and spit on the stairs. The blonde, dressed in a black leather miniskirt, sat on cushions beside the couple, snorting cocaine out of a small gold box.

  Vic turned to Tony and gave him the thumbs-up sign. "Piece of cake," he whispered, then motioned Tony forward.

  Slowly Vic walked through the doorway, the people on deck too wrapped up in themselves to even notice. Tony followed him through, a big smile splitting his face when he saw Jughead.

  "Big night, huh, capo?" Vic said.

  In a flash, Pallonatti shoved the startled redhead at the two men and rolled to a sitting position, his hand going for his back pocket. Vic pushed past the woman, to stick the .45 right in the man's face. "Don't do it," he said low.

  "Who's that?" Jughead asked. "Vic? Vic D'matto?"

  "Let's have the piece, capo," Vic said, pulling back the hammer.

  "Hey, sure, Vic. Sure." Gingerly the man stood up and pulled the short-barrel .38 out of his back pocket, held it out with two fingers. "What's the problem?"

  "Over the side." Vic looked at the gun. "We got some things to talk over."

  Pallonatti tossed the gun over his shoulder to splash into the ocean. The night was beautiful, star-filled, the skyline of Miami just a glimmer in the distance. He sat up slowly. "You sure put a scare into..."

  "The box knife, too," Vic said.

  Tony had moved the women to the corner of the deck and was eyeing the redhead, sweet-talking her.

  Jughead got out the box knife, and the sheathed razor blade followed the revolver into the Atlantic.

  "Good, capo." Vic backed several feet away and turned to Tony. "Help the broads take a swim."

  "What?" Tony asked. "Can't we..."

  "Don't even say it," Vic replied, "or you'll be taking a swim with them."

  "You heard the man," Tony told the women. "Over the side."

  The blonde protested. "Please, no...it's too far to..."

  Tony picked her up and threw her overboard. The redhead grabbed a seat cushion life jacket and jumped in after her.

  "What's this 'capo' shit?" Pallonatti asked, reclaiming his lounger. "That was a long time ago."

  "Not to the old man," Vic said. "Not to Rocco."

  "Hey look," the man returned. "I'm sorry about all that, but it was just business, you know. Past and gone." He tried to stand. Tony rushed over to push him back down.

  "You're fish food, old man," he said.

  "Who's the kid?" Jughead asked.

  "Nice place for a vacation, isn't it?" Vic commented. "Did the government take such good care of you that you can afford this?"

  "Albert told you I was down here, didn't he?" Jughead asked.

  "Albert works with us now," Tony said, beaming.

  "You talk too much," Vic told him, then turned back to the old man. "You seen your boss lately?"

  "Look, Vic," Pallonatti said, sitting forward and opening his arms wide. "None of us wanted to turn government, but they had so much on us..."

  "That you decided to burn the Villanis to save your own necks." Vic pulled up a deck chair in front of Pallonatti and sat down. The man was a cool number, his eyes hard and watchful. Not a bit of the coward in him. Well, they'd see. "This thing of ours, this cosa nostra, it don't forget. The ties are blood, and can only be met with blood."

  "Save it for the old ladies, dago," Jughead said. "I don't give a fu..."

  Vic jumped up and slashed him viciously across the face with the barrel of the .45, knocking him back on the lounger. Blood ran freely from Pallonatti's mouth and nose. "I've got four names for you," Vic said as he sat down again. "I want you to tell me where they're living."

  "Look... Vic," Jughead said, spitting out a tooth. "The government, they set us all up with different names, different lives. None of us know where the others are. We don't even know what their new names are."

  "The worse for you." Vic nodded to Tony, who grabbed Pallonatti's right hand and pulled it up onto the deck rail. "I'm going to ask you each name, and if you don't tell me where the guy is, you'll lose a finger. Another name, another finger."

  "I don't know anything, Vic," Pallonatti whined. "Honest to God. I swear on my mother's grave."

  "Your mother's still alive," Vic stated grimly. "Okay, first, Vito Perezzi."

  "Vic, I don't know, I... Aaah!"

  With a solid thunk on the wood rail, the cleaver had severed the little finger, which dropped onto the deck.

  "God, Vic... Jesus, I swear to you..."

  "Second name, Mario Ottoni... mouthpiece, huh?"

  Jughead's face was strained, tears streaming from his eyes. "I don't..."

  Thunk.

  Another finger hit the deck. Jughead's scream shattered the night.

  "Next name, Stinky Barberi."

  Pallonatti was swooning now, moaning. He didn't speak.

  Vic nodded to Tony. The heavy blade fell and the man's middle finger dropped clean.

  Vic crouched to bring his mouth close to the other man's ear. "Now, here's the big one, Jughead. It's stupid for you to protect them. Tell me where the old man is. Where's Giancarlo... where's Old Sam?"

  Pallonatti stared at him with deep, pain-filled eyes, but said nothing. Vic shrugged and stood up. "Oh well, I guess you'll never play the piano again."

  Tony laughed loudly as he gleefully hac
ked off the index finger. He let go of Pallonatti, who pulled the bloody stump of his hand to his chest, hugging it.

  "Go find me some rope," Vic told Tony. He turned back to Jughead. "C'mon, capo, let's go on upstairs."

  He forced the man to his feet and up the ladder leading to the small wheelhouse on the upper deck. A motorized dinghy was suspended by ropes near the ladder. Vic stopped to examine the little boat before following Pallonatti.

  "God, it's a great night, isn't it?" he remarked as he breathed in the salt air. "Swell yacht, too. Albert's doing okay for himself."

  "Get it over with," Jughead wailed. He was doubled over, still cradling the remnants of his hand. It was dripping blood into a small puddle on the deck. "Please. We were friends once... just do me."

  "Well we're still friends, aren't we? Like you said, this is just business."

  "Please, Vic..."

  "Here's the rope!" Tony called, starting up the ladder.

  Vic waved him up. "Tie our buddy to the helm, Tony."

  "The what?"

  "The steering wheel, stupid. Don't you know anything?"

  "I ain't never been on no freakin' boat before," Tony said, pouting as he lashed the whimpering Pallonatti to the helm. "Why you always gotta make fun of me?"

  "Aaah, you're too sensitive," Vic replied, shoving his gun back into his waistband. "When you get done there, go down into the engine room and see if you can figure out some way to punch a hole in the bottom of this thing. I'll be working on getting that little dinghy down into the water."

  "Sure." Tony disappeared below.

  Vic descended the ladder. The old man wasn't going to be happy that Jughead didn't know anything, but at least they were taking care of the capo. He could only do what he could do. He snapped the clamps off the line attached to the dinghy and slowly lowered it into the water, then reclamped the rope until they were ready to leave the yacht.

  When he was done, he leaned against the rail and lit a cigarette, listening with half an ear to Jughead's pleas in case he came up with something. The breeze was warm, the night peaceful. When he'd left Chicago that morning it had been twenty-eight degrees. It was a shame there wasn't something else for him to do down here in Florida, even though Tony was like a stone around his neck.