Wild Card

  Annotation

  WINNER TAKE ALL.

  A quick strike on a new cocaine pipeline flooding Miami puts Mack Bolan in the middle of a pressure cooker ready to explode. And the Executioner wants to make sure the right people burn.

  Mafia-backed bikers, the DEA, their FBI watchdogs, local police and an undercover spook gone sour are the big players in a game of high stakes death… with an ante of ten million dollars in cocaine.

  But for Bolan, it's the only game in town — and he's never turned down a hand yet… even when the deck is stacked against him. Long odds are the only kind the Executioner plays at all.

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  Don Pendleton's

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  Don Pendleton's

  The Executioner

  Wild Card

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contributions to this work.

  OCR Mysuli: denlib@tut.by

  t.me/mysuli

  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.

  1

  His final recon for the night's maneuver complete, Mack Bolan powered the Corvette around the corner at the red light and took a side street. He switched the radio off as the sports car glided into the alley behind the bar he'd staked out an hour ago, then killed the lights as he parked near a row of battered trash cans. The engine died with a low-throated rumble.

  Bolan reached across the seat and checked the handcuffs he'd bolted to the metal framework of the car when he'd purchased it earlier in the afternoon. Then he laid them on top of the seat and covered them with a Miami newspaper he'd bought while waiting for the dealership to service the Corvette. The paper had been filled with reports of a recent flood of Colombian cocaine in the Miami area, but the stories had held less real Intel than he'd gleaned from the streets in the past twelve hours.

  Some of the reporters had talked of a drug war in the offing. That was what had brought the Executioner to Miami. A handful of good cops had already been burned, and the stakes were mounting.

  If the Intel Bolan had received was on the money, it was going to mount a lot faster and get a lot higher than most of the officials were expecting.

  Satisfied with the strength of the cuffs, he clambered out of the car, then took a chopped-down M870 riot gun from the trunk. The trunk light didn't come on, because he'd taken the bulb out after making the purchase.

  The riot gun tucked up neatly under the light trench coat he wore.

  A balmy wind filled the alley, whipping in from the coast, carrying a further threat of rain. Puddles from the brief downpour earlier had formed on the ground, resembling pools of black ink.

  The bar had a back door that led out onto a concrete loading dock for deliveries. Twisted metal pipe railing long overdue for a new coat of paint framed it.

  He circled the one-story structure, going over everything he'd noticed during his brief visit that afternoon. It was a biker bar. The big customized choppers lined up in the front parking area testified to that. He glanced at them in passing, making sure the motorcycle he'd been waiting for was still there among the two dozen other bikes he'd counted.

  It didn't quite qualify as a hardsite actually. The bikers were big and mean and tough and wouldn't hesitate to kill him once the opening numbers on this gambit had been kicked into play, but Bolan was counting on the suddenness of the takedown to freeze many of them. And the fact that they wouldn't be expecting a brazen move on their home ground.

  The bar belonged to the Outlaws, as did most of the prostitution and drug-running in the area. It was one of their legitimate operations, showing a profit every year that seemed improbable, yet not so far over the line as to draw immediate attention. One of Bolan's sources had assured him the motorcycle chapter funneled illegal moneys through the business, but it wasn't one of their prime outlets.

  The cut-down M870 riot gun was for effect primarily, and because he could use it to menace a whole room at a time. The Israeli Desert Eagle .44 rode at his right hip, and the Beretta 93-R was in shoulder leather. The trench coat covered it all and was as dark as the blacksuit he wore under it.

  Two windows were inset on either side of the stained, white entrance that had Club Members Only stenciled in streaky blue paint across it. Sandwiched between the dirty panes and the dusty brown curtains were twin neon beer signs. The first half of the one on the left had burned out some time ago and only flickered occasionally. The muffled backbeat of rock music filled the night air within two or three yards of the entrance.

  Tightening his hold on the pistol grip of the riot gun, Bolan twisted the doorknob and followed it inside.

  The night outside was dark and oppressive with the chance of sudden rain, but the inside of the tavern was murky, permeated with the smells of cigarette smoke and stale sweat, leather and beer, oppressive with restrained violence.

  Three naked girls, aged way past their chronological years, gyrated on the shallow stage under bright lights, trying in vain to find some semblance of rhythm with the loud music. The bar occupied the left side of the tavern. Bottles in different sizes, shapes and colors made up a fragile army along the mirrored sections behind the long-haired bartender. Round and square tables filled the floor in front of the bar and the stage area. A quick glance revealed at least thirty men lounging around the tables.

  A gradual hush fell over the dancers' unappreciative audience as they realized an outsider was among them.

  Bolan could feel the quietness as it spread, could trace its movements through the crowd with the combat senses he'd honed in Vietnam's jungles. It was an animal kind of fear, a wariness that would result in bloodletting if the wrong move was made too suddenly.

  The bartender came to laconic attention behind the scarred bar and turned to face Bolan. His sandy hair caught the reflected highlights from the array of bottles behind him, lending him a strange halo effect. His arms were heavily tattooed with a mixture of biker designs and those received in military service, and the gray Miami Hurricanes T-shirt he wore contrasted with the white apron he had around his waist.

  Bolan could tell from the bartender's posture that the man kept some type of weapon under the counter. His gaze swept across the room a
gain, searching for the biker his Intel had steered him toward. Skip Cullen managed most of the cocaine outlets operated by the Outlaws in Miami. The newspaper photograph Bolan had seen of the man had been three years old and grainy even before being put on microfiche at the public library. An informant had provided a description of Cullen's Harley, which had a distinctive paint job, and had named the Red Rooster as a favorite hangout for Cullen and his cronies.

  After spotting Cullen at one of the tables nearest the dancers, Bolan looked back at the bartender and stepped forward. The bar gave the widest view of the tavern, besides being nearest the rear exit and providing a small amount of cover. It had been designed that way.

  "Something I can help you with?" the bartender asked, making no move to lean across the counter.

  "I'd like a drink," Bolan said with an easy smile as he relaxed against the counter.

  The bartender shook his bangs out of his face. "Got a problem, though, mister. You gotta be a member to get service here. Didn't you see the sign outside?"

  "Can't say that I did," Bolan replied. He kept the smile in place.

  "Well, there's one out there. This here's a private place. Members only."

  Bolan nodded. "I understand that, but I'm just here for a drink and to maybe catch a look at a few girls. Just act like I'm one of the guys. Hell, I got plenty of money, so you don't have to worry about me stiffing you for the bar tab."

  "I look like a guy who has to worry about that?" The bartender flashed him a crooked grin that held no mirth. "One word from me, and I got a dozen guys in here ready to break your damn arms."

  Using his left hand, Bolan tossed a money clip onto the countertop. "Like I said, pal, I got money. All I want is a drink and to watch the girls dance. This ain't my town, and I don't feel like going to one of those fancy joints down on the strip and paying nine prices for a beer."

  The bartender's eyes touched on the hundred-dollar bill on the outside of the money roll, then returned to scrutinize Bolan's face.

  There was a pregnant pause from the jukebox in the corner as records swapped places, then rock-and-roll thunder refilled the small tavern.

  "You don't look like the kind of guy who'd dig this kind of scene," the bartender said.

  Bolan shook his head, as though perplexed. "Look, I don't know why you gotta be so hardass about this, pal. I'm just a guy willing to spend a little money, have a good time all by myself and maybe turn over a few memories while I do it. Don't tell me you got it so good you can afford to turn away the business."

  The bartender smiled as he looked at the money again, then leaned in closer to the counter. His hidden hand moved forward.

  Bolan caught the movement from his peripheral vision.

  Some of the background conversation had started up again but it was sporadic and speculative.

  Heavy boots with hobnails thumped across the floor toward Bolan's back.

  Turning slowly, Bolan kept the bartender in view as he noted the approach of a burly biker.

  The man was big, easily dwarfing the Executioner's six feet three inches and almost doubling his body weight. His fiery red beard looked tangled and unkempt. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes, and a handkerchief with white polka dots covered his head, channeling a single twist of hair down his back. He came to a stop on Bolan's left and leaned on the bar, smiling like a simpleminded giant. Sour body odor and the smell of oil and gasoline clung to him like an invisible second skin.

  "Havin' any problems, Gene?" the big man asked the bartender.

  "This guy don't seem to understand this club is private," the bartender said. "Doesn't mind flashing big bucks around, though." He pointed to the money clip.

  The biker nodded. "What you doing here, man? You look too damn straight to be interested in a joint like this."

  Bolan gave him a salesman's smile. "Comes from living right and this job I got now that turns a lot of this country into a one-night stand for me. I knew a few bikers from when I was in Vietnam, and got invited to church a few times after we got back stateside. I got involved in some riding for a few months while I spent my back pay, then went out and got a job. But every now and then I like to find a place like this and hang out, remember a few of the old lies that got swapped around between members."

  "Somehow I can't see you for a groupie, man," the big biker said. He grinned evilly, revealing an expanse of stained bridgework. "Me and a couple of the boys had a bet goin' between ourselves. Maybe you can settle it for us."

  Bolan didn't say anything, sensing the tension in the room was welling up. Even the dancers had stopped their gyrations when the big man had approached him.

  "Now, Jojo, he had you figured for a faggot. Figured you thought this was a boy's club and was coming in for some rough trade."

  A roar of laughter went up from the crowd, for a moment drowning out the rumble coming from the jukebox.

  "Now, me," the biker went on, "I got other ideas. I come over here to get a whiff of you myself 'cause I thought I caught a distinct pig odor about you."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw the bartender relax, obviously satisfied that the big man was going to take care of things. He shifted his balance, readying himself to make his move. The biker had come from Cullen's table, so it was easy to assume Cullen was protecting his own interests. The cocaine pipeline coming through Miami was hot property now, and everyone was scrambling for a piece of the action.

  "Maybe you got it figured wrong on both counts," Bolan said, maintaining a disarming and carefree expression.

  The biker appeared to think that over for a moment, but Bolan knew the indecision was all part of the big man's act. The guy gnawed on a callused thumb, then leaned toward Bolan and took another deep breath. He rocked back on his heels. "Naw, I don't think so, man. You got a definite pig odor about you." He grinned. "How 'bout it, champ? Are you a cop or a narc? The law says you gotta tell me if I ask."

  Bolan loosened his stance, knowing it was time to kick the opening numbers into play. The crowd had relaxed again, satisfied he was no threat because he'd played the mouse for them, watching as the tomcat closed in. "No," he replied, "I'm not a cop."

  The biker turned back to the crowd, mimicking a Can You Believe This Shit look on his round face.

  Bolan brought the riot gun out from under the trench coat smoothly, continuing a brief arc that caught the biker flush on the jaw. He was moving before the guy could fall backward, and his arm shot across the counter just as the bartender was reaching behind the bar.

  The dancers screamed and fled the stage area as vicious oaths erupted from the seated bikers.

  The Executioner caught a handful of his quarry's long hair and yanked, reeling the man in. He vaulted the counter and landed on his feet on the other side of the heavy bar, maintaining his hold on the bartender and the riot gun.

  "What the hell is goin' on?" someone yelled.

  "Somebody shoot the fucker!" another voice ordered.

  Something bright and slender flashed in the bartender's hand as he tried to bring it up to point at Bolan.

  Kicking out, Bolan knocked the pistol from the man's grip and sent it spinning away. Using his hold on the bartender's hair, he slammed the man's head into the bar and felt the body relax into unconsciousness. Then he turned his attention back to the crowd, sliding down the length of the counter to cut off escape out the rear exit.

  Part of the bottle army behind him exploded, sending fragments splashing onto the shattered mirror.

  The gunman was standing next to one of the windows, still yanking the trigger as the pistol belched flame and searched for its target.

  The Executioner whirled, tracking the riot gun onto the man's midsection, then squeezed the trigger. The resulting explosion from the weapon blew all sound from the inside of the bar for a time as the double-ought buck caught the biker in the chest and slammed him through the window.

  Bolan racked the specially modified pump on its shorter than original stroke and chambered another ro
und. Wooden chips stung his face as he squeezed off the shot. The muzzle-flash belched brightly from the barrel of the riot gun as the load caught the next target in the shoulder and spun him around, depositing the guy in a pile of screaming agony.

  He pumped the weapon again, knowing there were only three shots left before he had to reload.

  One of the bikers had carried in a machine pistol, and the pop-pop-pop of autofire rattled across the ragged line of bottles.

  Bolan swung away, locking in on the rapid muzzle-flashes. He fired, racked the slide, then fired again, taking no chances with the automatic weapon inside the small confines of the bar. Even if the man never succeeded in hitting him, he still needed Cullen alive. Both loads of buckshot hit the target, blowing him backward across the room to crash into the wall.

  Pumping his weapon, Bolan chambered the final round, knowing the Desert Eagle and Beretta were just a tug away from entering the confrontation.

  The rest of the bikers had dropped to the floor, using upended tables and chairs as cover. No one appeared interested in reaching for any more guns.

  The big biker stirred and shook his head, then grabbed the bar to bring himself to his feet with a growl of rage.

  Bolan let him see the business end of the riot gun. "You're a big target," he warned. "Now sit back down."

  The biker sat as the confused look drained from his wide eyes and fear poured in.

  "What the hell do you want with us?" someone asked from the floor.

  Bolan locked eyes with Cullen, then covered him with the muzzle of the riot gun. "Get up slowly," he ordered.

  The biker stared back defiantly. "If you're gonna kill me, get it over with."

  "Get up."

  Cullen didn't budge.

  Bolan pointed the riot gun meaningfully. "I need you alive, Cullen, or I don't need you at all. It's your decision."

  Keeping his hands locked behind his head, Cullen forced himself to a standing position. He was tall and lean, with a pronounced widow's peak capping hair that was relatively short when compared to that of the other Outlaws.