Point Blank Read online

  Those last words spoken, Magolino switched the phone off, placed it back in Gino’s hand and turned his full attention to Adamo.

  “The American,” he declared, putting a twist in Aldo’s gut.

  “Parker?”

  “If we believe him,” Magolino said.

  Aldo asked the first question that came to mind. “How did he get your number?”

  Magolino shrugged. “That’s beside the point. He says Mariana must be freed at once.”

  “Or what?” Adamo asked.

  “He says the losses we have suffered since this afternoon are merely—how did he describe it? Ah, yes—‘a preview of coming attractions.’ He threatens to wipe out our cosche and kill both of us in the bargain.”

  Adamo felt a sudden chill. “He mentioned us specifically?”

  “Your name was mentioned, Aldo. Does it frighten you?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Good. You’ve done so well with Mariana that I have a new job for you. Find this Scott Parker. As with Mariana, I prefer that you capture him alive. But failing that, bring me his head. I’ll give it to Giacomo D’Ascanio.”

  Adamo swallowed the revulsion he felt each time the taxidermist’s name came up. D’Ascanio worked on selected trophies for the personal collection Magolino kept in a secret location. To Aldo’s certain knowledge, it included eight preserved and mounted specimens that Magolino visited from time to time, as he said, to relax.

  Adamo nearly answered that his soldiers had been seeking Scott Parker since the killings at Le Croci, having no success, but he was wise enough to bite his tongue. Instead of pleading failure, when he’d only just regained Magolino’s confidence, he said, “I will find him, padrino. You can count on it.”

  “Before he ruins us, I hope,” Magolino said. “Before he kills us all.”

  Nearly choking on his words, Adamo replied, “Trust me, padrino.”

  But where would he begin?

  Leaving his master’s office, Aldo wondered if he’d condemned himself. Would his head be the next one found in Magolino’s trophy case?

  Via Alessandro Turco, Catanzaro

  AFTER HIS ROADSIDE conversation with Captain Basile, Bolan rolled on toward his next target. It was a brothel catering to wealthy men and women—no discrimination on the ’Ndrangheta’s part, where money was concerned—disguised, more or less, as a stately private home. The girls worked mostly by appointment, although a drop-in john with ample cash to spend could always be accommodated. If any neighbors kept track of the traffic flowing in and out, night after night, they were wise enough to keep their heads down and not bother the city’s overworked police.

  Mack Bolan, on the other hand, was making time to put the operation out of business.

  One trick of a sniper’s trade is patience, the ability to wait for hours—sometimes days—until the perfect shot presents itself. Tonight, however, he was on the clock. Bolan could hear it ticking in his head, time running out for Mariana while he prowled the streets, selecting targets from the list he’d drawn up in advance. The blitz technique demanded rapid-fire attacks, incessant violence, a message driven home that every moment of delay would cost his enemies more men, more property, more money until Bolan had been satisfied.

  It was a method that had worked for him in past campaigns, but in some cases the blitz had failed to rescue hostages. Sometimes he got the word too late; other times, Bolan’s enemies were tough enough and crazy enough to risk retaliation, thereby escalating violence against themselves. He didn’t have a feel yet for Gianni Magolino, but it made good sense to play the odds and see what happened next.

  So, on he drove, around the looping course of Via Alessandro Turco and toward his target, which stood on two well-tended acres, grass and sturdy shade trees all around it. Bolan parked in front, mounted the concrete steps and rang the bell, making no effort to conceal the submachine gun carried at his side.

  The door opened almost immediately to reveal a smiling woman in her thirties, dressed as if she were preparing for a night on the town. Except the night was nearly over, and a glimpse of Bolan’s weapon wiped the trained smile from her face.

  “Don’t shoot!” she implored.

  “Don’t make me.”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  “First thing,” he told her, when they were inside, “Where’s the fire alarm?”

  “But...there’s no fire.”

  “Not yet,” he said and drew his jacket back just far enough to show her a grenade clipped on his belt.

  She led him through the foyer and around a corner, to a parlor where a fire alarm’s pull-handle was discreetly hidden by a hanging tapestry. Bolan grasped the metal lever and pulled down. A raucous clamoring began reverberating through the house.

  The result was almost instantaneous. From every doorway on the second floor, a clamoring stampede of nude or half-dressed men and women rushed to find the nearest exit, barely taking time to glance at Bolan or the whorehouse madam as they passed.

  “You’ve made a serious mistake,” the hostess warned him.

  Bolan didn’t answer. He was waiting for the guards, and in another moment, there they were. Three men, dressed casually—blazers over slacks and open-collared shirts—all armed and focused on the stranger in their midst. They should have opened fire on him immediately, but their point man hesitated when he saw the brothel’s manager at Bolan’s side, and that was all the edge Bolan required.

  His first short, nearly silent burst gutted the leader of the pack and sent him tumbling through an awkward roll, leaving a bloody trail on the white shag carpeting. The two remaining men both aimed pistols at Bolan, but their chance had come and gone. He strafed them from the ground, spattering the second-story wall with blood and bits of tissue as the dying shooters fell together, tangled up in a macabre embrace.

  “Are there more?” Bolan asked the madam.

  “No.” Trembling, she shook her head emphatically. “No more. They are the only ones.”

  She waited, seeming to expect a bullet of her own, but Bolan nodded toward the nearest door and said, “Get out of here. Tell Magolino this keeps up until he sets the woman free. Got that?”

  “I understand,” she assured him, breaking for the exit and the night beyond it.

  Bolan found the kitchen, turned the range on high and ripped its gas line from the wall. Retreating to the doorway, he unclipped a frag grenade and lobbed it toward the hissing stove, then made a swift retreat.

  Hellfire. And he had only just begun.

  Guardia di Finanza Headquarters

  CAPTAIN BASILE KNEW he’d made a devil’s bargain, but he saw no viable alternative. Mariana Natale had been left in his care, and now she was lost, and two of his most trusted officers had paid with their lives for his negligence. He could not think of any other explanation for the safe house raid, and if she died, too—a likely prospect, in Basile’s view—he knew it would trouble him for the remainder of his days.

  There was nothing he could do about it on his own, so he had picked the only option that remained. It would mean more killing, more destruction in the city Basile was sworn to serve and protect, but what else could he do?

  If there was any chance at all for Mariana, he was bound to try it.

  And if Scott Parker failed to rescue her a second time...what then?

  The list, for one thing. He had vowed to list the names of anyone who might have seen him with the woman, but the top page of the notepad on his desk remained a mocking blank. Basile had been cautious when escorting Mariana to his office—or, at least, he believed he had been. Walking from Villa Margherita back to GDF headquarters, they had met no one along the way. Not in the park or on the street, not in the parking lot or hallways leading to his office. She had not emerged until they left, together, for the drive out to the safe house
.

  Who had seen her with him? When and how had it occurred without his notice?

  Was he truly that oblivious to his surroundings, even when the stakes were life and death?

  A rapping on the office door distracted him. Basile glanced up from the damned note pad and said, “Come in.”

  Carlo Albanesi entered. “Excuse me, Captain. I was passing by and I saw your light. You’re working late this evening.”

  “As are you, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s the killings,” Albanesi said. “They’re calling everyone from home.”

  Basile nodded. That was standard when an officer was killed on duty. All hands turned out to participate in the investigation, find the murderers and bring them in, dead or alive. Of course, it rarely worked that way if mafiosi or ’ndranghetisti were involved. With them, unless the crime was witnessed by police or one of the participants confessed, the case was likely to remain unsolved. And even if their names were known, beyond a doubt, achieving justice was an iffy proposition.

  “I won’t keep you then,” Basile said. “You must have work to do.”

  The lieutenant bobbed his head, then said, “I thought there might be something I could do for you.”

  “Such as?”

  That brought a wobbly shrug. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I didn’t think that far ahead.”

  “There is a question I might ask you,” Basile said.

  “Ah. What is it?”

  “When I was in the station earlier tonight, nine-thirty, maybe ten o’clock, did you see me, by any chance?”

  “See you?” A hint of color rose in Albanesi’s flabby cheeks. “No, I’m afraid not. Should I have?”

  The bastard was lying, and it chilled Basile to his core. It should have come as no surprise, with Albanesi’s reputation, but for some reason, Basile had not thought he would be party to the murder of two fellow officers.

  Smiling as if his heart had not begun to hammer in his chest, Basile said, “No reason. I just thought...”

  “What?” Albanesi prodded him.

  “It’s nothing, really. Earlier, I had a visitor and meant to introduce you.”

  Albanesi’s little rat eyes shifted nervously around the office, as if looking for a place to hide. “Who was this visitor?” he asked.

  “It’s not important,” Basile said. “Anyway, the chance is lost.”

  “Pity. Well, I’ll leave you to your work and return to mine.”

  “Good night, Lieutenant.”

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  Albanesi closed the door behind him as he left, Basile’s eyes still boring into it.

  He knew the traitor now, beyond a doubt. But what was he going to do about it?

  Feeling twice his age, Basile pushed the notebook to one side, removed his pistol from its holster and began the ritual of field stripping to clean and oil its working parts.

  It never hurt, he thought, to be prepared.

  Via Nuova, Catanzaro

  BOLAN WAS BACK at the beginning, where he’d first seen Mariana in the hands of men who meant to kill her. No one was in the office building now; even the nightly cleaning crew had done their work and left for home. The place was locked, no watchman in attendance for security.

  It was a bonfire waiting to be lit.

  He parked in back this time, invisible to drivers passing by on Via Nuova. A cool breeze welcomed Bolan as he stepped out of the Fiat Panda, then leaned back inside for just a moment to retrieve the ARX-160 from its place behind the driver’s seat.

  He could have phoned Gianni Magolino to see if he’d changed his mind about releasing Mariana, but it wouldn’t hurt to make another fiery sacrifice or two before he made that call. The more pain Magolino felt before they spoke again, the better it would be for Bolan’s cause.

  Or, if the mobster dug his heels in and refused to budge, at least it was a preview of the carnage set to come his way.

  Knowing Mariana might be dead did not change Bolan’s basic plan. Until he had some concrete proof that she was gone, forever beyond help, he would proceed as he had promised, burning down the mobsters’ world.

  And if she was dead, it would change nothing but the pace and raw ferocity of his assault. In that case, Magolino might—or might not—live to see his empire crumble at his feet, a heap of reeking ashes. Whether he survived to rue the loss or not, that was the Executioner’s end game, and he would see it through.

  He primed the GLX-160 launcher with another thermobaric round and sighted on a second-story window, heedless of whoever might be renting out the office space. Gianni Magolino owned the building, and its loss would be another blow to his finances. Next, Bolan considered, he might hit the ’Ndrangheta’s favorite construction company, well known for cutting corners and inflating costs. A little something else to rob the godfather of sleep on what might be his final night on Earth.

  The thermo round punched through its target window pane and detonated well inside the room beyond, a flare of light that blossomed in a heartbeat, spreading out and sucking at the window’s blinds as it drew air in from the night. It made a hungry snarling sound, reminding Bolan of a giant garbage disposal at work, then two adjacent windows shattered, raining glass into the parking lot.

  He could have walked around the building, lobbed another round in through a different window, maybe on another floor, but he was done here. By the time the Catanzaro fire brigade arrived, the office block would be a flaming wreck, fit only for a wrecking ball. One more prime property scratched off the list of Magolino family holdings, and he had a fair list yet to go.

  Bolan replaced his weapon in its nook behind the driver’s seat and rolled out of there. If any witnesses observed his car leaving while the fire spread, they might easily mistake his stolen ride for a police car, adding more confusion to the mix.

  Next up, a sporting goods emporium whose owner funneled weapons and explosives to the ’Ndrangheta, giving Magolino’s family an edge over its local enemies. The man in charge was not a sworn ’ndranghetisti, but he served the family for profit, and the hardware he supplied had terminated countless lives over the years. Putting him out of business would be Bolan’s gift to Catanzaro and to law enforcement, one more job for which he would receive no thanks.

  But it would satisfy him all the same.

  And if Gianni Magolino still had any doubts about releasing Mariana, if he balked the next time Bolan called, the godfather would discover quickly that the worst was still to come.

  Viale Alvaro Corrado, Catanzaro

  “YOU SEE NOW, Mariana, that you can’t escape me.”

  Sitting with her wrists bound to the curved arms of a wooden chair, ankles secured by duct tape to its legs, she stared at Magolino with a grim, hopeless expression.

  “Nothing to say?” he goaded. “No show today? No effort to excuse yourself?”

  “Would it do any good?” she asked him sullenly.

  “I doubt it very much. But if you care to try...”

  “You sentenced me to death for nothing, and I ran away to save myself. You have been fleeing retribution all your life, Gianni.”

  “There’s my girl,” he gloated. “I was worried your spirit might be broken, and we haven’t even started yet. Later, perhaps.”

  “Then do your worst, and go to hell. You’ll die for this,” she told him.

  “That’s what your friend said, more or less.”

  “My friend?”

  “The American. Parker, I believe he calls himself.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “He called to threaten me. An ant insults a lion. Should I worry, Mariana?”

  Peering at him, she replied, “You are already worried. I can smell it on you.”

  He was moving forward, drawing back one arm to strike, when Gino Zucc
o barged into the room, holding the cordless telephone in front of him. “Forgive me, padrino,” he said. “It’s him again.”

  Magolino grimaced as he dropped his arm and unclenched his fist to accept the phone. He raised it to his ear and turned his back on Mariana so she could not see his face as he addressed the caller.

  “Yes?”

  “The price keeps going up,” said the familiar voice. “How much is Mariana worth to you?”

  “More than you can imagine,” Magolino said. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  The laugh surprised him. “That’s rich,” Bolan said, “considering the source. How much are you out so far? Six million? More?”

  “Honor counts for more than money,” Magolino answered.

  This time, Parker’s laughter stung him like a slap across the face. “Your call,” said the American. “Next time, maybe I’ll have a word with your successor.”

  And the line went dead. Again.

  He swiveled back toward Mariana, glowering. “You look a little pale, Gianni,” she observed.

  “Do I?” Magolino felt the rage boil up inside him. “Do I?” Charging forward, with the phone still in his hand, he drove his fist into her face. The wooden chair flew over backward, taking Mariana with it. Blood flowed freely from her nostrils as she lay before him, whimpering.

  “Perhaps what you need is a new perspective.” Turning back to Gino Zucco, he said, “Gather up the soldiers. We are leaving for Tropea. Fifteen minutes!”

  “Yes, padrino!”

  Zucco vanished, scuttling to obey his order. Magolino walked a circle around Mariana, who was lying like a capsized turtle, helpless at his feet. He thought of all she would suffer when they reached his rural hideaway, and he had to smile.

  “I have a colleague you’ve never met,” he said. “The doctor. He tends my soldiers when they’re injured and cannot afford the scrutiny of hospitals, but he has other talents, too. Keeping traitors alive during interrogation is his specialty.”