Kill Squad Read online

  “Cooper, this isn’t looking too good.”

  Bolan had already scanned the immediate area. The only cover available was a hut belonging to the rail company, close to the tracks. It wasn’t what Bolan would have chosen given anything else, but right then it was the only possible alternative to standing in the open.

  “Harry, get in the hut. Just do it. Now.”

  Sherman broke into a run, pushing himself to the limit and knowing his best was far from extreme. He clutched the pistol in his hand, more for comfort than anything else. Behind him he could hear the increasing roar of the SUVs as they sped closer. As much as he wanted to, he refrained from turning to see what Cooper was doing. He just kept running and wondering why the hut didn’t seem to be getting any closer...

  * * *

  BOLAN SET THE Beretta to single shot.

  He faced a pair of targets that were growing larger with every passing second and needed to gain the maximum from his weapon. He wanted the vehicles within range to give him the best shot he could hope for. The SUVs were moving over rough terrain, bouncing on their suspensions, which only added to Bolan’s problem. He was going to need to make calculated shots, his intention to target the drivers. The closer the vehicles came to where he was positioned, the better chance he stood.

  The passenger window on the left vehicle powered down and a figure leaned out, wielding a subgun. The muzzle angled in Bolan’s direction and the guy opened fire. It was plain to see that he was having the same problem facing Bolan. The subgun jerked despite the shooter attempting to hold it steady. The stream of 9 mm slugs cleared the Executioner by yards.

  Bolan tracked in on the guy, compensated for the rocky ride and triggered his first shot.

  A miss.

  The shooter responded with a second burst.

  Well clear.

  Bolan held his ground and moved his pistol to match the SUV’s roll. He stroked the trigger, feeling the Beretta recoil.

  The shooter jerked back, the 9 mm Parabellum round coring into his right shoulder and splintering the bone. The subgun slipped from his grip.

  The second he had triggered his shot, Bolan brought the Beretta to the right, locking on the windshield. He fired once, then a second time. Behind the glass that suddenly splintered, the driver lost control, falling back from the wheel. With a suddenness even Bolan had not anticipated, the big SUV lurched sideways and slammed into the other vehicle. The scrape of clashing metal rose above the roar of the engines. Both SUVs slowed and came to jerking stops.

  Bolan skirted the second vehicle. There was movement inside. A rear door was kicked open and an armed man tumbled out. He had a bleeding gash on his right cheek. As his feet hit the ground, he twisted, saw Bolan and raised his subgun. The Beretta flamed briefly as the Executioner put a single slug into the guy’s chest, kicking him back. He slithered along the side of the SUV before dropping to the ground.

  The crackle of autofire alerted Bolan to the fact that one of the passengers from the first SUV had started to fire his own weapon. He was out of the vehicle, moving around to clear the bulk of the car, firing wildly to cover himself. Bolan tracked him and fired twice. He saw blood spurt from the guy’s throat as he stumbled and fell.

  Movement to Bolan’s left caught his attention and he dropped to a crouch, swinging the Berretta around. Another shooter from the first vehicle leaned against the SUV then stretched across the hood, bracing his subgun. The weapon flared with fire as he triggered a wild burst in Bolan’s direction. The volley passed close enough for the soldier to feel a tug at his sleeve in the instant before he returned fire, triggering three fast, single shots that slammed into the shooter’s head.

  Before the guy hit the ground, Bolan dropped the partially empty magazine and clicked in one of his reserves, his experienced fingers completing the reload in seconds. With the Beretta fully loaded and now set for 3-round bursts, Bolan moved forward and snap-aimed at one of the attackers as he pushed his way from the second SUV. The guy arched back as a trio of 9 mm slugs punched into his upper chest. He toppled backward, triggering his subgun as he fell.

  Bolan wasn’t fully sure what triggered the sudden burst of flame from the rear of one of the SUVs. Maybe a fuel tank fractured when the two vehicles collided and something had generated the flash point; maybe an electric cable shorted out from the impact. The result was a spurt of fire. It coiled up from the close-standing cars, traveling their length and reaching up to the roofline. The volatile mix of vapor and oxygen combined to increase the volume and after a few seconds of what seemed like hesitation, the savage blast of exploding gasoline threw a shock wave that reached Bolan. He felt the push of the concussion and the heat that followed it. The SUVs were engulfed as the writhing ball of flame blossomed. It roared its energy, ripped at the bodywork of the vehicles and shattered glass. Any gunners still inside the SUVs were caught in the encompassing inferno.

  Bolan pulled back. The gunfight was over. He turned and made for the hut where Sherman had taken cover. The man was standing just inside the weathered timber door, his face drained of color.

  A second gasoline explosion blew a ball of flame skyward, leaving the pair of SUVs blazing wrecks.

  “Cooper, this is getting way out of hand. What the hell is Conte’s game?”

  “It’s called covering all bases. These people don’t quit and walk away if they’re threatened. Whatever is in the data you found, it’s capable of bringing down their house. They’re going to pull out all the stops to prevent that.”

  Bolan turned at a sound coming from behind them.

  A third SUV was heading their way from the opposite direction.

  The passenger window was down and a gunman holding a subgun was hanging halfway out. He loosed a long burst that splintered the hut’s sides.

  Bolan stepped back, slamming Sherman into the open doorway and ducking low as the SUV swept in close, the shooter opening fire again. The slugs blew holes in the wall a few feet from where Bolan crouched.

  As the vehicle rolled by, the Executioner triggered the Beretta, firing a trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds that caught the shooter in the chest. The gunner uttered a strangled cry as the slugs ripped into his torso, snapping bone and fatally tearing through organs. He slumped over the door frame, the subgun dropping from his grip. It came to rest a few yards from the hut. Bolan jammed the Beretta back into the shoulder holster, cleared the hut and snatched up the weapon, making a rapid check. With the acquired weapon in his possession, Bolan pulled back inside the hut, watching as the SUV circled and came to rest a dozen yards away.

  He saw three men scramble from the vehicle, all armed. They took up positions behind the bulk of the SUV and turned their weapons on the hut.

  “Stay down,” Bolan said. “Low as you can get.”

  One of the men behind the SUV fired a burst. The grime-encrusted window Bolan was close to burst in a shower of glass. He felt fragments hit his clothing. One sliver scored his cheek, slicing the flesh; blood streaked his face. He pulled the subgun around and returned fire, seeing the shooters react as his slugs punched holes in the SUV.

  Another of the SUV’s crew made a run at the hut, firing as he came. Leaning around the door frame, Bolan tracked the moving target, held, then fired. The burst took the guy in the side, spinning him and dropping him to the ground.

  From where he was crouched, Bolan had a clear view of the SUV. Two more shooters were waiting for their chance.

  The Executioner checked the landscape. Nothing save for the black smoke rising from the original two vehicles.

  The surviving shooters were biding their time.

  It was possible that one of them was on his cell phone calling for backup. The thought didn’t settle well with Bolan. The last thing he needed right now was more guns showing up; he had a limited amount of ammunition. What he had wasn’t going to last forever.
..

  Bolan picked up a distant but familiar sound, faint, but growing in volume.

  The sound of rotors beating the air.

  Helicopter.

  Bolan hoped it was the one Grimaldi was piloting.

  He slipped his phone from his pocket and sat-linked to Grimaldi’s comm unit. It pinged a couple of beats before the recognizable voice came through.

  “That bonfire for me?” Grimaldi asked.

  “It’s that kind of neighborhood.”

  “It always is when you show up, Sarge. Hey, are you clear?”

  “Uh-uh. I’ve got two hostiles close by.”

  “ETA is two minutes. Pity I don’t have any ordnance on board.”

  “You on the way is all I’ll need. Out.”

  Bolan dropped the sat phone back into his pocket. He double-checked the borrowed subgun.

  “Are we okay?” Sherman asked.

  “Getting there.”

  Bolan scanned the SUV. He could see booted feet moving the length of the vehicle. The opposition was on the move.

  He had no idea what they were planning and didn’t feel inclined to wait to find out.

  Bolan flattened on the hut floor, extending the subgun out the door and targeting the underside of the SUV, tracking the men’s movement. His finger rested lightly against the trigger as he waited for his opportunity. It came when one guy paused just short of the rear wheel.

  Bolan eased the trigger back and rode the subgun’s recoil as it fired off a long burst. The wheelbase of the SUV was high enough to expose the half-calf length of one guy’s legs. The slugs ripped into his limbs. The guy whipped around under the solid impact, his legs shattered and torn. He went down hard and Bolan could hear his screams of pain as he flailed on the ground.

  The surviving hood made a wide circle around to the front of the SUV, coming into view as Bolan pushed to his feet and ran forward, pounding his way across the rough ground.

  He met the shooter face to face, each man raising his weapon. The hardman took a second to assess the situation then fired off a long burst. His shots were off the mark; Bolan’s were not. He tracked in with his subgun and fired off a burst that ripped into the target’s center mass. The guy arched under the impact, his arms flailing, and went down on his back, a spray of blood bursting from his mouth.

  Bolan rounded the back end of the SUV, tracking the subgun ahead. The man he had shot in the legs was down but not out, despite the agony of his wounds. A subgun was on the ground close by. The gunman had a pistol in one bloody hand, and he thrust it in Bolan’s direction when the Executioner eased into view. The pistol cracked sharply, the slug clanging against the body of the SUV.

  He thrust the pistol in Bolan’s direction a second time, his finger hard against the trigger.

  Bolan swept the subgun around, the long burst chewing at the ground as the soldier walked the volley into his adversary’s torso, hammering unforgiving slugs into his flesh, stopping the shooter.

  After quickly checking the bodies and distancing the weapons, Bolan took the sat phone from his pocket and reconnected with Grimaldi.

  “It’s safe to come in, Jack,” he said. “I’ve plowed the road for an easy landing. Come and get us out of here.”

  Bolan turned to give the all-clear to Sherman and saw the man facedown in the doorway of the hut.

  He ran toward Sherman, but before he reached him he knew there was nothing he could do. Sherman’s skull was a shattered mess of bone, blood and brains that leaked onto the ground.

  Bolan stared down at the still form. It was not the end he had been expecting for Harry Sherman. Not after everything that had happened to the man and his family.

  Gwen and Laura would need to be told. So would Leo Turrin. They had all been involved from the start. It would be something Bolan would take on. Something he needed to do.

  He was still standing there when Grimaldi walked up from the helicopter.

  “Hell, Sarge, I’m sorry. The poor guy was only trying to do the right thing.”

  Bolan looked up, his eyes bleak but starting to show the anger inside.

  “And that’s what we need to do, Jack...the right thing.”

  20

  It was midafternoon when Mack Bolan entered the casino from the hot glare of the Vegas street. He made his way through the crowd, a determined man with only one thing on his mind.

  Cutting across the casino floor, he cleared the gaming tables and banks of slot machines, ignoring the noise and the glittering lights. The rear section of the establishment was closed off by a set of double doors. Bolan shouldered them open, walking through as they swung back into place behind him. The din of the main casino was cut off by the soundproofing. The reserved section containing store rooms and offices had a cathedral hush after the clamor. Even the lighting was low-key.

  Bolan wore civilian dress: dark slacks and a light jacket. Under the jacket Bolan carried the Beretta in shoulder leather.

  He had barely taken a dozen steps when a guy in a pristine tuxedo barred his way, blocking off one of the office doors. The face was expressionless, showing a deep tan that made the guy’s pale eyes stand out. Bolan noted the spread of the shoulders as the hardman flexed his muscles.

  “You don’t come into this part of the casino. Just turn around and leave before I break an arm.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Bolan said.

  “You got a nerve coming in here.”

  Tuxedo slid his hand inside his jacket.

  Bolan’s response was instantaneous. His right fist lashed out and struck hard, crushing the guy’s nose in an instant. Tuxedo gave a hoarse gasp as blood flowed down his face, tears welling in his eyes from the pain. His immobility gave Bolan his opening, and he struck a second time, catching the guy in his throat, reducing him to wheezing helplessness. Barely taking time for a breath, Bolan grabbed a handful of the guy’s hair and yanked his head down into his rising knee. Tuxedo caught the powerful blow full-face. It snapped his head back and he went down without another sound.

  Bolan stepped up to the door Tuxedo had been guarding. He could hear the murmur of voices inside.

  The Executioner had no patience for protocol right now. He dismissed any notions of hurting anyone’s feelings. This was not the time for following the rules of etiquette. He wanted to locate Marco Conte and went about it in the most direct way possible.

  The office door was kicked clean off its hinges as Bolan burst through following a powerhouse boot from his foot. The splintered panel flew yards into the room, crashing into a nearby display cabinet and sending broken glass in all directions.

  “Hey! What the fuck is—” one of the occupants said, coming up off his seat, grabbing for the SIG-Sauer pistol he carried in a shoulder rig.

  Bolan reached him before the weapon cleared the leather, the Beretta 93-R in his hand sweeping around in a brutal arc. The crunch as it connected with the Mafiya soldier’s face could be heard across the room. The savage blow splintered the guy’s jaw, sending a spray of blood and shattered teeth across the carpet. As the guy dropped, Bolan placed a 9 mm whispering slug in the back of his skull.

  There were three other men in the room. Just seconds before they had been relaxing, enjoying Conte’s whiskey and vodka. The sight of their buddy going down galvanized them into action.

  The closest man to Bolan went for his hardware. The Beretta chugged and the hardman went down with a Parabellum slug in his thigh, bone shattered and flesh torn. As he struck the floor, he clawed at his hip for the weapon he carried. He barely touched the butt before Bolan’s next shot spread pieces of his skull across the carpet.

  The gunman next to him, hampered by a glass in one hand and a cigar in the other, dropped both items and made his own play. It lasted only as long it took Bolan to put him down with a slug to his
chest. The guy toppled over backward, tangling with the chair he’d been using, and crashed to the floor.

  The surviving hardman saw sense and held his hands away from his body, sweat suddenly beading his face as he stared into the Executioner’s hard blue eyes.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Simple enough,” Bolan said. “I want to know where Conte is. And you’re going to tell me.”

  The guy managed a thin smile.

  “If I do that, I’m as good as dead.”

  The Beretta moved.

  “I can do that for you.”

  The tone of the voice said it all. The guy was in no mood for making jokes. What had already gone down confirmed that.

  Bolan quickly frisked his captive, threw the handgun he found across the room, checked his ID and then stepped back again.

  “You want to make a deal for your life, Kirov?”

  “Okay, so I give Conte up. What next? You figure you can take him down? That’s crazy. He has a bunch of guys to protect him. He’s with Serge Bulova, and nobody moves against him. The man knows too many people.”

  “It’s time for a change then.” Bolan moved closer, the Beretta settling on its new target. “Your move, Karl.”

  Kirov stared into the muzzle of the Beretta. He understood how close he was to death and the thought obviously didn’t sit well. Loyalty was a nice concept, and up until this moment Kirov had imagined as long as he was involved with Conte and the Bulova organization he was protected. That protection didn’t seem so good with the barrel of a 9 mm Beretta up close and personal. All of Conte’s influence and money didn’t mean a damn thing. All it needed was for this man to pull the trigger and everything Kirov held dear went up in a blinding flash of pain.

  “It comes down to a simple equation,” Bolan said. “You add up what Conte and Bulova might have been able to offer against what I have right now. It doesn’t take much working out. But at the end of the day you have to make your own choice.”

  “With that thing stuck in my face, Cooper?” he drawled, having finally figured out who Bolan was.