Detroit Deathwatch Read online

  While the taut responses crackled in from the vehicles that followed, the wheelman remarked, “I don’t see nothing but the flares, boss. It looks funny. I don’t like it.”

  “Me neither,” Lista agreed. “Boot this thing in the ass.” He snarled into the radio mike: “We’re running! Stay up our ass!” To the men in the seats behind him he commanded, “Weapons up and ready! Look alive now!”

  The next few seconds were kaleidoscopic. Though everything seemed to happen at once, a frozen frame replay would bring the events to focus in the following sequence:

  With a strong but smooth acceleration the armor-plated limousine surged forward into the straightaway.

  A gunner in the rear seat excitedly wondered, “What if it’s cops? Whatta we do if—”

  Lista yelled back, “You crazy? With a hot box of horse back there? We’re stopping for nobody!”

  A bright flash lit up the side of the road just ahead as a huge tree came crashing to the ground across the roadway.

  The wheelman yelped, “Christ!” and stood on his brakes.

  Lista screamed, “You dumb …!” and began fighting the driver for control of the vehicle, evidently intending to veer around the blockade.

  The wheelman was protesting, “No, boss! There’s nothing out there but swamp!”

  The men in the rear seats were being flung about by the wild swerving of the vehicle. They were swearing and exclaiming—and one man’s weapon discharged accidentally, the reverberations from that blast adding to the panic and confusion of the moment.

  Then they were sliding into the felled tree, hitting it broadside, rebounding—and the heavy truck that had been faithfully “right up their ass” was crunching in from the other side.

  In perhaps his final flaring instant of electric awareness, Lista caught a glimpse of a tall figure in black loping along the eerily lighted roadway with a weird object slung over one shoulder—and in that instant Jimmy Lista knew.

  “Oh, Christ!” he groaned. “It’s that guy!”

  And then hell really fell in.

  The big cypress had been carefully selected, restraining vines hacked away, then the tree trunk drilled and charged with enough plastics to ensure a clean and instant drop. Detonation was perfect, and the fall just as Bolan wanted it. There would not have been time, even had Bolan been so inclined, to yell, “Timber!”

  They came into it on a cadenced count, practically bumper to bumper, the lead vehicle trying to change the game at the final moment only to slide in sideways on screaming rubber. The other two vehicles promptly plowed into the wreckage—and the battle was half-won right there.

  Bolan’s set position had been about fifty yards in advance of the roadblock point—that is, downrange; he was now behind the procession. A second or two before the moment of impact, the blitz artist was up and running, closing on the scene with studied timing and with massive firepower at his ready disposal. A tree across the road could momentarily stop that bunch, but it could not neutralize them—not without the most incredible luck, and Bolan was not a warrior to stake the success of an operation on mere luck.

  But even the most meticulous planner could not foresee every eventuality—and the very worst had come from that pile-up of vehicles, from Bolan’s point of view. The heavy truck had punched into the side of the lead Caddy, screwing it around so that a surviving headlamp was throwing a beam of light along the back track, directly along Bolan’s only possible path of advance. The problem was, of course, twofold. The beam was both blinding and illuminating him—and the resolution of the problem cost a couple of numbers to his timing. He was still some thirty yards downrange when he halted and drew the AutoMag, coolly sighted along the ventilated barrel, and squeezed off a 240-grain resolution. The big bullet thundered along that beam of light and wiped it out. But already there were sounds of recovery down there—cautious cries in the night, the whirring of a starter coaxing a dead engine, vehicle doors springing open.

  A couple of numbers off the count, yeah. He’d hoped to catch them stunned and stupid. But now …

  Not much threat from the lead vehicle. It was a mess. People in there were yelling for help, and one guy in particular was screaming bloody murder.

  The armored van seemed none the worse for the pile-up, except that the engine would not respond. Gunports were manned and obviously ready with ugly snouts protruding and waiting for a target.

  It was the rear limousine that posed the gravest danger. The engine hood had popped open, and there was broken glass strewn about, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage. A couple of guys were staggering from the open doors of that one, and they both had Thompsons.

  Bolan moved warily into position and dropped to one knee, jettisoning all but one LAW. The boys with the choppers found him just one breathless second after he’d aligned the pop-up sights and sent a whoosher streaking into the rear section of their vehicle. It penetrated with a doomsday clap that blew a halo of hellfire to envelop all three vehicles and to make instant tumbling torches of the two machine-gunners.

  So now they were stunned and stupid again—those who were still alive. Someone over there in hell was screaming for heavenly mercy. Bolan sent some, in the form of another whizzing rocket that smacked into the crumpled passenger compartment of the lead vehicle. All four wheels of the Caddy left the ground with that one, and the gas tank joined the act just as the vehicle touched down again. The secondary gasoline explosion welded the limousine to the nose of the van, sent displaced chunks of automotive steel hurtling through the night, and spread a rushing pool of flames beneath the armored truck. A gunport there was hastily abandoned; an instant later a ventilation hatch creaked open, and Bolan could hear the sounds of panic inside.

  He was in motion again, reading the situation in a wary approach to the blast zone. Both Cadillacs were demolished. Twisted and mutilated bodies, some of them flaming, littered the whole area. Gasoline-fed flames were enveloping the armored van and all four wheels were ablaze.

  And now there were no human sounds to disturb the night.

  The armored truck was fast becoming a bake oven, no doubt of that. The men inside could probably sweat it out for another minute or so—but Bolan knew that there could be no fight left in them now.

  It was done.

  He abandoned the remaining LAWs and closed on the situation with Uzi at the ready. At his approach, the driver of the van screamed out through licking flames: “Okay! I’m coming out! Don’t shoot!”

  The ice-water tones of the Executioner flowed across the hellground. “So come. Hit the ground running and don’t look back.”

  The guy tumbled to the ground and lay there for a moment beating out flames on his clothing, then staggered to his feet and floundered into the marshy land at the side of the road to disappear into the night.

  The boys in the vault must have been watching. The back door immediately swung open and a pan icky voice called out, “Us, too! We surrender!”

  “Same deal,” was the cold response from the edge of hell.

  Three uniformed men leapt out of there as if in a single movement, arms raised, coughing, and soaked with perspiration.

  “Not the swamp,” Bolan instructed. “Down the road. Fast as you can move it.”

  He watched them till they were out of sight, then quickly entered the vault, grabbed the goodies, left his calling card, and withdrew.

  After all was said and done, then, right on the numbers.

  And, yes, Bolan remembered … many things. So would the New Orleans mob. They would remember all of the Executioner campaigns along that twisted and bloody trail that began at Pittsfield and broadened at places like Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Miami, San Francisco, Detroit, and at many stops and pauses beyond and between—and, sure, they would know. They would understand that this quick punch to the gut in a Louisiana swamp was but the prelude to a blitzkrieg war that would soon engulf this entire region.

  They would remember, they would know, and they would be
falling all over their asses to get set for it.

  The Executioner had come to the town that care forgot.

  2: ANGLE OF APPROACH

  A growing number of emergency vehicles were grouped on either side of the disaster zone, and the entire area was brightly illuminated by police flood-lights when the rackets specialist from NOPD, Jack Petro, arrived on the scene.

  He left his vehicle at the western fringe, sandwiched between an ambulance and a rescue unit, and scrambled to the top of the barricade to view the incredible scene on the other side. A uniformed state cop recognized the new arrival and walked carefully along the trunk of the fallen swamp cypress to join him.

  “Ever see anything like this before, Lieutenant?” the trooper inquired with a wry smile.

  The detective pushed his hat back and surveyed the scene with hands on hips. “Tell me what it is,” he replied quietly, “and I’ll tell you if I have.”

  “It seems that old man Vannaducci got his tables turned,” the trooper said, seeming to enjoy the idea.

  “Then, no. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Petro stepped down to the combat zone and moved carefully among the wreckage, pieces of which were still smoldering. Medics were moving busily about in three-man teams, while a man Petro recognized as the St. Tammany coroner officiated over a mounting collection of human remains—some on shrouded litters, others in plastic bags.

  He found the chief deputy sheriff inside the armored truck. “Thanks for the call,” the New Orleans cop said by way of greeting.

  The deputy did not look up from his task. “Thought you’d be interested,” he grunted, and went on taking Polaroid pictures of the interior. “This truck belongs to Vannaducci. Another five minutes and they’d have been inside your jurisdiction.”

  “Yeah,” Petro agreed sourly. “What’s it look like? Who did it?”

  “Looks like a company of marines did it,” the deputy replied, turning to his visitor with a strained smile. “The tree was dropped with an explosive charge. My expert says it’s a very professional job. Remote-detonated, probably electronically. These vehicles were in motion and moving fast when the thing crashed down right across their path. No chance to stop or avoid. They hit at high speed and crunched together—following too close.

  “Let’s get out of here.” The deputy moved past Petro and stepped to the ground.

  The detective took a quick look around, then followed suit.

  “Still hot in there,” the cop observed, tugging at his shirt collar. “You can imagine what it was like immediately after the hit. All three vehicles are armor-plated. The two sedans were under attack by bazookas—or something on that order. Opened ’em up like tin cans. The gas tanks ruptured and built a hot fire under this tin can. Wonder it didn’t blow sky high.”

  A uniformed cop wearing asbestos gloves and a padded helmet was moving purposefully toward the chief deputy. Petro checked what he was about to say, yielding to the new arrival. The guy was carrying a couple of interesting-looking tubes.

  “Here’s your answer, Chief,” he reported solemnly. “Found ’em laying in the reeds just off the road—about thirty yards downrange. I marked the spot.”

  “What the hell are they?” the deputy asked, his nose wrinkling.

  “Rocket launchers. Army calls them LAWs. Self-contained units, armor-piercing, high-explosive projectiles. One of ’em will stop a light tank.”

  “Take ’em over to the lab truck.”

  “Right.”

  “There you go,” the chief deputy told his visitor from New Orleans.

  “Where the hell do these people get military ordnance?” Petro wondered aloud.

  “Just about anywhere. If you know the angles. I’d say that our man knows all of them.”

  “Our man?”

  “Uh huh. Left his trademark all over the job. Didn’t even try to conceal it. Even left witnesses.”

  “You mean somebody survived this?” Petro asked quietly.

  “You bet. The driver and three guards from the truck are okay. The guy let ’em go.”

  “Okay. I’ll bite. What guy, dammit?”

  “I’ll get to that. Let me fill you in some first. We got this anonymous report a few minutes past three—man’s voice, cold, hard, methodical, gave directions to the tenth of a mile. We dispatched a car to investigate. Place was still ablaze when our officers arrived. Four survivors hiding in the bayou, submerged from the neck down—one of them with second-degree burns covering twenty percent of his body. Shows you how shook they were. Hit the water and stayed there until our unit arrived. They—”

  “I’ll want to talk to them,” Petro said.

  “Sure. But maybe I have you a better one than that. If he makes it.”

  “Another survivor?”

  “Maybe. We evacuated him by helicopter. Guess who?”

  Petro’s eyes jerked impatiently. “Who?”

  “Your crown prince of Bourbon Street—Jimmy Lista. It seems that he was bossing this run. So you know what that means.”

  Sure, Petro knew what that meant. A mob money run. “How big a haul?”

  “Nobody’s saying. But you know how the estimates run. Maybe as much as half a mil.”

  Petro whistled and nervously lit a cigarette. “Okay,” he said, breaking a heavy silence. “So they hit the old man for maybe half a mil, and there’ll be heads rolling in New Orleans when he finds out. So who did it? Who are they?”

  The chief deputy was gazing across the disaster zone, a tense smile arranging his features into a sort of half-worried, half-humorous expression. “Would you believe … a him?”

  “One guy?” Petro’s hands went back to his hips, and he swiveled his torso in another evaluation of the hit zone. His face suddenly underwent a radical alteration. “Oh, hell,” he commented quietly, resignedly.

  “Yeah. That’s the guy. Left his calling card in the truck.” The chief deputy produced a small envelope, withdrew a folded Kleenex, and carefully unwrapped the “calling card”—a military marksman’s medal.

  “Well …” Petro exhaled noisily. “I guess it was inevitable. The guy had to get around to us sooner or later. You put out the alert yet?”

  “Not yet. Call it an official courtesy—I wanted you to see it first. The guy is, uh, probably into your jurisdiction by now. You got a complete file?”

  Petro nodded. “In spades.”

  “I’m glad it’s you instead of me,” the sheriff said, smiling grimly. “We’re just not equipped over here for a Mack Bolan war.”

  “Who is?” Petro observed quietly.

  Moments later he was speeding back to town and sending the word ahead via radio.

  The Executioner, for God’s sake, was undoubtedly marching on New Orleans. Along with several hundred thousand other transients. What a time for a Mack Bolan visit! Tomorrow was Fat Tuesday, a day of local insanity better known by its French name, Mardi Gras. Unless Jack Petro missed his guess, it was going to be the fattest damn Tuesday in the city’s history.

  3: ANGLE OF THRUST

  It was an uncharacteristically early awakening for Thomas Carlotti, the acknowledged “boss of sin” in greater New Orleans. There’d been a time, of course—and not too many years earlier, at that—when most of Carlotti’s waking moments had been spent with the night. A guy who had to hustle those streets for a buck had to run when and where the action was. Carlotti no longer hustled the streets. Now he hustled the hustlers, pushed the buttons and pulled the strings, orchestrating a network of prostitution and gambling houses that encompassed all of New Orleans and her suburbs.

  Carlotti was thirty-five, medium height, well built and muscular. He was a flashy dresser. Even his shirts and underwear were hand-tailored—and it was said that the Mafia chieftain cared more for his wardrobe than for any other thing in life. His shoes were specially ordered from “my little old bootmaker” in Rome. A barber visited the Royal Street manse three times a week to maintain the well-coiffed locks. It was gossiped quietly t
hat Carlotti was impressed by his superficial resemblance to singer Enzo Stuarti and tried diligently to strengthen that resemblance.

  Carlotti didn’t like to be awakened in the gray hours of the morning. He’d seen enough sunrises from street level to last a lifetime. He preferred to arise about ten, several hours behind the rest of the household, when things were humming along and filled with life and movement.

  God, but he hated to wake up to a still house.

  “What the hell is this?” he growled to his night man, Scooter Favia. “What d’ya mean coming in here at a time like this? Turn off that goddam light. Use the lamp—over there—that lamp over there.”

  The houseman moved silently to obey the instructions. Scooter had been with Carlotti throughout his rise to power, was reputed to be a nerveless triggerman and a remorseless killer whenever such actions were likely to please his boss. He had served others, many others, during his thirty years behind the gun—with about the same measure of faithful service.

  Carlotti’s “broad for the night”—an unnaturally high-bosomed stripper from one of the Bourbon Street tourist traps—stirred sleepily, then sat bolt upright. Carlotti scowled at her and shoved her back down.

  “Get those silicone boobs under cover,” he scolded. “What, you want to get poor old Scooter all tore up and nothing to work with?”

  The girl, a blonde of about twenty, giggled and flipped the sheet up to cover her head.

  The boss of New Orleans vice life pushed his own nude body from the bed and unhurriedly reached for a karate-style wraparound. He slipped into it and belted it loosely, lit a cigarette, told the girl to “Stay right there, tiger,” and went over to join his bodyguard at the door.

  “Now what?” he asked Favia.

  “Zeno called,” the houseman reported in a hushed voice. “Mr. Vannaducci wants you out at the farm. Soon as you can get there.”

  “At this hour? It’s—what …?”

  “Little past four. That’s what Zeno said, Tommy. Soon as you can get there. He sounded worried.”