Washington I.O.U. Read online

  “What’re you guys—feds?” Fizzi wanted to know as the tall man relieved him of his weapon.

  That same icy voice replied, “Sort of.”

  Before he quite realized that it was happening, Fizzi then found that his wrists were securely taped together at his back and the guy was applying a wide strip of adhesive to his mouth. An instant later he and Ramirez were curled into the trunk compartment and the guy was shoving something into his fist—something small and metallic with irregular edges.

  Then the trunk lid was closed and he was sharing the cramped darkness with Ramirez.

  He maneuvered the little metallic object into his palm and rubbed his fingers along the outline—and suddenly Fizzi knew what that object was.

  He also knew who the big bastard was.

  And he knew, with a flooding sense of relief, that he was one lucky goddam triggerman if he was really going to get off this easy.

  Not many guys ever met Mack Bolan and lived to brag about it.

  Yeah. Jack the Schoolteacher was one goddam lucky son of a bitch.

  But why? for God’s sake why had the guy left him breathing?

  A sharp little red and white Cessna came in just ahead of the sunrise to execute a standard landing approach in the Montgomery Field traffic pattern. It touched down smoothly on the main runway, completed a short landing roll and crossed over to the service area, halting at the gas pumps just uprange from the waiting automobile.

  One Sammy Simonetti, the lone passenger, stepped outside, then leaned in for a final instruction to the pilot. “After you’ve gassed up, put her away. We won’t be going back until tonight late.”

  The pilot nodded. “You’ll know where to find me.”

  “Right.”

  Simonetti was a “courier.” He even looked like one, complete to the wrist-manacle attache case which was chained to his right hand.

  Two men in airport service-white moved out of the lengthening shadows of the terminal building and intercepted him halfway between plane and car.

  “Mr. Simonetti?” the thickset one pleasantly greeted him.

  The messenger frowned, but broke stride and replied, “Yeah?”—his eyes flicking toward the waiting vehicle.

  The tall man quietly informed him, “Trip ends right here, Sammy.”

  The ominously-tipped black Beretta showed itself, the muzzle staring up into the courier’s eyes.

  The other man reached inside of Simonetti’s jacket, took his weapon, then nudged him on toward the LTD.

  “You guys out of your minds or something?” he asked them in a choked voice. “You know who you’re hitting?”

  “We know,” the tall one assured him. He opened a rear door and shoved the flustered man into the back seat.

  The other guy was sliding in from the opposite doorway. He grabbed Simonetti’s hand and went to work on the wrist-lock with a small tool.

  The captive’s eyes were showing panic. He groaned, “Hey, Jesus, don’t do this to me. How’m I going to tell Mr. Lucasi about this? I can’t go walking in there with a naked arm.”

  “You’ll think of something,” the pleasant one replied.

  “Look, boys, no shit now. You want to make a score? I mean a real score? Look, leave it alone. There’s nothing in here to do you any good. I can steer you to a real score. I mean, millions maybe.”

  The icy one commanded, “Shut up, Sammy.”

  “Look, you’re never going to be able to enjoy it. You know what I mean. You can’t just walk up and hit the combination this way. You’re dead men the minute you walk away from here. Get smart, hell man. I can steer you—”

  The Beretta’s silencer had steered itself right into Sammy Simonetti’s hardworking mouth. He froze, then made a pleading sound around the new pacifier.

  The big guy gave him a moment to get the feel and taste of oral death, then he withdrew the weapon and told the shaken courier, “Not another word.”

  Simonetti’s eyes promised total silence and a moment later the other guy defeated the lock at his wrist.

  The guy chuckled and told him, “Count your blessings, buddy. I was about ready to take arm and all.”

  The hard one placed the car keys in the courier’s freed hand and told him, “Look in the trunk. But not right away. You wait awhile.”

  Simonetti nodded his head in thoroughly cowed silence and the two men in white turned their backs on him and walked around the building and out of sight.

  He’d been on the ground less than a minute.

  Who would ever believe this?

  That slick and that easy, those guys had just clipped the combination for more than a hundred grand.

  Nobody would believe that … especially not Ben Lucasi!

  The shaken messenger rattled the car keys in his hand, wondering vaguely what the guy had meant by, “Look in the trunk.”

  What would he find in there? The remains of Chicano and the Schoolteacher?

  Simonetti shivered.

  Nobody would believe this.

  Then he became aware that something was mixed in with the keys in his hand—he’d thought it to be part of the keyring or something.

  But it was definitely not a part of the key ring.

  They didn’t put marksman’s medals on key rings.

  A chill ran the entire length of Simonetti’s spine and his guts began to quake.

  Jesus!

  They’d believe it, all right.

  Goddammed right they’d believe it!

  Buy San Diego Siege Now!

  About the Author

  Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful that it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1972 by Pinnacle Books

  Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-8566-6

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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