Deadly Command Read online

  Edging closer, Bolan was able to hear the conversation.

  “You can get more?” Soames said.

  “No problem.”

  Soames waved his hand at the guy holding the machine gun. “Pack them tight and deliver them to the pickup point.” He took out a cell phone, tapped in a number and spoke. “Everything’s okay. One dozen as requested. We can arrange final delivery. Let Cameron know. Yeah, Jake can get more.” He closed the cell phone and dropped it in his pocket, turned and went to his car. He lifted out a leather satchel and handed it to his supplier. “Count it if you want, Jake.”

  The man called Jake hefted the satchel. “I can tell by the weight it’s all there. And we trust each other, don’t we, Roy? In this business, trust is everything.”

  Bolan allowed himself a tight smile. Trust between scum. That was a new concept.

  “You’ll tell your boss the deal went okay? Like I said, I can work out some sweet terms for you on future buys.”

  Soames nodded. “Don’t see why not,” he said, and tapped the satchel in Jake’s hand. “Glad to get that cash off my hands.”

  “It’s a lot of money,” Jake said.

  Bolan stepped into view, his Beretta covering the trio. “Let me take care of it for you,” he said.

  Jake stared at the soldier, his face expressionless. “Pal, you don’t want to be doing this.”

  Soames’s eyes blazed with anger, his cheeks coloring. “You know who I am, you fuck? Only thing that money will buy is your funeral. I work—”

  “Roy, be advised that it doesn’t pay to upset the guy holding a gun on you. And I know who you work for. I’m not impressed.”

  Soames’s reaction, whether provoked by arrogance, or a need to maintain his credibility, was way off the charts. The Executioner could only assume the man really believed he could deal with an adversary even under the threat of a gun.

  The man went for the autopistol holstered at his hip, brushing aside the coat he was wearing, eyes widening with the surge of adrenaline that forced his action. His fingers brushed against the textured grips and got no further.

  Bolan put a 9 mm triburst into his skull. The impact jerked Soames’s head to one side and he fell back against the Ferrari, blood speckling the gleaming paintwork even as the man dropped to the dusty ground.

  Behind him the denim-clad guy pulled his own weapon from his belt. It was a heavy revolver, and to his credit he brought it up quickly.

  Not fast enough. Bolan had dropped to a crouch, swinging the muzzle of the 93-R in anticipation of the guy’s move. He assumed a two-handed Weaver’s stance, centering his target, and hit the guy in the chest. The thug stumbled back, falling half inside the open panel truck, legs jerking in spasms as the 9 mm slugs dug in deep. Bolan hit him with a second burst that burned in under the guy’s chin and tore through to split his skull on exit.

  Jake had turned on his heel and was moving for his own car when Bolan lunged forward. He hooked a hand in the weapons dealer’s coat collar and swung him around. The Beretta made a solid, meaty sound as it slammed against Jake’s jaw. The blow knocked him off his feet and he skidded on his knees into the side of the car. Then Bolan was standing over him, jabbing the hot muzzle of the Beretta into the man’s cheek. Jake stared up into the glacial blue of the Executioner’s eyes and saw his own terrified face reflected there.

  “The bad things we do in life eventually catch up,” Bolan said. “I’m not going to reflect on your misdemeanors. But I have a couple of questions, and I need fast answers.”

  Jake drew his sleeve across his torn and bloody jaw.

  “Those two made wrong decisions and won’t get a chance to clear their consciences. How about you, Jake?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Military ordnance. Where do you source it, Jake?”

  “I’m a dead man if I talk.”

  “Look at me, Jake. Do I look as if care?”

  The Beretta was pressed harder into his cheek.

  “Time to think about yourself, Jake. Today isn’t going to get any better.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Help me, Jake. My patience runs out fast. Who do you get your weapons from?”

  “Guy in the military. Orin Cage. He’s based at a main supply depot, in charge of weapons acquisition. He runs a little sideline business.” The words began to tumble out almost as if Jake was in the confessional.

  “Answer one question. Who do Soames and Quintain answer to?”

  “Fredo Bella. He runs the Chicago division. Believe me, you don’t want to screw with him. He’s the boss in Chicago but even he works for a higher-up man who’s based in New Mexico. There’s also another guy in Chicago. Bella’s paymaster, Guido Bertolli.”

  Jake quickly blurted out the rest of the information Bolan needed before lapsing into a sullen silence.

  Bolan stepped back. “You work a dirty business, Jake. Nothing that could ever redeem itself in you.”

  “You got what you wanted. You happy?”

  “Not exactly happy,” Bolan said. “But at least satisfied for the moment.” Then he hit the man on the side of his head with the butt of the Beretta, knocking him unconscious.

  Bolan took the cell phone from Soames’s pocket and put in a call to Miami-Dade PD. He told them where they could find the bodies and a consignment of stolen military hardware, plus a weapons dealer who was ready to talk. He also fed them the information about the Orin Cage and military connection, then cut the call. A search of Soames’s jacket provided Bolan with a fat wallet and another cell phone. He put the items away for later examination and bent to pick up the satchel of money. It would help to finance his upcoming mission. He had a long drive ahead of him. Destination Chicago. The Windy City was going to experience an Executioner-style gale that would hopefully sweep away some of its seedier trash.

  Bolan made his way back to his parked rental and took the back roads until he was well clear of the area. He made a wide, circuitous drive back into Miami and his hotel. In his room he packed his belongings and called down to the desk, asking for his account to be readied for checkout.

  He recalled the wallet he had taken from Soames’s body and emptied the contents on the bed—a couple thousand in cash, multiple credit cards and a single business card. It told Bolan that Guido Bertolli worked out of Chicago with an office in the city. Bertolli’s profession was financial adviser and his office address was displayed below his title, along with his telephone and cell number. Handy information, Bolan decided. It gave him a starting point once he reached Chicago.

  Soames’s cell phone offered nothing but a list of stored numbers. The one Bolan found interesting was listed under the name Quintain.

  BOLAN MADE his call to Harry Quintain as he traveled the I-65 through Kentucky.

  “Quintain, how’s it going?”

  “Who the fuck are you? How did you get this number?”

  “From the late Roy Soames. I imagine you’ve already heard.”

  “You understand that wasn’t a wise thing to do.”

  “Is this because I screwed a deal and lost your cargo to Miami PD?”

  There was a considered silence. Bolan imagined Quintain working things through.

  “I’ll find you and kill everyone you care about,” Quintain finally said.

  Bolan thought about Stony Man and the people associated with it.

  “Good luck with that,” he said. “Just one last thing, Harry, I know where you live, too. One day I might come calling.”

  Bolan switched off the cell phone. A few miles farther on he exited the I-65 and drove into the small town he’d located. He parked close to the post office, wiped the cell phone clean of any prints and dropped it into the padded envelope he’d purchased earlier. It was addressed to Gary Loomis, Miami-Dade PD. Bolan went into the post office and mailed the envelope. Loomis might find the phone’s contact numbers interesting. Even useful. The soldier stayed in the town long enough to have a meal before rejoining the interstate and continuing his journey.

  He had checked the distance to Chicago after leaving his hotel. Miami to Chicago was around thirteen hundred miles, a run of approximately twenty hours. Bolan made it in easy stages, with a motel break to catch up on sleep. He placed a single cell phone call from his room and made contact with Barbara Price.

  “You still on R & R?”

  There was a hint of something more than just asking about his health.

  “Shouldn’t I be?” Bolan said.

  “Let’s say a certain incident in Miami aroused my interest.”

  “Incident?”

  “The kind that sort of has your signature on it. Something I should know about?”

  “This is not an SOG issue,” Bolan said. “Flying solo. But I need to talk to the Bear.”

  “Okay. Hey, you watch your back, soldier. You want to reconsider the lone-wolf status on this one?”

  “Thanks, but no, thanks. This is something I need to do without dragging you guys in.”

  “Kind of personal, huh?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I’ll patch you through.”

  “Catch up with you later.”

  Bolan heard the soft click as the call was transferred to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s cyber lair. A moment later the recognizable, gruff sound of Kurtzman’s voice came on.

  “Hey, big guy, haven’t heard from you in a while. You having an extended vacation?”

  “Not any longer,” Bolan said. “I need some intel.”

  “Sure,” Kurtzman said. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Find out background details on a Chicago lowlife named Fredo Bella, head honcho in the trafficking of stolen arms in the area. A source said Bella’s strings are pulled by a Lou Cameron based in New Mexico. I’m
driving to Chicago in the morning, so call my cell when you get the goods. I also need intel on a guy by the name of Guido Bertolli. According to his business card, he runs a financial advisory service in the city. Could be legit, but I found it in the wallet of a dirtbag named Roy Soames. And information I got suggested Bertolli is linked to Bella. I just need you to confirm.”

  “You got it, Striker. Anything else?”

  “No,” Bolan said. “Just the intel. And pictures if you can find them. Leave it until morning if you get anything. And thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  Bolan put the cell phone on charge before he turned in. Last thing he needed was the phone going dead on him if Kurtzman was trying to send him information.

  “YOU PICKED a prize specimen,” Kurtzman said over the cell phone.

  Bolan was eating breakfast in the diner down the road from the motel. “So enlighten me,” he said.

  “Fredo Bella. He’s forty-two years old and heads up one hell of an organized crime business. Arms dealing is one page in his dossier. The guy will buy and sell anything as long as he can make a profit. This is a slippery character, Striker. The Chicago PD and the Feds have been on his case for years, but the man knows the game too well. He’s lawyered up to the ears. Pays very well and expects the best protection. He’s been charged a number of times, but nothing ever gets beyond that. The guy’s been suspected of a couple of homicides, and I stress the word ‘suspected’ as in legally. CPD know he did them, but they haven’t been able to take it any further. Witnesses have a habit of disappearing, if you get my drift. And Bertolli does have connections with Bella. Looks like he could be the local money guy for the organization.”

  “Understood. That’s the intel I got myself.”

  “There’s a little more you might be interested in. Bella may be the hotshot in the Midwest, but he does dance to Lou Cameron’s tune. These guys are so connected it’s like an old-style Mafia Family.”

  “Well, we know what happened to them, don’t we?”

  Kurtzman’s rumbling chuckle made Bolan smile.

  “You take care, Striker. These people have bad reputations. I kid you not.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Pictures are coming through when we finish speaking. Any thing else?”

  “Background on this Cameron and his outfit might be helpful.”

  “Leave it with me,” Kurtzman said. “Oh, and Fredo Bella has a number of properties in and around Chicago. His main residence…”

  2

  Fredo Bella’s main residence was a 2,500-square-foot apartment in a glittering steel-and-glass high-rise situated on Chicago’s North Lakeshore Drive. On the southwest corner of the building the apartment looked out over the city skyline and also had a view across the lake. According to Kurtzman’s intel, the apartment cost in the region of $1.5 million. Probably small change to Bella.

  Like many career criminals, Bella, who viewed the law with distaste, had a penchant for flaunting his wealth. He was confident enough to show the results of his illegal operations because he felt secure, untouchable. He surrounded himself with legal battalions and bought favors from those in high places.

  Bolan located the building on his arrival in Chicago. His drive by was just a recon. He parked up short of the apartment building, looking it over. He liked to know where his quarry was based. He had no hard and fast plans for the man’s home yet. The Executioner was more interested in Bella’s operations. He was hoping that a visit to Guido Bertolli’s office might give him that information.

  GREGOR LEMINOV was far from happy, despite the luxurious surroundings of Fredo Bella’s apartment. The Russian Mafiya broker was not in good humor. In the past half hour he had ordered his burly bodyguard to pour him two more glasses of Bella’s expensive whiskey and had quickly downed each tumbler in hefty gulps.

  The heavyset Russian stared out through the apartment’s panoramic windows, watching sheets of rain sweep in from Lake Michigan and slam against the glass. The gray clouds over the choppy water matched his mood, and the longer he had to wait, the worse his mood became. Leminov snapped his fingers and held out his glass.

  “I might as well drink his liquor,” he said to Mikhail Rostov, his personal bodyguard.

  Rostov, who would never drink while he was on duty, took the tumbler and refilled it. He handed it to his boss, then resumed his position close by.

  “Is taking a long time, boss,” Rostov said.

  “Always one to state the obvious, Mikhail. In this case you are right.” Leminov sat forward. “Perhaps it is time to remind our host how long we have been waiting.”

  The double doors to the spacious room swung open then, and Fredo Bella strode through, a beaming smile on his rounded face.

  “Gregor, my friend.” He noticed the almost empty glass in Leminov’s large hand. “Let me fix you another drink. What would you like?”

  “An explanation would be nice. Fredo, where are Mr.

  Poliokof’s machine guns?”

  Bella sat behind his curving pale wood desk. The heavy executive chair creaked as Bella’s weight put it under some strain. The man was six feet tall, and carried a lot of weight. Even his hand-tailored Versace suit failed to hide his soft bulk. He was a big man with big appetites.

  “No crap, Gregor. I’m nothing if not truthful. There was an incident in Florida. Somebody, and I don’t know who yet, showed up at the exchange. He killed my guy, Soames, and took out the driver of the van. He took off with the cash, as well.”

  “What about the weapons?”

  Bella dug a finger inside his shirt collar, where it suddenly started to dig into his neck. “Worst fuckin’ part,” he said. “The son of a bitch went and called the cops in. Miami PD have the M240s in their lockup, along with the delivery guy. I am not worried about him, though. His knowledge is limited.”

  Leminov felt a compulsion to drain his glass of whiskey. As he held it up for a refill, Rostov stepped forward and took it.

  “So everything has gone and the deal falls flat. I have to tell Mr. Poliokof he doesn’t get his weapons?”

  Bella held up a hand. “No, Gregor. The guns will be delivered. A fresh shipment. That takes time. It may be a little late, but the weapons will be delivered.” He cleared his throat, forcing words out that plainly hurt to utter. “You won’t be out of pocket. I’ll stand the loss. It was my end of the deal, so I’ll take the hit.”

  This time Leminov sipped the whiskey slowly, savoring it as much as he savored Bella’s offer.

  “Look, Gregor, we’ve been doing business for a good few years. This is the first time something like this has happened. I’ve got my people on it. They’re looking for this bastard. We’ll find him, and when I get my hands on him he’ll beg to be killed.”

  “Before you do, ask him what he did with the money.”

  “If he’s spent it, I’ll strip it out of his flesh.”

  “I wish you luck with that. This man sounds extremely capable. He’s not a reckless crackhead.”

  Bella shrugged. “I didn’t get where I am by luck. Everything I’ve got is due to hard work. This asshole isn’t going to get the better of me.”

  “I think he already did.” Leminov leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Be as casual as you like, Fredo. Just remember who you are dealing with. You do not want to upset Mr. Poliokof. In business he accepts no excuses. Late delivery is late delivery. All I say is this will be marked against you.”

  “Christ, Gregor, what am I supposed to do? Snap my fingers and make the fucking guns appear like magic? Poliokof is going to have to wait. Okay?”

  Leminov took out his cell phone and hit a number. He stared impassively across the room as he waited. When his call was answered he lapsed into Russian, leaving Bella to wonder what was being said. He completed the call and snapped his phone shut.

  “So?” Bella asked.

  “Mr. Poliokof is not happy. You lose the guns. You lose the money. Delivery is delayed. Nothing is resolved. He is angry that you make him wait. Mr. Poliokof is not the kind of man you disrespect like this. He warns you this is not the end of the matter.”

  “Gregor, I have other clients. The only merchandise I have at the moment has already been sold to someone else. It’s due for pickup. When that goes, the pot is empty. Your order was next. Since it’s gone, I have to wait for my contact to bulk up on stock. Poliokof will have to stand in line until I can sort things out. He’s not the fucking President of the United States. Simple terms, Gregor. If I don’t have it, I can’t supply it.”