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  “Okay,” Bolan said. “So, I guess you need me out there yesterday.”

  “Tomorrow’s soon enough.” Brognola handed him a USB key he’d fished out of a pocket. “Here’s a little homework for the flight.”

  * * *

  THE TRAVEL PREPARATIONS didn’t take much time. With an afternoon departure from Washington, Bolan made his way to the airport and spent his time there reviewing the information from Hal’s flash drive.

  It turned out that the ’Ndrangheta had been operating since the 1860s. Its structure was similar to that of the Mafia, with strong emphasis on family and faith. The sons of members were christened at birth as giovane d’onore, “youth of honor,” expected to follow in their fathers’ footsteps. At age fourteen they graduated to picciotto d’onore—“children of honor”—indoctrinated into blind obedience and tasked with jobs considered “child’s play.” The next rung up the ladder, camorrista, brought more serious duties. Sgarrista was the highest rank of the ’Ndrangheta’s Società Minore and was as far as some members ever advanced.

  The next step—into the Società Maggiore—made the member a Santista, or “saint,” the first degree of full membership. Above the saints stood vangelo—“gospels”—quartino, trequartino and padrino. Padrino was the Godfather. Bolan realized much of the ceremony was simply for show. The ’ndranghetisti made a mockery of Italy’s traditional religion and the values normally ascribed to family. For all their talk of sins against the family and stained honor, members of the ’Ndrangheta lived by a savage code of silence enforced by murder. They were no different than any other criminal or terrorist Bolan had confronted in the past, and they deserved no mercy from the Executioner.

  Bolan turned his attention to the Magolino family in Catanzaro. Its padrino for the past ten years was one Gianni Magolino, forty-six years old. He had logged his first arrest in 1985, at age seventeen, for attempted murder—a charge dismissed after the victim and four witnesses refused to testify. From there, his rap sheet read like a menu of crime: armed robbery, extortion, aggravated assault, suspicion of drug trafficking, suspicion of gun-running and suspicion of murder (three counts). The only charge that stuck was one for operating an illegal casino. In that case, Magolino had served sixty days and paid a fine of ten thousand lira—about seven American dollars.

  That kind of wrist-slap had taught Magolino that crime did pay. He’d clawed his way up to command the former Iamonte family, aided by longtime friend and current trequartino, Aldo Adamo. Four years Magolino’s junior and as ruthless as they came, Adamo was suspected by authorities of more than forty homicides. Most of his victims had been rival ’ndranghetisti, but the list also included two former girlfriends, a cousin and his stepfather. Adamo knew where the bodies were buried, and he’d planted some of them himself.

  Together, Magolino and Adamo presided over an estimated four hundred soldiers, with outposts in Spain, Belgium, London, the United States and Mexico. Hal’s digging had turned up a list of friendly coppers in Calabria’s police along with suspected collaborators inside the Guardia di Finanza, a military corps attached to the Ministry of Economy and Finance charged with conducting anti-Mafia operations.

  One rotten apple in that barrel could alert ’ndranghetisti to impending prosecutions and allow them to tamper with state’s evidence and mark potential witnesses for execution. Multiply that rotten apple by a dozen or a hundred, and it came as no surprise when top-flight mobsters walked away from court unscathed, time after time.

  But living through a Bolan blitz was something else entirely.

  As the Maglioni organization was about to learn.

  Bolan would be traveling to Italy as Scott Parker, a businessman from Baltimore with diverse interests in petroleum, real estate and information technology. His passport was impeccable, as was the Maryland driver’s license, Platinum American Express card and the matching Platinum Visa. Any background check on “Parker” would reveal two years of military service in his teens, a B.A. in business administration from UM-Baltimore and a solid stock portfolio. As CEO of Parker International, he had the time and wherewithal to travel as he pleased, for business and for pleasure.

  This would not be Bolan’s first trip to Italy, by any means. Even before his public “death” in New York City, while Brognola’s Stony Man project was still on the drawing board, Bolan had paid a hellfire visit to Sicily, ancestral home of the Mafia, reminding its godfathers that they were not untouchable. Since then, he’d been back several times, pursuing different angles in the war on terrorism but returning now brought on a flashback to old times.

  It never failed. A mention of the Mafia, or any of the syndicates that mimicked it under other names, brought back the nightmare that had devastated Bolan’s family and launched him into a crusade he’d never imagined as a young man. Bolan had been a Green Beret, on track to a distinguished lifer’s career in the military, when he’d lost three-quarters of his family, only his younger brother still alive to tell a tale of murder-suicide provoked by vicious loan sharks. Bolan—already tagged as “The Executioner” for his cold eye and steady hand in battle—had settled that score, then decided personal vengeance fell short of the mark. A whole class of parasites still fed on society’s blood.

  Old times, bad times—but what had changed?

  Bolan was not religious, in the normal sense. He didn’t shun the notion of a higher power or discount any particular creed at a glance, but if he’d learned one thing from a lifetime of struggle, it was that predators never relented. They might “find the Lord” to impress a parole board, but once they hit the streets again, 99.99 percent reverted to their old ways.

  Long story short, the only cure for evil was extinction.

  And the Magolino organization’s day was coming.

  Bolan’s flight to Rome lifted off from Dulles more or less on time, and it would be eight hours and forty-one minutes from takeoff to touchdown, nonstop. The long flight gave him time to sleep. Downtime was a rare commodity in Bolan’s world, and he took full advantage of it when he could.

  As far as planning went, he’d done all he could before his feet were on Italian soil. He had a rental car lined up, along with weapons if the dealer didn’t sell him out. Beyond that, he had targets and certain thoughts on how he should proceed, but plans were always transient in battle. They changed by the day, by the minute, forcing warriors to adapt or die.

  And Bolan was a master when it came to adapting.

  He’d hit the ground running, begin with a blitz and be ready for whatever happened from there. Take the war to his enemies, grinding them down with no quarter.

  Bolan had an hour to kill at the terminal in Rome, before his Alitalia flight took off for Lamezia Terme. Time enough for him to drift along the concourse, eavesdropping on conversations as he passed, translating them with the Italian he had learned while hunting monsters who defiled their race’s ancient, honorable reputation with the taint of crime. When he stopped to order coffee, overpriced but hot and strong, he’d engaged in conversation with the girl behind the counter, raising no eyebrows.

  No one in Catanzaro would mistake him for a native, but he could communicate without an interpreter, and that was all Bolan required. Beyond the basics, he would let his weapons do his talking, confident his enemies would get the message.

  Hal’s instructions were explicit: crush the Magolino family and leave it beaten to the point that, if it managed to survive, it would refrain from planting any more flags in the States. Drive home that message in the classic Bolan style, while still preserving plausible deniability.

  If he was captured, naturally, Hal would have to cut him loose. If Bolan died in battle, there would be no record of him in the files at Stony Man, in Washington, or anywhere at all. His second passing might evoke some tears, but life went on. The fight went on. Survivors couldn’t do their best if they were burdened by the memories of those
who’d fallen along the way. It was a soldier’s life, willingly accepted by those few who made the cut.

  He had another chance to try out his Italian at the auto rental booth in Lamezia Terme. His second test subject, a young man with a mop of curly hair and the pathetic ghost of a mustache, appeared to have no trouble understanding anything Bolan said. More to the point, his answers to some routine questions, given back in rapid-fire, came through to Bolan loud and clear.

  Ten minutes later, he was on the road, eastbound, toward his final destination. One more stop, to arm himself, and he’d be ready for anything.

  But was the ’Ndrangheta ready for the Executioner?

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday—Le Croci, Calabria

  “Still with us,” Terranova said.

  Cortale swiveled in his seat, ignoring the frightened woman beside him as he peered through the sedan’s rear window at the gray Alfa Romeo that was clearly trailing them.

  “Stop, and let’s take him,” Malara said. He’d already retrieved an Uzi from under his seat and was ready to cock it.

  “Not yet,” Cortale replied. To Terranova, he added, “Drive on past these houses, along to where we choose left or right.”

  Via Solferino was a dead-end road that split before you reached its terminus, each segment leading to a different farm before it simply stopped. There was a point, just at the split, where neither of the two homes was close enough for residents to witness any action on the road or for a fool to get his courage up and try to intervene.

  “The rest of you,” Cortale said, “be ready.”

  Terranova reached beneath the driver’s seat, took out a lupara, the classic sawed-off shotgun and set it beside him. Aiello drew a Beretta Cougar from its shoulder holster, easing back the slide an inch or so to make sure he had a live round in the pipe.

  Cortale, for his part, preferred a larger weapon. Leaning forward, he released a hidden catch that, in turn, released a sort of flap in the seat in front of him. Once opened, it revealed an AKS-74U assault rifle, the Kalashnikov carbine with shortened barrel and folding stock, which still retained the full firepower of its parent AK-74. Cortale lifted out the little man-shredder, retrieved two extra magazines, then closed the hidden hatch. He turned again and saw the Alfa still behind them, hanging back three hundred yards or so but matching every twist and turn they made.

  “Who is it?” the woman asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “Maybe someone Aldo sent to help us,” Terranova offered, though he didn’t sound convinced.

  “What help?” Malara challenged him. “We don’t need any help.”

  To which the driver simply shrugged.

  “More likely, someone from the Gugliero family,” Aiello said with an expression like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

  “It’s possible,” Cortale granted.

  There’d been trouble off and on for two years now between the Magolino family and Nikola Gugliero’s clan from Botricello. Gugliero’s soldiers had begun to poach on Magolino turf, trying to horn in on the drug trade and the gambling. No blood had been spilled, but tense negotiations had not managed to resolve the problem, either. It was possible that Gugliero had his people shadowing Adamo and the other Magolino officers, looking for ways to undercut them and watching for a chance to bring them down.

  “Those assholes need a lesson,” said Malara. “We’re the ones to let them have it.”

  “Only one man in the car that I can see,” Terranova reported.

  “Merda. The rest are likely hiding in the trunk,” Aiello said.

  “Quiet!” Cortale ordered. “Let me think.”

  He had a problem. Killing came easy to Cortale, as to all of them, but first he needed some idea of who the target was. Blasting a member of the Gugliero family, although it might be satisfying, could provoke a war. Likewise, if they were being followed by a cop, killing him might touch off a vendetta from the law. And finally, if they were wrong about the Alfa’s driver—if, for instance, he was simply traveling to one of the last homes on Via Solferino—the murder of an innocent civilian could provoke investigation of their presence in the area.

  “Well?” Malara prodded him.

  “Dino,” Cortale said, “when you reach the fork, stop short and block the road. We’ll see what this bastard wants and then decide what we should do with him.”

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD CHECKED the Alfa’s GPS and knew he was running out of road. Three-quarters of a mile ahead, the track they were following divided, one part going north a hundred yards or so before it hooked hard right and came to a dead end. The other traveled half as far, due south, before it ended in a cul-de-sac. Whichever fork the four ’ndranghetisti chose, there’d be no turning back.

  Which made him wonder, once again, if they’d spotted him.

  The Alfa would be difficult to miss, but with the lead vehicle’s tinted windows, Bolan couldn’t tell if they were watching him or not.

  Next question: Was the side road they were following the route his targets meant to take, or was Bolan being led into a trap? Did it make any difference? Whatever happened in the next few minutes, Bolan’s goal remained the same. Eliminate the goons and liberate their prisoner.

  He left the big Beretta in its holster. Placing it beside him on the vacant seat would make it handy, but a sudden stop could also send it spinning out of reach. Why risk it, when the piece was close enough to draw and fire within a second? As for Bolan’s other guns, they lay behind the driver’s seat in duffel bags, secure but reachable.

  And if his targets had a trap in mind, they might be needed any moment now.

  The black sedan ahead of him was slowing, no brake lights, the driver lifting off the accelerator as he neared the fork in the road. Bolan followed suit, not closing in as yet, giving the ’Ndrangheta wheelman time to make his choice. Ahead of them, he saw more open fields and orchards and houses in the middle distance, left and right.

  The dwellings gave him pause. If this had been the hit team’s destination from the start, there would likely be more men, more guns, waiting at whichever house they pulled up to. Conversely, if this was a trap, they could be drawing innocents into the line of fire. It was a problem either way, but one he’d have to work around. Retreating now, leaving the woman to her fate, was not an option.

  He was considering a run-up toward the lead car, something that would force their hand, when the sedan stopped short and turned to block both lanes. Its doors flew open and disgorged four men with guns in hand. They left the woman in the backseat, pale face peering out at him with frightened eyes.

  The four ’ndranghetisti fanned out in a skirmish line, advancing toward the Alfa like gunfighters in a spaghetti western. Bolan weighed his options, drawing the Beretta 93R from its holster, then thumbing the selector switch to go with 3-round bursts. Its magazine held twenty rounds, with one more in the chamber, and he trusted that would be enough.

  But first, a little something to disorient the enemy.

  He gunned the Alfa’s engine, charging toward the staggered line of gunmen in his path. Their faces told him they’d expected something else—perhaps that he’d retreat or step out of the Giulietta with his hands raised in surrender. What they hadn’t counted on was some two thousand pounds of steel accelerating toward them with a hungry snarl.

  They scattered, running for their lives. One slower—maybe more courageous—than the rest, stood his ground just long enough to rake the Alfa with a burst of automatic fire. Bolan ducked below the dash, pebbles of glass raining over him, and held his charger steady on its course. A solid thump denoted impact, then the tardy goon was airborne, glimpsed in passing as he soared over the car and fell somewhere behind it.

  Braking short of contact with the lead car, Bolan cranked his steering wheel hard left and veered off pave
ment toward the nearest cultivated field. A moment later, he was out and moving, ducking bullets as the three men who were still upright laid down a screen of fire.

  * * *

  CORTALE SAW THE speeding car clip Terranova, launching him into a somersault that carried him over the Alfa Romeo and dropped him behind it. He landed with an ugly crunch on the pavement. From his cries and jerky movements, Terranova clearly was not dead, but there was no time to assist him now—Cortale was busy hammering the gray car with a burst from his Kalashnikov.

  Where was the driver, damn it? The man was down below his line of fire, so Cortale ripped another burst across the left-hand doors and hoped the bullets reached him, while the Alfa left the roadway, plowing into a nearby field. He strafed the car with another burst, Malara and Aiello joining in, before a rising cloud of dust obscured the vehicle.

  Somewhere amid that cloud, the driver rolled out of his seat and started firing back. He had an automatic weapon, rattling 3-round bursts that sounded like 9 mm rounds. Cortale ducked and veered to his left, putting the bullet-punctured Alfa between himself and whoever it was that seemed intent on killing him.

  And why?

  He had no time to think about that, only to flank the son of a whore and kill him before they lost any more men. If they couldn’t—

  The woman!

  Remembering her in the midst of chaos, Cortale risked a glance toward his sedan, its four doors standing open, and saw no one left inside. Snarling obscenities, he almost went to look for her but realized he couldn’t take that risk. The woman mattered less now than disposing of their enemy.

  And if she got away? What then?

  Cortale could not bear to think about it. He was focused on surviving in the moment. He would deal with Aldo in his turn, explain as best he could, and—

  To his right, Malara cursed and ripped an empty magazine out of his Uzi’s pistol grip, fumbling inside his jacket for another. He retrieved it and was about to load the little submachine gun when a triple-tap from their opponent ripped into Malara’s left shoulder and spun him like a ballerina through an awkward pirouette. Malara sat down hard, a red mist from his wound painting his startled face, trying to raise the SMG one-handed from his lap.