Devil's Horn Page 4

  "Take a good hard look at this, people," Bolan went on. "I'm not passing judgment on you; you've already passed judgment on yourselves."

  They looked, all right. And Bolan could tell they believed. To further hammer home his message of doom, the Executioner pulled out his silver British lighter. With the flick of a finger, he torched the dirty money in the stash case.

  Bolan hauled Brennan to his feet once more. With an upsweeping kick, the Executioner flipped over the coffee table, exploding the glass and littering the carpet with a snowy sprinkle and flaming wads of cash.

  As Bolan jacked Brennan away from the mob, he heard a groan, then saw the ounce man stir to life.

  "Get moving," the Executioner snarled. He kicked the dealer in the ass as he struggled to his feet, sending the ounce man reeling belly first toward the foyer.

  "You b-bastard... I'll kill you, I s-swear to Christ," Brennan whined, stammering with hate and rage. Blood dappled red patches on the white mask of his face, crimson trickles leaking onto the lapels of his silk threads.

  "Open that door," Bolan ordered the ounce man. He checked his rear, but found every hero there had already been driven into the ground.

  "Think about what you saw here tonight," the Executioner said to them. "I'll remember your faces. And I may be coming back for some of you. You won't know when. You won't know where. But if I want you, you'd better learn to sleep with your eyes open."

  Bolan was glad to get out of their reeking pit. He was tempted to kick the ounce man again, but instead exited to the corridor. Checking his corners, the Executioner found the hallway was just as he'd left it a few minutes earlier.

  Dead men there had met the Grim One at the end of their ride into oblivion. Mack Bolan had only fulfilled their death wish.

  Outside Ronny Brennan's fortress Bolan discovered the streets were coming alive with armed animals whose death wish had not been realized. Yet.

  Brennan's ounce man exited first from the lobby doors just as a black Cadillac came to a halt directly across from the high rise with a squeal of rubber. Four grim-faced gunsels emerged from the Cadillac, and the dealer threw his hands up, shrieking, "Don't shoot! For God's..."

  If the hitters heard that desperate plea, they didn't acknowledge it or seem to give a damn about that guy. Pencil-tip flashes stabbed the darkness around the Cadillac. Two slugs ripped open the dealer's chest with thundering lead hammers. Bolan instantly returned accurate and lethal fire, even though one arm was wrapped around Brennan's throat. The .44 Magnum revolver bucked in the Executioner's hand. Four rocketing headblasters found their mark, blasted apart faces and exploded skulls into fragments of bone like shards of pottery. Dead men spun, crumpled, flipped over the Cadillac's hood. Limbs twitched in death throes, and blood ran thick in the gutter.

  Bolan dragged Brennan along the sidewalk, angling toward the commandeered BMW. "The Top Dog" was shaking in Bolan's grasp like a leaf in a windstorm. Then Bolan smelled the stench of urine as this tough darling of the jet set soaked his pants.

  The engagement wasn't over yet, Bolan discovered a heartbeat later. Another carload of goons suddenly streaked onto the killing field. Before they could complete their tumble out of the Lincoln, Bolan pulled the pin on a frag grenade and hurled the doomsday numbers at their fancy wheels. As shoes hit the street and gunmetal swept into sight, the grenade bounced under the front end of the Lincoln. Brennan stared in fascinated horror as the fireball erupted and screams shrilled in the black night. Shrapnel and twisted metal razors shredded flesh like giant potato peelers. A solitary shadow propelled by the roaring explosion crashed through the plate-glass window of a department store.

  Stunned at the sight of the flaming hulk across the street, Brennan hesitated. Bolan opened the door of the BMW and shoved him across the front seat of the car.

  "Drive," Bolan ordered, his voice fire and steel as he slammed the door and jabbed Brennan in the ribs with the muzzle of the Magnum. "You make sure you get us across the George Washington Bridge. Or I'll drop you off in the Hudson."

  Brennan didn't have to be told twice. His bloody, contorted face looking like a bizarre Halloween mask, the druglord fired up the engine and steered the BMW away from the curb.

  "Where to?"

  "I'll ask the questions," Bolan snapped.

  "Fuck you!"

  Bolan cracked a left off Brennan's cheek, punching the druglord's head against the window so hard the glass cracked.

  "You're crazy!" Brennan squealed, blood streaming down his cheek where the shattered glass had gouged his face.

  "No. You're a sick dog, Brennan. A rabid beast that I'm going to put to rest unless you get me where I'm going."

  "Where is that?"

  "The Devil's Horn."

  The sounds of glass tinkling and wind whipping through the car were all that could be heard for a silent moment. Brennan looked at Bolan with renewed fear.

  "What did you say?"

  "You're going for a ride, pretty boy. All the way to the Golden Triangle." Bolan met Brennan's gaze with arctic ice in his eyes. "You're going to find out just how the other half lives."

  Brennan appeared stunned, then a nervous laugh shook his body. "You are crazy, pal. You got guts, maybe, but you're stupid. I know who you are, Bolan. Yeah, you may have changed your face a little over the years with some plastic surgery. But there's only one smartass around with the MO I saw tonight."

  Bolan wasn't surprised that the punk had figured out who he was; in fact, he had expected, had wanted as much. His methods of dealing with the Mob were well-known among the Families. After years of their being hit so hard in the guts by the Bolan blitz, their animal instinct for survival, he knew, made it critical that they look under each rock, scour every shadow each time one of their number took a hard fall into the inferno. He had given the Mafia scum good reason to sleep with one eye open. And hell, no, he wasn't the least bit sorry about that.

  Brennan started to reach inside his jacket. Bolan dug the Magnum's muzzle into his ribs. "Easy, smartass," Brennan explained. "I got somethin' to show ya."

  "Let's see it then. Take it out slow."

  "Sure. Slow and easy."

  Carefully Brennan pulled a small black box out of his jacket pocket. Bolan froze, grimly aware that he had bagged a cornered ferret, uncertain what that crazed animal would do next.

  But Brennan just laughed. "Take a look behind you, smart guy."

  Bolan sent a quick glance over his shoulder as the BMW headed into the dead zone of upper Manhattan. A block behind, two, then three Cadillacs shot into sight. Three's a good number, Bolan thought with grim humor. For the good and the bad.

  "I told you, smart guy!" Brennan gloated with a sneer. "This here's a homing device. They'll find me no matter where you take me. There's three cars full of soldiers back there, and we'll pick up a few more before we hit the Parkway. You see, smart guy, I'm what you call an investment. I'm big money, and there's too many hotshots who want to make sure I stay in one piece. I wish the same could be said for you."

  The Executioner showed Brennan his best graveyard smile. "You're pretty stupid for a guy who thinks he's so smart."

  Then it dawned on Brennan just how dumb he'd been to show Bolan the ace up his sleeve.

  "Keep it, playboy," Bolan told Brennan. "You may have just played your last hand. You'd better learn how to file for bankruptcy."

  Brennan muttered a curse, hastily shoving the homing device back inside his jacket pocket.

  But Bolan wasn't sure who was holding the losing cards at that moment. Would the ratpack now on his trail open fire indiscriminately? Would they risk knocking Brennan out of the picture just to lop off the Executioner's head?

  Bolan, the lone crapshooter, was willing to gamble that they wouldn't.

  At least not yet.

  And he still held a big ace he was ready to deal their way.

  He only hoped Jack Grimaldi was ready and waiting. If he wasn't, the hellhounds would come as a nasty surprise to Bolan's ac
e pilot.

  The Executioner knew he would need all Grimaldi's firepower. To the hilt. To the blazing end.

  The fires were raging to consume Bolan's search-and-destroy.

  But he wasn't ready yet to see the darkness of his last blitzkrieg. No way.

  5

  Jack Grimaldi was worried. But, he reminded himself, he always worried whenever the big guy was scorching the hellfire trail, and here he was, merely an arm's length away from the fight.

  Hell, even though he hadn't been there at the Pittsfield genesis, where Bolan had been baptized in the devil's fire storm against the Mafia, he still felt as if he'd known the guy all his life, instead of catching him more than a dozen campaigns into the war. Comrades, soldiers together in the War Everlasting. That was what they were, he knew, and that was what they would be until the end. Okay, so he felt like the warrior's blood brother, damn right, he told himself. More than once they'd been blooded together. More than once they'd pulled each other from the flames of the inferno. And they'd do it again.

  Grimaldi smiled, but felt the nervous tension tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stared out into the darkness that enveloped the large field deep in western New Jersey. Damn, but he was glad Bolan had been brought back in from the cold. The guys in the white hats, he thought, had finally wised up. Again. Bolan was needed now, he knew, perhaps more than ever. Which meant there was too much for any one man to do. Maybe too damn much of a tab for any one man to pay. Even Mack Bolan. But Grimaldi knew better than all those guys in D.C. who had given Bolan back his white hat. He himself had seen Mack in action up close, with his nose grinding down into the muck and guts of the killing fields. One very good and very determined individual, Grimaldi believed, could and would make a difference in a world gone mad. By now, it was clear to everyone on either side of the Bolan guns just who that individual was.

  Damn this waiting! How long had Bolan been gone? Grimaldi wondered. The big guy had been in that town for maybe two weeks, but he'd given Brognola the word that he was ready to move. And the big Fed had given Grimaldi the green light to move in with Skyhunter and stand by for an evacuation. But not for an escape, Grimaldi hoped. An escape flight meant trouble. An escape flight could signal disaster for this mission before it even got out of Jersey and on its way. But on its way to where? Mack had mentioned Southeast Asia, Thailand maybe. Something about the Devil's Horn, the Golden Triangle...

  Damn! Grimaldi hated like hell waiting for Bolan when he'd been out of sight for so long. Thoughts of doom and disaster had a way of filtering into a mind normally steeled for quick and decisive action, chipping away at the hardened exterior of a soul committed to the good fight. The waiting, he thought, was killing him.

  The ace pilot needed a cigarette. Smoking was a habit that had been growing on him insidiously lately. He loved and hated the damn cigarettes all at the same time. As he fired one up now with his lighter, he knew he was fooling himself that the nicotine would relax him. Like hell! The smoke only burned down into a belly already on fire, a harsh acid taste swelled his insides with a fever, sparking a flame his urge to get on with the battle.

  Trying to get his mind off Bolan and his mission, Grimaldi forced himself to think of something else. He turned and looked at Skyhunter.

  Skyhunter was the pet name he'd given to the modified, reconstructed Lear jet 25C. With the untiring help of the Army Corps of Engineers, brought in under Hal Brognola's umbrella, Grimaldi had designed and built this warbird. The work had begun some eight months ago at Stony Man Farm, and even now those engineers were putting the finishing touches to Condor, the backup 25C battle jet for Bolan's new war.

  Grimaldi walked up the starboard side of the warbird, drawing on his cigarette, smiling to himself. Four 7.62 mm miniguns had been attached to the undersides of the warbird's wings, each capable of blazing out 18,000 rounds per minute. Also attached to each extended wing were two TOW missiles and two 7-tube 2.75 inch rockets. Kevlar protected the main and auxiliary fuel tanks and cockpit.

  And that wasn't all. Behind the specially constructed windows in the aft section were two 40 mm modified Bofors cannons. In a split second, with the push of an electronic button, those windows would become portholes. A hell of a bird, Grimaldi thought as he admired it, a veritable flying battleship.

  Grimaldi looked at the eagle insignia on the nose of the cockpit, a big white bird spreading its wings against an all-black camouflage paint job. The pilot patted the bird with affection; the paint job and the insignia had been his own final touches. Directly beneath the white eagle jutted the muzzle of a .50 caliber machine gun. Inside the cockpit, Grimaldi and those hand-picked engineers had installed the latest in sophisticated radar and tracking devices, infrared scanning equipment for reconnaissance and precision fire-control computers. With a nonstop range of 3,600 nautical miles and a maximum cruising speed of 492 knots at 45,000 feet, Skyhunter would get Bolan wherever he wanted to go fast, and with little concern about fuel stops.

  Suddenly, Grimaldi heard his radio transmitter beep. It was Mack, he knew, and he feared a grim message.

  Grimaldi pressed the Activate button on his transmitter. "Skyhunter here, come in."

  "Iceman here. Burning shadow. I repeat, burning shadow. Copy, Skyhunter."

  "Affirmative, Iceman. Burning shadow," Grimaldi answered, repeating the code word that meant immediate escape and evacuation.

  "We're coming in off the main road now, Skyhunter. Prepare for the long run. Copy."

  "Prepare for long run, roger that, Iceman. Over and out."

  Signing off, Grimaldi ducked under the wing, giving one of the miniguns a pat on the muzzle. For good luck.

  The big guy was coming in, he thought. And there was trouble on the way.

  But Jack Grimaldi had expected as much.

  This war was on. All systems go.

  Grim-faced, Grimaldi set about putting Skyhunter into action. He was feeling the adrenaline rush.

  * * *

  "You got real trouble now, smart guy. You're finished, pal, hear me?" The punk laughed. "You're just another swinging dick to me, Bolan," Brennan jeered, steering the BMW off the asphalt road and onto the narrow dirt strip. "And I'm gonna have your balls..."

  "Shut up," Bolan growled, pinning the druglord with an icy stare. With his AutoMag he indicated that Brennan should head across the field toward the lone jet. As Bolan saw the warbird taxi to the end of the dirt runway and swing around for takeoff, he let out a pent-up breath in relief.

  Bolan knew he wasn't going to get any information on the Devil's Horn out of Brennan at this point, and he hadn't tried to during the ninety-minute ride. The druglord was feeling good about the odds. And with good reason, Bolan knew. With eight carloads of hitters hard on their trail, strung out like a convoy behind them, Brennan had been gloating over how grim the Executioner's prospects looked. An interrogation, Bolan knew, would have to wait. Action was the only thing that was going to loosen Brennan's tongue.

  "You get any ideas about running away from that jet," Bolan warned, fisting Little Lightning, "they'll be your last, and there'll be one less swinging dick around here."

  Bolan heard Brennan mutter something, but the punk got the message. He angled the BMW on a direct line toward Skyhunter, the warbird's dark bulk looming in the night like some prehistoric bird of prey.

  Bolan blazed into action. With a quick mini-Uzi burst, he knocked out the back windshield of the BMW. Glass chips fell around his head, nicking his face like tiny razors, as he palmed a frag grenade and pulled the pin. After estimating the distance between the BMW and the lead carload of gunners, he counted off two seconds in his head, then Bolan hurled the bomb. At the same time he began spraying the second car with sizzling 9 mm parabellum hornets.

  The frag grenade detonated under the left front tire of the Lincoln. The earthshaking concussion and boiling fireball flipped the lead car over on its roof, metal rending and glass exploding. Emptying the 32-rouncl clip into the second car, Bolan glimp
sed naked terror on two faces before they were pulped into red mush. The lead car tumbled into a ditch, and the second assault vehicle clipped the back end of the flaming wreckage. A fountain of fire whooshed high in the air when the two cars collided, like metallic beasts locking horns inside a ring of flames. The six other assault vehicles skidded, slewed, then whipped past the fireball, their drivers handling Bolan's riposte with skillful evasive maneuvering. They were real pros, which didn't surprise Bolan. Nor was he worried. For every one of them, this night was going to last forever. An endless ride to hell for the cannibals.

  "Brake it!" Bolan snarled. As Brennan stopped the BMW in front of the black warbird, Bolan slapped a fresh 32-round clip into Little Lightning, fisted Big Thunder. "Move it out!"

  Tumbling out of the car right on Brennan's heels, Bolan cut loose with Little Lightning and Big Thunder. Fire and steel poured over that convoy, heavy screaming lead punching in windshields and windows with wrecking-ball tenacity. Two Cadillacs drilled into each other as the onslaught of lead chewed them up. As if they'd rehearsed the maneuver, the other cars formed a skirmish line, bore down on the BMW with reckless abandon.

  Bolan sprayed those guys with a long raking mini-Uzi burst. But he saw heads duck beneath dashboards a millisecond before the lead typhoon washed through their cars.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw a sudden motion. He had expected the druglord to make a move on him, and was ready. Thrusting his right arm up, Bolan blocked the sweeping roundhouse, speared a knee deep into Brennan's gut. The punk doubled over, belching out air. Bolan corraled Brennan in a headlock and dragged him toward the warbird, where Grimaldi had opened the cabin door and lowered a ramp. This e and e, Bolan realized, wasn't going to come off easy.

  The hunters were hungry. Brennan's hitters were on a march, and they weren't about to accept defeat without going down to the last man.