Death Squad Page 5

  “And now, on to the blitzkrieg. A series of lightning strikes, at widely separated locations, succeeds in bringing the local Mafia hierarchy into full session. It appears that they committed themselves to a full and final confrontation, and the forces they had arrayed against this man were formidable, to say the least. Bolan must have known that he was walking into a Mafia setup. Of course he knew—he had maneuvered them into just such a confrontation. And the Pittsfield family never really understood the Bolan mentality. He’d been fighting them all along with conventional weapons. A knife, a pistol, a high-powered rifle. He was a man alone. The Mafia brought in a small army, set up some machine guns, and thought they would squash him like a bug the minute he made his move. He showed them the error of their thinking, and we certainly have to respect the Bolan fighting brain. He hit those people with everything in the arsenal, and he was waging a war like the soldier he is. He lit the skies with flares, then sat safely in the dark, a quarter mile away, and hit them with mortars, rockets, and—you name it, he had it. The most amazing part of this entire incredible story is that he then slipped through a police dragnet that numbered more than a hundred city and county lawmen.”

  Braddock cleared his throat and dropped his voice a pitch to observe, “It would seem safe to conclude that not every lawman in that dragnet was overly anxious to apprehend The Executioner. Not because of cowardice—because of admiration, perhaps even affection. Somebody turned his head the other way as Bolan was passing by. Bet on it.” Braddock mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and continued in his normal voice, “So now we have the problem here. Bolan has brought his war to Los Angeles County. There was a gunfight last week at a residence club out near the beach. When the smoke cleared, six hoods who have been identified as murder contractors lay dead in a parking lot directly adjacent to a patio party where some forty young people were relaxing and enjoying life. It was a miracle that none of these innocents were hit by that spray of bullets. We have since learned that one of the tenants of that building, one George K. Zitka, is a Vietnam veteran and a friend of Mack Bolan. Zitka, need I add, has dropped from sight.

  “Yesterday morning, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods of this area was rocked by a Bolan-type strike that left two dead and a known Mafia figure terrorized. It has been definitely established that at least a half dozen men were with Bolan on this hit.

  “Keep in mind, now—in Pittsfield, Bolan was alone, and look at the trail of carnage he left in and about the city. He is now in Los Angeles—and he is no longer a man alone. He has a gang now, and these people are apparently conducting military-type operations against certain elements of this community.”

  Braddock paused dramatically, smiled, and said, “I have not come to praise the Mafia-nor even to bury them.” The audience tittered. “My heart does not bleed for ’Melio Giordano, nor for the two thugs who were rather dramatically chopped from his payroll. But my blood runs cold at the thought of an organized gang war in this city. You all know the certain results of gunfights in our city’s streets. We cannot have it. We simply will not have it.”

  The room had become very quiet. Braddock paused to sip at a tumbler of water. He had their full attention. Now to sell them. “It is common knowledge that a six-figure open contract has been let, with Mack Bolan’s name on the death warrant. Already, since the publicity of yesterday’s strike, twenty-two out-of-town gunmen have been spotted and picked up for questioning. We are being invaded by the most vicious criminal elements from around the nation. Oh, we’re picking them up. Just as fast as we can identify them, we pick them up. But it’s like a grunion run. For each one we grab, ten slip through our fingers. Gentlemen, Los Angeles County has been invaded by every ambitious gunman in the country. They will shoot at anything that looks like Mack Bolan. There’s the negative danger of Bolan’s presence in this city. Sudden death can erupt on any street or in any public place or in any private residence in this city and county. We have to get Bolan. We have to get him quickly.”

  Okay, he had them. They were listening, and they were believing. Rally ’round the flag, boys, the heat is on, Let’s sew this guy up good and get him on ice and out of our hair. This was Braddock’s message. He would get it across.

  “Now we have stakeouts on every known Mafia figure in the area. There are not many—and we think our intelligence is as good as Bolan’s. Just to make sure, we are shaking the city good, double checking our informants and then checking them again. Giordano’s name was on the Attorney General’s list. Possibly Bolan is using that same list. We don’t want to make things so tight that we scare Bolan off, of course. And we certainly do not wish to engage him in a Shootout, not until we have maneuvered him onto a battlefield of our choosing. Therefore, here is the strategy we are using for Hardcase.”

  Braddock stepped over to a large chart on the wall behind him and picked up a pointer. “We are asking your fullest cooperation in this strategy. All right. We form a loose circle around the probable points of contact, and we play the waiting game. At any time when contact is made, we tighten the circle slightly, set up our net of containment, and run him to ground only when that ground is not likely to get drenched with the blood of innocent citizens. Remember—we are chasing what now appears to be a small but highly professional army. They have heavy weapons. These people will undoubtedly stand and fight if it seems that arrest is imminent. We do not want that fight to spill out upon innocent citizens. We ask that all adjacent communities cooperate fully with us in this plan. We ask the right of ‘hot pursuit’ into other police jurisdictions. We ask that the utmost delicacy be exercised in every phase of Hardcase and that …”

  Braddock was not really asking now—he was telling. A seasoned instinct had signalled that the time was ripe for him to assume command of this motley assortment of lawmen. All the other parts of himself had become exhausted as he maneuvered into the minds of those cops out there—now, just-plain-cop Tim Braddock was in the saddle and riding hard. He would get this guy Bolan, or by God there would be no other kind of cop left in him. His cool stare lifted out over the heads of California’s finest as he thumped the chart here and there with the pointer to exphasize certain points, and not a man seated there possessed the slightest doubt that The Executioner would meet his fate in Los Angeles.

  “Big Tim” Braddock was a man on his way. A dozen Mack Bolans would not stand in that way. The heat was on, Big Tim was stoking the boiler, and it could not be said with any certainty whether Hardcase described the operation or the man who was directing it. In either event, the heat was on. Hardcase was set.

  Chapter Five

  THE TRACK

  Emilio Giordano would not be any man’s funny bunny. Only once during his thirty years of manhood had any man made a monkey out of him, and that man had died quickly and violently. Not once during the past fifteen years had any man spoken to him in disrespectful tones, except that stupid senator on the crime commission and that ignorant Sacramento lump they called an Attorney General—and both of these were now smarting under the lash of unrelenting political pressures. If a damn dumb sergeant—a deserter, at that—a common thief and gunman thought he could make Emilio Giordano roll over and play funny bunny for him, then by the blood of Saint Matthew that damn dumb sergeant was going to die with a Giordano grapefruit up his ass.

  Fifteen years had passed since ’Milio had last worn a gun. He still knew how to use one. Yeah. Some things a man never loses, like his touch with a fine pistol. He inspected the shiny .38, took a couple of familiarity pulls on the trigger, then loaded it and stuffed it into the holster on the backside of his hip. Next he withdrew his wallet and shuffled through an assortment of cards until he found the gun permit, checked the expiration date, then carefully inserted the permit into a prominent display envelope and returned the wallet to his pocket. No dumb moves by ’Milio, like packing hardware without a license. Hell no.

  “Take it easy,” Varone had advised him, when Giordano called him earlier that afternoon
. Sure. Take it easy. Play funny bunny. Let the miserable dumbhead tie you to a manure heap. And rob you. And walk all over you like you’re not ’Milio Giordano, II Fortunato, in whose blood rages four generations of Maffio. Take it easy? Emilio Giordano would never take it that easy.

  “He wants you to play his game,” Varone had said. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He wants you to run scared and do something stupid. Now don’t play his game. Don’t play, ’Milio.”

  Well, ’Milio would play. He would play the game. But not dumbhead’s game. He would show the sergeant a game or two.

  Giordano moved around his desk and depressed an intercom button. A fluttery male voice responded immediately. “You got the money, Jerry?” Giordano asked.

  “Yes sir. Twenty-five thousand. Twenties and fifties.”

  “All right, bring it up. No—meet me out back. Right now.”

  Giordano broke the connection and thumbed down another station. “Hey!” he barked. “Wake up out there!”

  “Yessir—garage,” came a crisp reply.

  “You got the cars ready?”

  “Yessir. We’re ready.”

  “Awright. I’m coming down. Keep your eyes open, dammit.”

  “Yessir, we’re doing that.”

  Giordano grunted and strode out of his study and through the back of the house. He could hear the carpenters banging noisily in his bedroom, upstairs, and this renewed his irritation with “the dumbhead.” He kicked the rear door as he opened it and pounded on the handrail of the stairway with an open palm as he quickly descended to the yard.

  A gleaming black-and-chrome Continental occupied the driveway. Five of his best boys were in it, conversing in low tones. The driver waved with his fingers as Giordano strode past and received a slow wink in return.

  II Fortunato stepped into a sparkling white Rolls-Royce and seated himself beside a younger man on whose lap reposed a square black briefcase. The two men up front, in the chauffeur’s compartment, wore uniforms of unrelieved black, but white chauffeur’s caps with gold braid across the visors. Giordano depressed an intercom button on the armrest and said, “Danny, go back and make sure Bruno understands two minutes.”

  The uniformed man who was seated beside the driver jerked his head in understanding, stepped out of the Rolls, carefully closed the door, and walked quickly into the garage. Another Continental waited in there, carrying a rear guard of another five men.

  “He wants to be sure you understand the two-minute wait before you take off,” Danny reported.

  A lean young man in the front seat nodded his head curtly. “Christ, yeah, we understand,” he replied in obvious disgust. “And in case he’s wondering, we got the route, too. Santa Ana freeway to the Riverside cutoff and then, dammit, there ain’t any other way to get there.”

  Danny smiled and returned to the Rolls. He began his report through the thick glass, then remembered, depressed the intercom button, and said, “They’re all set, Mr. Giordano.”

  “They understand they don’t leave here for two minutes?” Giordano snapped.

  “Yes sir, two minutes, they understand.”

  “Dumbheads probably don’t even know the route.”

  “Yes sir, Santa Ana Freeway to the cutoff, then the blacktop to the rear gate. They understand.”

  “Awright,” Giordano growled. “Let’s go check on our grapefruit.”

  The chauffeur tapped his horn lightly. The lead Continental moved smoothly along the drive, and the Rolls eased along after it. Giordano settled back into the protection of armor plating and bulletproof glass. Don’t play, eh? By God, ’Milio was going to play. And the dumbhead was going to pay.

  Deadeye Washington slid hastily down the grassy slope, heavy binoculars strapped about his neck, and called out, “Okay, they just left. Two cars. Big black one in front, Lincoln or something, and a big white limousine, two chauffeurs, man. Sure making it easy to track.”

  Bolan smiled tightly and slipped a jaunty plaid beret onto his head. “Maybe two damn easy,” he said. He leaned into the Corvette and came out with a compact two-way radio. “Trackers,” he announced into the mouthpiece, “Eagle says they’re loose.” Bolan glanced at Washington.

  The Negro mouthed the word, “Bloodbrother.”

  Bolan nodded and continued the announcement without interruption. “One rich Detroit black, one white millionaire close behind, on Track Two.”

  Loudelk’s soft voice purred back immediately. “Affirm. Passing Track Two … right … now! Track Two now on quarry. Here’s the count. Five in Detroit black. Four in big English white tank, repeat, tank. Track Two on target and going away fast.”

  Zitka’s clipped tones leaped in. “Roj, roj, Track One going ’round for pickup at Point Delta.’

  “Track on loose,” Bolan commanded. “It smells, repeat, smells.”

  A faint “Wilco” came in from Loudelk, followed by a loud retort from Zitka. “Bluesuits on,” he yelped. “Tearing toward Track Two. Beware, beware.”

  “Affirm, Track Two is being wary,” replied the cautious Indian voice.

  “Close only on signal!” Bolan commanded. He laid the radio on the seat of the Corvette and slid in behind the wheel, made a sign with his fingers to Washington, and spun the little car about in a jouncing circle, then hit the pavement and sped down the hill.

  Washington was sprinting toward an idling Mustang parked in a shelter of trees some yards off the street. He climbed in on the passenger’s side, rolled his eyes toward Blancanales, and panted, “Okay. Keep ’im in sight.”

  The Mustang leaped forward. Washington braced himself with his feet and swung the binoculars into the rear seat, lifted the corner of a blanket, shoved a clip into the long Mauser, and settled back with a sigh.

  “Bloodbrother says they got a tank,” he reported.

  Blancanales was whipping the Mustang along the curving downgrade. He raised an eyebrow and said, “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Must be one o’ them tailor-made bulletproof jobs. Just looked like a big white limousine to me, through the glasses.”

  “Sounds like it’s going to be a ball.”

  “You don’t know nothing yet. Sarge smells an ambush, and Zitter says cops has joined the parade.”

  “I take it we’re trailing loose, then,” Blancanales observed. His right hand fumbled on the seat for the radio. He thrust it at Washington. “You’ll have to stick the antenna out the window,” he instructed. “Find out what the hell we’re doing.”

  The radio became operational just in time for them to hear Bolan’s voice command, “Flanks, report in. Flanks.”

  “Flander Two here,” Gunsmoke Harrington drawled. “Flanker One also. We’re together and following the play in the Horse.”

  Blancanales nodded his silent approval. “Good,” he whispered.

  Bolan was replying, “You’re not in sight. Where do you run?”

  “We run starboard to track. Will join up at straightaway.”

  Washington grinned. “Sounds like a Dixie Horserace,” he snorted.

  “That horse is too conspicuous up here,” Blancanales muttered. “But it’ll blend in okay on the freeway.”

  “What if we don’t take the freeway?” Washington wondered aloud.

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  Bolan was now replying, following a brief silence on the radio. “Okay, Flank. Good thinking. Track One, position report.”

  “Track One is right on bluesuits,” Zitka snapped back.

  “Are they in official vehicle?”

  “Neg, neg. Plainjanes, brown Pontiac. But they’re fuzzy, no mistake.”

  Another brief silence, then: “Okay, and another parader is right on you, buddy-o. Now who the hell?”

  They could hear Zitka’s carrier wave idling for several seconds before his voice clipped in. “I dunno, but it’s a big black and it’s got a five count.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s great,” Bolan said. “It figures—a delayed rear guard. Okay, Break away, Track One, with cauti
on, and come around on me.”

  “Roj. Approaching straightaway now. I’ll make my move up there.”

  “Track Two is on station and maintaining,” Loudelk reported. “Instructions!”

  “Maintain track!” Bolan snapped.

  “Affirm.”

  Blancanales and Washington exchanged solemn glances. They had a good view now of the fiery Corvette ahead. In the distance, they could see the ramp rising to the freeway and the white limousine ascending. Washington craned about to inspect the road behind; then he pressed the transmitter button and spoke into the radio. “Backboard. It’s clear to the rear,” he reported.

  “Roger, Backboard,” Bolan replied. “Flanker—I believe I have you in sight now. Can you identify bluesuiter?”

  “Brown Pontiac? ’Firmative. One, two, uh, three up off you, Maestro. The field is getting thick, though.”

  “Yeah. Uh … can you safely detain them?”

  “Not without getting detained myself. Unless you want ’em zipped.”

  “Hell no, no zipping!” Bolan replied. “Intercept. Repeat, intercept and delay only.”

  “Gotcha,” Harrington said. “Will intercept on straightaway. Can somebody help us build a box?”

  Zitka’s voice chimed in, “I’m natural for that. During my breakaway. Okay, Maestro?”

  “Affirmative,” Bolan said. “Play it cool. Arouse no suspicion.”

  “Roj.”

  The Mustang was climbing the ramp now, Blancanales tensing at the wheel to merge into the swiftly moving traffic of the freeway. The Corvette swerved across two lanes, accelerating in a full-throated power shift. Blancanales swung in moments later, several cars behind and in the outside lane. He watched his rear view cautiously, then angled across to the inside lane, picking up speed and interlaning to regain position on Bolan’s rear. As they headed into a long curve, Washington muttered, “I think I see the horse up there, ’bout midcurve. Isn’t that it? Outside lane?”