Hard Targets Read online

  “It’s strictly macho. All mobbed up.”

  “Okay. We’ll leave a message if it’s feasible. But otherwise...”

  “I get it.”

  Bolan checked the block both ways, then made a U-turn in the middle of the street and parked in front of G & G Finance, saving a few steps on their exit and allowing him to watch the car more easily once they went inside. It was a small place, the counter in front covered with rippling vinyl in a faux wood pattern. Half a dozen mismatched plastic chairs stood ready for waiting customers, though none was present at the moment. At the counter stood a homeboy, hair buzzed down but not quite shaved, tattoos crawling up his neck from underneath a black-and-blue plaid shirt.

  “Help you?” he asked.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Gomez,” Bolan replied.

  “He’s busy. What do you want?”

  A heartbeat later, he was staring down the barrels of two silenced semiautomatic pistols, still rock-steady, waiting for the new guys in the shop to show him something that he hadn’t seen before. Bolan knew they had trouble when a grin broke on the guy’s face, and one hand slipped beneath his baggy shirt.

  They shot him blind and rushed the back room, Johnny vaulting the plywood counter, while Bolan pushed in through a swinging access hatch. The downed man offered no resistance, but it sounded as if his pals in back were scrambling for their own guns.

  So much for the sounds of silence.

  Johnny went in low, almost like stealing home from third, and put a muffled Parabellum mangler through the stomach of a vato with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. The gut-shot banger howled; his scattergun went off and scarred a nearby filing cabinet with a spray of double 0 buckshot. A second bullet in the forehead put him down for good before he had a chance to rack in a fresh round.

  Bolan was in the room by then, his Beretta spitting at the two homeboys who flanked an Army surplus desk, aiming their weapons past an older man who sat between them, hunching his shoulders and obviously wishing he could disappear. Both dropped with bullets in their heads, the second getting off a shot into the ceiling as he fell.

  Which left the man in charge.

  “Señor Gomez?” Bolan inquired.

  He got back a reluctant nod. “That’s me.”

  “We’re taking out a long-term loan,” Johnny explained. “No interest, no repayment.”

  Gomez answered, “How much did you need?”

  “How much is in your safe?” Bolan asked, his Beretta waggling toward the aged unit in the northwest corner.

  “Man, that ain’t my money,” Gomez said.

  “That’s right. It’s ours.”

  “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  “The other ‘G’?” Bolan suggested. “When you talk to Vinnie, thank him for us, will you?”

  “Thank him?” Gomez looked bewildered.

  “For his contribution to the Joe Dirks memorial fund,” Johnny said.

  “So, what’s that?”

  “Just deliver the message,” Bolan instructed. “He’ll get it.”

  “Okay. But I think you the ones gonna get it,” he called after them. “I think you made a big mistake!”

  Buffalo Police Headquarters

  DETECTIVE MICK STRAUSS was eating a triple-meat sub— salami, ham and pepperoni, with banana peppers, onions, shredded lettuce, drenched in oil and vinegar—when the phone on his desk rang. He set the sandwich down, blotted his greasy fingers with a paper napkin and picked up the phone as it began to ring a third time.

  “Strauss.”

  “Detective, I got someone for you,” said Sergeant Flannery, on the front desk, downstairs.

  “Who is it?” he asked, still chewing.

  “A woman from California down here, asking for O’Malley,” Flannery replied. “Name’s Zoe Dirks. Something about her brother going missing.”

  Strauss took a second, swallowing, then said, “I’ll be right down.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Hanging up, he looked around for Kelly, spotted him with Chan and Davis, by the water cooler, laughing about something one of them had said. Strauss felt the first half of his good lunch churning like a live snake in his stomach, looking for a way to come back up. He rose and crossed the squad room, plucked at Kelly’s sleeve and drew him to the side.

  “Joe Dirks,” he whispered.

  “Jesus, what about him?” Kelly asked.

  “The desk called up. His sister’s in the house and wants to talk about him.”

  Kelly processed that. He surprised Strauss with his smile. “So, let’s go down and make her welcome, eh? Protect and serve, all that good stuff.”

  “String her along, you mean?”

  “Or see if she can help us.”

  “Huh?”

  “You think it’s just coincidence, her turning up like this? Right now, with all the other shit that’s going down?”

  “You think she’s part of it?” Strauss asked.

  “Her brother started it.”

  “Well, yeah, but...”

  “Let me do the talking, okay?” Kelly said, heading for the elevator.

  Downstairs, they had no trouble spotting Zoe Dirks. She was a looker, with that anxious air about her worried people always have when someone else’s trouble brings them to the cop shop. Strauss called up a mental picture of Joe Dirks when he’d been breathing, but he couldn’t see much of a family resemblance.

  “Ms. Dirks?” Kelly said, as they approached her. “I’m Detective Kelly, and this is Detective Strauss.”

  “Two for the price of one,” she said, and tried to smile but didn’t pull it off.

  “We’re both familiar with your brother’s case,” Kelly said.

  “When I called before,” she said, “I spoke with a Detective O’Malley.”

  “He’s no longer with us,” Kelly told her. “Murdered in the line of duty.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Everyone around here took it hard.”

  “And have you caught whoever—”

  “Not yet, but we will,” Strauss said.

  “About your brother...” Kelly cut in. “If you’d like to come upstairs with us, we’ll fill you in on what’s been happening.”

  Which would be nothing, Strauss thought, wondering what Kelly had in mind.

  The elevator took its time. While they were rising to the third floor, Kelly asked the woman, “Are you staying here, in Buffalo?”

  “Just for a little while,” she said. “I haven’t actually found a place yet, but...”

  “There are a couple nice hotels I’d recommend,” he said. “Clean but not too pricey, more or less downtown. Secure, you know?”

  “Thanks. That’s a help.”

  “This is the squad room,” Kelly said, as they arrived. “My desk is over here.”

  Kelly turned then, half smiling. “Mick? Could you get us the Dirks case file?”

  “Sure thing,” Strauss said, and headed off toward the bank of filing cabinets on the north wall of the bullpen, wondering who the heck put him in charge.

  Willert Park, Buffalo

  BOLAN DROVE NORTH along Iroquois Alley—a street, in fact, despite its name—and eyed the target as he passed. He reached Broadway, turned left, then left again onto Hickory, the next street over, looking for a place to park the Mercury.

  “How many do you figure?” he asked Johnny.

  “Hard to say. They own the building, but the ground floor’s business, like you saw. That leaves three floors, but Gallo’s bound to have most of his soldiers on the street by now. Between the planners and the ones coming off shift to catch a nap, I figure eight, ten tops.”

  “Scattered around three floors.”

  “Most likely concentr
ated on the second,” Johnny said. “From what I hear, it’s set up like a dormitory, for emergencies.”

  “Okay. Let’s find out if this qualifies.”

  They parked and locked the car, leaving their liberated war chest in the trunk, moving along an alley that connected Hickory to Iroquois. At its east end, they watched traffic for a moment, then crossed over, still a block south of the target, walking with their eyes averted from it, just two guys out for a stroll. They started going into stealth mode only as they came around behind it, checking out potential entry points.

  “A second-floor approach means going up or coming down,” Bolan observed. “You have a preference?”

  “We’re less likely to run into anybody coming down.”

  “Agreed.”

  They climbed the fire escape, which was less rickety than Bolan had expected. They reached the flat roof unopposed, and entered through its access door, making their way down stairs that smelled in equal parts of old age and neglect. They met no one on four or three, but paused before descending to the second floor, where voices now were audible.

  “Civilians ever hang around these get-togethers?” Bolan whispered.

  “At a time like this, there shouldn’t be,” Johnny replied.

  “Or cops?”

  “I would’ve said no, earlier this week. But now...”

  “So, flash-bangs, then,” he said, handing a stun grenade to Johnny, priming one himself.

  They made the pitch together, ducked back out of sight as one, eyes shut, hands cupped over their ears before the twin M84s erupted into blinding light and stunning thunder. Back around the corner, then, tracking with silenced pistols, marking targets in the haze of smoke and plaster dust. None of the soldiers present looked like cops, but Bolan hedged his bets on two who’d dressed in stylish suits, versus the rest who’d kept it strictly casual.

  No badges. Nothing that resembled a police ID.

  Some of them were reviving as he made a second pass among them, Johnny following. Their pistols spit at point-blank range, head shots, the writhing of their enemies still instantly. It was brutal, numbing work, but nothing Bolan and his brother hadn’t done before. Thinning the ranks of their opponents, weeding out the predators.

  They figured that each life they ended here had been devoted to activities including murder, rape, extortion, robbery, drug-running, human trafficking, corruption and defilement of the innocent. It didn’t matter if the dead were also brothers, fathers, sons. They’d crossed a line deliberately, and had thereby judged themselves. This was the sentence, long since overdue.

  And Johnny’s best guess had been off by one.

  They left eleven shooters sprawled in blood.

  There were no living witnesses this time. If the Don of Buffalo hadn’t received the message yet, he’d never get it.

  Not until it was delivered personally by the Executioner.

  Downtown Buffalo

  THE HOTEL WASN’T much, considering, but Zoe Dirks hadn’t expected much. In fact, she hadn’t spared a thought for where she’d stay in Buffalo, or what she’d do upon arrival, after talking to the cops. At least the two detectives had been helpful, both exuding sympathy and steering her in the direction of her current lodgings, three blocks from Lafayette Square.

  Another bill was charged to her credit card, of course, to cover any phone calls, items taken from the minibar and so on. Once inside the smallish room, Zoe discovered she was hungry, and she’d ordered up a cheeseburger from room service that pleasantly surprised her. Working on her second can of soda, the hotel’s price outrageously inflated for “convenience,” she could feel fatigue demanding that she rest after her hectic flight across the country.

  But could she sleep, this close to Joe? Or close to where he had been, when he disappeared?

  She thought of calling Johnny Gray, had his cell phone number programmed into her phone, but it occurred to Zoe that he’d only scold her for ignoring his advice and flying to Buffalo. The last thing she needed was a reprimand to undermine her flagging confidence. But if she couldn’t talk to Johnny, who—

  The tapping on her door surprised her with a sudden jolt of fear. It wouldn’t be a hotel waiter coming for the remnants of her meal, since she’d been told to put the tray outside her door when she was finished.

  Johnny? That hope was dashed before it had a chance to blossom, since he didn’t know she was in town, much less where she was staying.

  Who, then?

  Trying not to make a sound, she crossed to stand before the door, then leaned in to let one eye peer through the peephole.

  And beheld the square face of Detective Strauss.

  Of course, the men who’d sent her there knew where she was. And if they had some news of Joe...

  She fumbled with the door’s dead bolt and swing-arm security latch, then yanked the door open, glad that she hadn’t started to undress for bed. “Detective Strauss, has something happened?”

  “You could say that,” he replied. He glanced up and down the silent hall. “You’d likely want to keep this private.”

  “Oh! Of course, come in.”

  She closed the door behind him, turned to find him well inside the room, circling the bed.

  “What is it?” Zoe asked.

  “Quick question,” Strauss replied, still surveying the room. “You know a fella calls himself Bill Grayson?”

  “Grayson? No. Should I?”

  “Your brother never mentioned him? Maybe someone he met after he came to Buffalo?”

  “No. I’d remember that.”

  “Well, shit.”

  The stark vulgarity made Zoe blink. “What’s wrong, Detective?”

  Strauss turned back to face her now. “See, I was hoping you could help us out on this,” he said. “The Grayson thing.”

  “I honestly don’t understand—”

  “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? If you knew what in hell I was talking about, you could save us all a ton of trouble.”

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, moving closer with leisurely strides. “The bottom line, orders are orders, right? No stone unturned, and all that crap.”

  Zoe tensed, preparing to defend herself against this man who stood at least six inches taller and had to weigh twice her own one hundred thirty pounds. But when the blow came, it still managed to surprise her. It was not a blow at all, in fact—simply an outstretched hand, with something in it that resembled a cell phone.

  She didn’t recognize the stun gun until it was pressed against her stomach, then a silent lightning bolt raced through her body, frying every nerve, and darkness swallowed her alive.

  Chapter 6

  Rainbow Bridge, Niagara Falls

  “It used to be the Honeymoon Bridge,” Johnny said, as Bolan turned from Roberts Street into the flow of traffic headed west for Canada. “That one collapsed in 1938, due to an ice jam in the river.”

  “No ice out today,” Bolan replied. He might as well have said their trip would be no honeymoon.

  “Some people talk about the Rainbow Bridge, meaning a place like heaven where dead pets are reunited with their owners.”

  “You’ve been studying,” Bolan observed.

  “The internet.”

  What Bolan knew about the real-world Rainbow Bridge was that it arched for some 950 feet across the Niagara River, four lanes of traffic bustling 200-odd feet above the rushing torrent, with two headed in each direction, east and west. Commercial trucks were banned, routed downstream to the Lewiston–Queenston Bridge, while cars, bicycles and pedestrians were welcome on the Rainbow crossing. Passing from the States to Canada, you paid a toll, but returning to the U.S. side was free of charge.

  Another thing: whichever
way you passed across the Rainbow Bridge, you wound up in Niagara Falls. It wasn’t déjà vu or one of those hokey “mystery spots,” where a guy at one end of a room looked huge, while another nearby seemed to shrink pygmy-size. Simple geography explained it, two neighboring cities identically named, with fifty thousand year-round inhabitants on the New York side, 83,000 in Ontario.

  As traffic flowed across the border, so had crime. From smuggling furs and guns in the eighteenth century, to liquor during Prohibition and drugs since the Vietnam War, both sides were permeated with corruption. Mafiosi had discovered Canada during the same years when they were infesting the United States, trading freely with their fratelli across the invisible boundary line, sometimes feuding and staining the border with blood. Often ignored or denigrated in reports of Mob activity, the Canadian Mafia held its own despite prosecutions and deadly rivalries with Chinese triads, Japanese Yakuza and Jamaican “posses.”

  Niagara Falls—both sides—had been a satrapy of Buffalo’s Mafia Family since World War II, if not before. An underboss—currently, one Albert Cavallaro—ran the Ontario operation for his boss in Buffalo, kicking back a set percentage of the weekly take, while handling bribes and low-level eliminations on his own initiative. For larger matters, opportunities or dangers that were crucial to the Family at large, he’d be expected to consult with his padrino in advance.

  Al Cavallaro didn’t know it yet, but one hellacious problem was about to hit his territory with the impact of a fuel-air bomb. He’d likely never heard of Joe Dirks, might have missed the news about a dirty cop named Greg O’Malley, but the situation was about to land on Cavallaro’s doorstep. His godfather’s migraine headache was about to spread.

  Clifton Hill, Niagara Falls, Ontario

  “I HEAR YA,” Nino Abbandando said. “And I don’t give a crap, all right? The very least you owe me is the vig for this week, which is right around two grand. You don’t start paying down the principal, you’re gonna dig yourself into a hole you can’t get out of. Understand me?”

  More pathetic whining came from the punk-degenerate gambler who couldn’t stay out of Casino Niagara if his life depended on it. Which it might, with the amount he owed to Nino and the Family. He let it run another fifteen seconds, then cut in.