Exit Code
“Okay, so I’ve got some idea of where this has gone,” Bolan said. “Now I need a starting point, and I think we can all agree Nicolas Lenzini is the best candidate.”
“We agree,” Price replied. “We know that Lenzini’s running the operation from Boston, and he’s got his two sons handling matters at the other major Internet portals in North America. Bear?”
Kurtzman put the map back on the screen. “Striker, the gold stars you see represent the major network trafficking hubs. They include Boston and Washington, D.C., on the East Block, and out West you’ve got San Diego, Los Angeles, Oakland, Portland and Seattle.”
“Sounds like I’m going to be busy.”
“You’re not joking,” Brognola replied. “We’ve got less than seventy-two hours to put this thing down.”
The Executioner pinned his friend with the icy blue stare and said, “That’s a tall order. It’s going to take me some time to get inside Lenzini’s organization, even if I go right to the source.”
“We’ve already set that up,” Price replied. “We have someone inside their system already that will be your contact.”
“Leo?” Bolan asked.
Price nodded. “We have word that the guy you shook up when you took down the Garden of Allah nightclub skipped out with quite a bit of Lenzini’s cash. His name is Gino Pescia, and word in the OC circles at the Justice Department is that he’s gathering up a crew.”
“We think when the time’s right,” Brognola said, “he’ll end the relationship between Lenzini and the NIF, carve out a niche for himself and retire.”
Bolan shook his head. “Make no mistake this could get ugly real quick. I’ve been up against the NIF firsthand, and I can tell you that if Pescia tries to pit a bunch of his thugs against them, it’ll turn into a bloodbath.”
“Lenzini’s put an open contract on Pescia’s head,” Price continued, “so it shouldn’t be hard to get you inside as a gun-for-hire looking for a new place to settle down.”
The Executioner could buy that. It was his hit on the Garden of Allah that first turned them onto the fact Nicolas Lenzini was working with NIF. He’d spared the life of Lenzini’s errand boy, Pescia—who had blubbered and quivered like a child when confronted by Bolan—and now it sounded as if the guy chose to split off and do things his own way.
Price continued, “We’re going to send you in with the Frank Lambretta cover. Thanks to Leo, word on you is that you’re known by the nickname Loyal Lambretta.”
Brognola added, “The cover story says you got the name working for the Giancarlo Family as a button guy until their collapse in Florida last year. This is your chance to make that rumor a reality.”
“And perhaps do a little looking around to see what I can find out about Lenzini’s ties with the NIF and just how deep this goes.” Bolan nodded. “Perfect.”
Price said, “Your recent history is you’re just out of Rikers, on a manslaughter beef. That will be confirmed on the inside if anybody checks, and the paperwork is already in place at New York State headquarters. We even opened an arrest record for you.”
“Sounds like something I can play with. Not too specific and not too vague. Nice job, Barb.”
Price smiled but didn’t bask in the moment—that wasn’t her style.
“Well, I’d better get cleaned up and catch up on a few winks before I leave,” Bolan said, pushing away from the table.
Brognola stood with him and shook his hand. “Sounds like a good idea. You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said.
“Any time. With Jack out of things for a while, we’ll have to make some alternate travel arrangements for you.”
“That’s fine. I imagine once I’m inside that everything else will be on Lenzini’s dime.”
The Executioner considered the irony of his statement. He’d pose as a tough guy, quickly get on Lenzini’s good side, and then topple the Lenzini network and use the old man’s money to do it. It was a different enemy now, with different rules, but Bolan knew that the basics hadn’t changed at all. They were still ignorant of those within their own ranks and they hadn’t been subjected to the skill of the Executioner in some time. Not much had changed in that regard, as far as Bolan was concerned. Yeah, the battle plan was still the same.
Infiltration!
Target Identification!
Confirmation!
Destruction!
2
As Mack Bolan, a.k.a. Frank “Loyal” Lambretta, stepped off the Greyhound bus in downtown Boston, he knew the two men waiting under the overhang weren’t the only ones watching him.
He’d spotted the tail in seconds, and his cursory glance marked the guy as a cop. Bolan immediately settled into his role as a tough veteran of the syndicate, just out of Rikers on a manslaughter beef that was beat on a technicality by a slick-boy attorney.
The two men waiting for him weren’t hard to spot, either. They were well-dressed, but their suits didn’t quite hang on them in a normal way; their clothes hadn’t been tailored for fashion but more for practicality. Yeah, they were definitely packing heat. Then there were their stances. To any trained expert how the men watched their surroundings was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t just mere curiosity or idle interest—they were looking for trouble, plain and simple.
Bolan ignored the rain that pounded the pavement and rolled off his old Navy pea coat. The Boston weather was a refreshing change to his past two weeks in the dusty climate and mountainous terrain of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Executioner had been to Boston many times before, but it had been a while since his last visit. And every time he stepped foot in Massachusetts it brought back some haunting memories. But Bolan was concerned only with the situation at hand.
The New Islamic Front had proved itself a formidable enemy in its own right, and Nicolas Lenzini had chosen to ally his family with the NIF for reasons still unknown. That gave Bolan a two-front war to fight, and that was never a good situation for a soldier. His body still ached where he’d pushed himself to the limits of endurance fighting the terrorists and destroying their camp in Afghanistan, but Bolan shoved that from his mind as a minor annoyance. He needed to be on top of things every moment. One misstep around these guys and it would be over. They would immediately suspect something was up and then try to take him when he least expected it.
Stony Man had plenty of intelligence on Nicolas Lenzini’s operations, but they didn’t have much on the guy’s personal life, so he’d have to play any direct interaction with Lenzini by ear. That was okay. He’d played this part many times, and while Bolan never made the mistake of underestimating his enemy, he had invented the concept of role camouflage and applied in it ways no other agent who’d ever penetrated the Mob had managed. Most agents either got caught up in the lifestyle, or they just plain got caught.
“You Lambretta?” the shorter of the two men asked.
Bolan nodded. “Are you with Mr. Lenzini?”
As the guy stuck out his hand and Bolan shook it without ceremony, he replied, “Yeah, I’m Serge Grano, the house boss.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of his larger companion and added, “This is Alfonse. We just call him Ape. We’re the welcoming party.”
“I don’t think you’re the only ones,” Bolan replied, flicking his eyes to his left.
Grano turned and looked at Ape. “You know what he’s talking about?”
“Nope,” Ape replied with a shrug.
Grano looked at Bolan again. “What are you talking about?”
“You guys are being watched,” Bolan replied. “By a cop.” Grano started to look around, but Bolan immediately stopped him by adding, “Don’t look for him or he’ll run scared. I’d play cool, wait until he’s where we can deal with it.”
Grano leveled a hard stare at Bolan. “You’re just off the boat, and you think you’re calling the shots—”
“I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Grano,” Bolan replied quickly. “But the guy may be watching me, which means he’s watching you too, and I don’t want to put Mr. Lenzini in any type of a scrape. Okay?”
Grano smiled, obviously pleased by what he was hearing. Part of Bolan’s cover included stories of how he’d earned the name “Loyal.” He was supposedly fiercely dedicated to his employers.
“Sounds like you live up to your reputation,” Grano said. “I think you’re going to find that Mr. Lenzini appreciates loyalty. We all appreciate it.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m already feeling like I’m home again,” Bolan said. “Now, the only question is how you want to handle this situation, Mr. Grano.”
“You any good behind a wheel?” Grano asked.
Bolan nodded.
“All right then,” Grano said, turning to his companion. “We’ll let him drive, and we can deal with this cop.”
Bolan thought furiously. He’d hoped Grano would offer him the opportunity to take the guy out himself—make the new bull prove himself. This was no good. He’d have to act immediately, or there would be trouble.
“We go public with this,” Bolan said quickly, “we could have trouble with the cops.”
“Are you kidding?” Grano said with a chuckle, clapping Bolan on the shoulder. “We’ve got half the force in our pocket. We’d be out within the hour.”
“Maybe, but I’m not so sure we can afford that kind of attention right now. I’m still pretty hot on the list.”
Grano shook his head as he lit a cigarette and then offered one to Bolan, who declined with a shake of his head. “You got a better idea, I’m open to it,” he said.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Bolan replied. “I noticed the guy when I got off the bus. Now, if he’s here for me and I just walk away, he’s going to follow. That proves it’s me he’s interested in and I can certainly deal with him quietly. If I leave and he stays on you guys, then I’d suggest you go and I’ll cover your ass when he’s focused on you. Either way, we can meet after at some place of your choosing, with no fuss, no static. And we don’t draw unnecessary attention to ourselves.”
Grano appeared to consider Bolan’s plan for a long moment. At first, the Executioner wondered if the guy was going to go for it, but finally Grano let out a chuckle and a gust of smoke. He said, “Yeah, that sounds like a pretty good plan, Loyal. You ever been to Boston before?”
Bolan nodded.
“Good. You meet up with us at a place on Lexington and Ninth, little coffee shop there.” Grano handed him a business card that was generic and nondescript. “It’s only a few blocks from here. If you get lost, ask directions. We’ll wait for you.”
Bolan gave another nod then turned and walked purposely past the guy he’d marked as a cop. The man immediately lowered the paper he was pretending to read, turned and fell into step behind Bolan. The Executioner didn’t have to see the guy on his tail; his instincts told him he was being followed. Instinct had saved him more times than he cared to count.
The soldier led the cop from the bus station and immediately crossed the street in the direction of a department store. Despite the inclement weather, the streets were full of shoppers.
Bolan got across the sidewalk and immediately hurried into the store’s revolving glass door. He turned a hard left and slipped behind a display that didn’t expose his back to viewing from the outside but would allow him to reverse roles when his tail came through. He didn’t have long to wait.
The man entered and stopped just inside the doorway, causing a woman behind him to stop short and curse him for his unexpected move. The guy appeared to ignore her as the woman stepped around him, gave him the finger and then continued about her business. Bolan focused on his quarry. The man moved away from him and headed toward the escalator.
Bolan followed. The hunter had just become the hunted.
Amarillo, Texas
TYRA MACEWAN SIGHED with relief as she settled into the old-fashioned iron bathtub and let the hot, soapy water work its healing magic on her sore and tired body. It felt good to be home. She felt safe knowing her mother was downstairs. She could hear the woman humming some big-band tune while busying herself preparing dinner. It reminded MacEwan of a more innocent time: a time before the New Islamic Front terrorists and the penetration of Carnivore by Sadiq Rhatib; a time before she’d lost her innocence to the real horrors of terrorism; a time before she’d met a hotshot flyer named Jack and a soldier named Cooper.
MacEwan thought of the two men and smiled. The idea that men like that were keeping people safe was certainly a comfort. With their help, and the help of an electronics genius she knew only as “Bear,” MacEwan had managed to avert a world disaster. They weren’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. But if anyone could handle the problem, it was the people with whom MacEwan had forged a powerful alliance. MacEwan was especially concerned about Jack. She didn’t even know his last name, and it was probably better she didn’t, but she’d found herself immediately attracted to the strong, temperamental pilot with the quick wit and the sharp tongue. She knew a large part of Jack’s snappy sense of humor and Type A personality had to do with things from his past—things he couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t, talk about. And Cooper was even more closemouthed than his friend. He was a man of unprecedented talent as a soldier and involved in unspeakable brutality. Yes, Matt Cooper definitely had ghosts. Still, MacEwan could see a warmer side to him. It was one that he didn’t show much, because he couldn’t afford to let down his guard. He lived a life that few could live, and his world was filled with killing and bloodshed and danger. It was the kind of existence that MacEwan surmised would destroy most men in very little time. Then again, she had learned—just in those few short days she’d spent with him—that Cooper was not most men.
There was a sudden but soft rap at the bathroom door, followed by the sound of her mother’s voice. “Honey, are you almost finished? Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be right down, Mom,” MacEwan replied, looking at her watch on the nearby chair and realizing she’d been soaking for more than a half hour. She had to have dozed off because it felt as if she’d just settled into the very hot water that was now only lukewarm.
MacEwan pulled herself carefully from the old tub and stepped onto the carpet. She ran a large, fluffy towel against her firm body. She stopped for a moment in front of the full-length mirror mounted to the back of the bathroom door and studied her shapely curves as she ran the towel against her brown, curly hair.
You’re an attractive woman, plain and simple, she thought. Any guy who valued intelligence and sensitivity would think her a great catch.
MacEwan finished drying herself, and after slipping into jeans, socks and a pressed pink blouse, she headed down the creaking stairs to the kitchen. She found her mother bustling about, preparing dinner in her usual fashion, acting as if there weren’t a care in the world. Of course, she didn’t have any reason to worry. MacEwan had decided not to tell her mother what had really transpired over the past week or so. Despite the security risks, she saw no reason to worry the poor woman unnecessarily.
Sally MacEwan stopped what she was doing long enough to fix her daughter with an appraising look followed by the approval of a warm smile. She was a short, thin woman with pointed features. MacEwan wondered if she would look like that at fifty-nine. “That’s a nice outfit, dear,” she said.
MacEwan couldn’t help but laugh at her mother’s remark, but she immediately stepped forward and gave her a loving peck on the cheek. “I wouldn’t exactly call this old thing an outfit, Mom. But I’m glad you like it all the same.”
Her mother merely shook her head. “Still just a young smart aleck, aren’t you? You got that from your daddy. Now make yourself useful, girl, and finish setting the table.”
“Yes, ma’am,” MacEwan replied. She turned toward the cabinet where the glasses and plates were stored, and her mom swatted her on the behind with a towel before returning her attention to the stove.
As MacEwan retrieved the dinnerware, she looked out the kitchen window into the backyard of the house. The MacEwans had a lot of ranching acreage, the result of years of hard work by MacEwan’s father. That same work had sent her to a local university and subsequently to MIT. MacEwan hadn’t abused such a privilege, graduating top of her class and going to work almost immediately for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. She’d been with their Information Processing Technology Office for only six months before capturing the attention of Dr. Mitchell Fowler, a genius and the subject of one of MacEwan’s college white papers on the security of the Carnivore system. It had been an honor to work with such a distinguished scientist. MacEwan had no idea it would turn into such a deadly proposition.
But she was taking some much needed vacation time and she didn’t have to worry about it anymore. At least that’s what she had hoped. Her time with Cooper had taught her to look for the unusual in everything, and she was almost positive she had just spotted one of those unusual things. She could see the setting sunlight reflecting off metal.
“Mom?”
“Hmm…Yes, dear?”
“Where are Daddy’s binoculars?”
The mother turned to look at her daughter, but MacEwan’s eyes were still focused on the metal reflecting light in the distance. She could hear her mother say something, but she couldn’t make out the words because of the sudden sound of blood pulsing in her ears. Her heartbeat quickened. Something wasn’t right. There were only maybe five or six people who knew where she was, and none of them would have any reason to keep the house under observation.
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Did you hear me?”
“No.” MacEwan blinked and turned to face her mother. “What did you say?”
“I said they’re in the study, bottom drawer of his desk.”
“Thanks.”
She left the dishes right where they were on the counter, ignoring her mother’s inquiries. She went straight to the study and opened in her father’s desk drawer. She hated this room every time she entered it. It hadn’t been the same since her father had died, and while her mother had tried to preserve things just the way they were, the place had taken on an eerie quality. It was like a damn morgue with her father’s strong, vital presence absent. Everything had seemed out of place in the room since his death.
MacEwan shook off the bad vibes, located the binoculars where her mother had told her they were and immediately returned to the kitchen. She brought the device to her eyes and adjusted the focus until she had the source of the reflection in sight. It was a nondescript sedan, coupe-style body, with four men inside. None of them looked like foreigners. In fact, they looked almost like government agents. Still, something wasn’t quite right.
“Mom, I need you to do me a favor,” she said calmly.
“What’s that?” her mother replied as she finished setting the table. “And what on earth are you looking at with those things? It’s almost time to eat, and I want to get finished before Jeopar—”
“Mom,” MacEwan snapped, “I need to borrow your car.”
“Right this minute? Why?”
MacEwan spun and faced her mother, trying to maintain her patience. “Because I need to go into town for something.”
Her mother made a sweeping gesture toward the table and kitchen cabinets. “We’ve got everything you need. You did the shopping with me. I—”
“Momma, I’m sorry but I can’t explain this right now. I need to borrow the car, and I have to go into town right now.”
Sally MacEwan started toward the window, yanking the binoculars from her daughter’s hands before she had a chance to stop her. “Are those people you work with watching you? Honestly, you’ve had a darn heck of a time already. Why don’t they leave you alone?”
“Mom, don’t.” MacEwan grabbed her mother by the arm and took the binoculars from her. “You’re right, there is someone watching the house, but I don’t know who. And I don’t want you involved in this. It’s bad enough I have to be involved in it.”
“In what?” Sally MacEwan asked, stepping forward and cocking her head to one side. “Are you in some kind of trouble? You’ve been so quiet and secretive since you got in yesterday morning.”
MacEwan shook her head emphatically. “No, I’m not in any trouble. But I don’t know who these men are, and I need to contact some people who I think could find out.”
“Why don’t they just leave you alone?” her mother asked again with rapid shake of her head.
“It’s not them bothering me, Mom. I have to go. Your keys are in the dish by the door?”
Her mother nodded, following quickly as MacEwan snatched the keys and pulled a light jacket from the closet.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Not long,” MacEwan replied, stepping forward and giving her mother a peck on the cheek. As she turned and headed out the garage door, her mother called after her, “Don’t dent up that car, young lady!”
“I won’t, Momma.”
3
Lorenz Trabucco sat in the front passenger seat of the car and slowly pried away the dirt from under his fingernails with a nail file. He hated waiting around, and he still couldn’t believe his damned bad luck. He loathed boring-ass assignments, and he sure as hell didn’t like Texas. He preferred his hometown of Boston any day of the week.
“I don’t know why Serge insists on sending me on these expeditions to shit-kicker land,” Trabucco complained to no one in particular. He looked to his wheelman and bodyguard, Lou Maxim, first then looked into the back seat where Mickey “Bronco” Huffman and Joey DeLama sat. The two were dozing off, and at first Trabucco felt like yelling at them to stay alert, but he opted not to. He figured there was no point in being a dick.
Trabucco returned to his manicure as he continued complaining, “It’s just that I think I’m beyond this stuff. You know what I mean, Maxi?”
“I know what you mean, boss,” the bodyguard replied.
“I shouldn’t have to babysit some techno-geek broad, I should be out enforcing.” He thumped the dash and then patted his chest for emphasis. “I’m a Trabucco. You know what I’m saying? I come from a long line of enforcers. I don’t—”
“Boss, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but it looks like she’s leaving.”
Trabucco immediately looked in the direction of the house. He could see the car being backed out of the driveway. What he couldn’t see was who was in it. “It’s too far away. Can’t tell if that’s her in the car or the old bat who picked her up at the airport. What do you think, Maxi?”
“Looks like her, boss.”
“All right, then follow her,” Trabucco said. “But you make sure she don’t see you. You got that?”
“I got it, boss.”
“Hey, you boneheads!” Trabucco shouted at the back-seat pair as Maxim started the car. “Quit your damn loafing and pay attention. The broad’s leaving.”
“Where’s she going, boss?” DeLama mumbled.
“What?” Trabucco said, reaching back and slapping DeLama’s face. “What the fuck do I look like to you, Joey? Do I look like Mumbo Jumbo the Mind Reader to you, or something?”
“No, boss, course not,” DeLama stammered, his face visibly reddened by Trabucco’s assault.
Trabucco looked at Bronco who was now fully awake and reaching beneath his jacket to check the load in his .45-caliber semiauto pistol. The guy was a strict professional and he loved to kill. The big son-of-a-bitch bruiser—bigger even than Maxim—with his pug nose and shaved head was the only one in the crew that actually intimidated Trabucco just a bit. There were a lot of opinions, mostly conjecture, as to where Huffman had earned the nickname of Bronco, but the widely accepted story was he’d gotten it from the ladies. Supposedly, they loved to ride him like a horse and they insisted he was hung like the same, and that he was a bucking bronco.
Joey DeLama was another story entirely. A young kid who was heir to a Newark crime Family, DeLama had been taken down a few notches because he’d been a big mouth and nearly brought down his entire Family. His father had decided that DeLama needed to go out and get some smarts, so he called his long-time ally, Nicolas Lenzini.