Kill Squad

ALL BETS ARE OFF

Nine million dollars goes missing from a Vegas casino, and accountant Harry Sherman becomes the mob’s scapegoat. Sherman’s ready to spill everything to the Feds in exchange for his freedom, but his bosses are determined to shut him up—forever. Protecting the moneyman proves too much for the Justice Department, leaving only one guy for the job: Mack Bolan.

Soon, Bolan’s racing across the country to secure the fugitive Sherman before a team of hired killers catches up to him. Time is tight as every clue to the desperate man’s whereabouts leads to a dead body and puts innocent lives in the line of fire. But when it comes to justice, the Executioner always has another card up his sleeve—and he’ll aim it straight at the enemy.

Bolan triggered a tri-burst through the door connecting the train cars.

Crouching, they made for the door at the far end of the car. Bolan flung it open and hustled Sherman through. They paused on the swaying, open platform between the two cars, the rattle and rumble of the train loud in their ears.

The ground swept by, a spread of green below the slope that bordered the track.

Bolan glanced back and saw armed figures moving into view. This time he held the Beretta in both hands and fired. Glass shattered. Bolan saw one man fall, and the others pulled aside. The delay would only last for seconds. He holstered the 93R and zipped up his jacket.

“You ever jump from a moving train?”

Sherman stared at Bolan. “Hell, no,” he said.

“First time for everything.”

Kill Squad

Don Pendleton

Honorable actions are ascribed by us to virtue, and dishonorable actions to vice; and only a madman would conclude that these judgments are matters of opinion, and not fixed by nature.

—Marcus Tulius Cicero, 106–43 BC

There is no honor in the Mob, human vultures who prey upon the weak and the innocent, their sole purpose to make money. But there are good people who fight the good fight, and we will stand with them until our last breath.

—Mack Bolan

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

Legend

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

EPILOGUE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Las Vegas, Nevada

Harry Sherman knew there was a problem the moment he stepped inside Marco Conte’s spacious office. The casino boss sat behind his massive desk, his narrowed gaze drilling into him.

His bodyguard, Milo Forte, was seated beside him. Forte was a big man, well muscled beneath his well-cut suit, and Sherman knew he had a fearsome reputation. He was ready to act the moment his boss snapped his fingers. A pair of Conte’s hardmen stood near the desk, flanking Sol Lemke. They kept the man upright because he was unable to stand on his own.

Lemke was one of the accountants who worked under Sherman in the accounting department. It took him a few moments to recognize his subordinate, who had been beaten until his face was a swollen mess. There was excessive blood. His nose was flattened and his pulped mouth hung open, dribbling blood from his lacerated lips and gums down his shirtfront. From the way his left arm hung, it was obvious that it was broken and his left hand was a misshapen, finger-crushed mess.

Marco Conte ran the Vegas casino with a firm hand. He intimidated those who worked under him while presenting a genial face to the customers. No one crossed Conte. He was tough and uncompromising. From the tension in the office and the harsh expression on Conte’s face, Sherman knew that something heavy was going down.

As Sherman moved into the room he heard the solid door click shut behind him. He experienced a frisson of anxiety. He had no idea what this summons was all about.

“Nine million dollars, Harry,” Conte said in his low, gruff voice. “Nine. That’s a shitload of money.”

As the head of the casino’s accounting department, Sherman knew what nine million dollars represented, but he had no idea how it related to him. Even so he was beginning to get nervous. His mouth went dry.

“Mr. Conte?”

The casino boss leaned forward.

“That’s odd, Harry,” he said.

“What?”

“You called me Mr. Conte. Not Marco. We’ve never used anything but first names, Harry. You sound nervous. Is there a reason why you should be nervous?”

“Mr.—Marco...can someone tell me what this is all about? Because I have no idea.”

Sherman knew his voice had cracked. It came out like a croak.

“Why did I expect him to say that?” Conte asked no one in particular. “Maybe it’s because he does know what this is all about. Is that right, Sol?”

Lemke refused to meet Sherman’s gaze. He pawed at his bleeding mouth with his right hand, wincing when he touched torn flesh.

“Yeah, he knows.”

His voice was weak, quavering.

Sherman could feel all eyes on him. He was being accused of something, and he didn’t know what.

“Gone, Harry,” Conte said finally. “All that money gone. Lost.”

“Or stolen,” Forte added.

“He has a point, Harry. Money doesn’t get up and walk away on its own.”

“Marco, none of this makes sense. Where was this money?”

“The backup account,” Conte said. “You remember the backup account? You should, Harry, because you look after it.”

Sherman remained silent. There was a nagging voice in his head telling him he hadn’t looked at the account in some time. Mainly because there was no need. The backup fund was seldom touched. Because the casino was making so much money, there was no need to dip into the reserve.

Forte raised a hamlike fist and jabbed a thick finger in Lemke’s direction.

“Quit screwing ’round, Sherman. We know. Lemke and you took the money. He already told us.”

The words stung. Sherman stared at Lemke. The man held his gaze despite the pain he was in.

“Harry,” Conte said, “there’s no use trying to stall. Sol told us you were in it together. Took the nine million and shifted it to other accounts you set up.”

The words hit like solid punches. Sherman was unable to speak. His mind was wrestling with the situation, trying to make sense of it all. If money was missing, he had been set up by Lemke to draw attention from himself and implicate Sherman.

“Marco, this is crazy. You really believe what he’s saying? That I’d be any part of this? Come on, Marco, it’s too much of a setup to be true.”

“Is it?”

“Why would I even try to screw you over? What the hell would I want with nine million dollars? Don’t I get paid enough to look after your books? Jesus, Marco, I’m no big spender. I don’t even gamble. You’re always joking about that. The only guy in Vegas who doesn’t even play the slot machines. What do you think? That I’ve run up such a big tab I have to steal from the man I work for? Marco, just look at me. I have not done this. I would not do this to you. Ever.”

Conte was studying Sherman closely, searching his face for any hint of deception.

“I always trusted you, Harry. Right now I’m not so sure I should have.”

“Marco, what can I say? This is down to my word against Sol’s. While we’re playing his game, his real partners are moving the money out of reach.”

It had become very quiet. No one spoke. They were all waiting for Conte.

His decision would be final. There would be no challenge to it. If Conte made a decision, it was written in concrete. No going back. Right or wrong, his word was law.

“Okay, this is how we’ll do it. Harry, you have four days to locate the missing money. I give you my word that nothing will happen to you during that time. If you don’t replace the nine million, that’s it. If the money isn’t back where it belongs, the hammer comes down. Don’t fail me, Harry. Until today I never had reason to doubt you. Don’t make a fool out of me. If you’re on the level, make me see that. Lemke here figured he was smart enough to put some of the take in his own account so he could skip town and collect the big prize later. He didn’t know there’s a check we can make on the unexpected movement of casino money. Not even you were told about it, Harry. We’ll be checking your account, as well.”

“Are we going to find some big deposits there?” Forte asked.

“If he’s involved, I don’t think Harry would be stupid enough to do something like that,” Conte said. “It’s your move, Harry. Make my money come back. Four days.”

One of Conte’s men opened the door. As Sherman stepped through and the door began to close behind him, he heard Conte speaking again.

“Not you, Lemke. We have a lot more to discuss...”

Sherman made his way to his office, ignoring the other members of the department. He stepped inside, closed the door, sat at his desk and was suddenly overcome with a feeling of utter loneliness. In a building full of people he was totally on his own, with the clock already starting its slide to zero.

The only thing Sherman knew for certain was that he had not taken Conte’s money. Sol Lemke had fingered him to pull the heat off himself; a seemingly smart move that backfired on the man.

Conte was suspicious, even though he had cut Sherman a break. He was giving him the opportunity to return—or try to return—the missing cash. Sherman knew that even if he succeeded in retrieving the money it was not going to erase what had happened. He was under no illusions as to his eventual fate.

In the end Conte would be considering only one thing: the money. That was the single most important factor in Marco Conte’s life. He didn’t give a damn about anything else.

Once the deadline was reached, successful or not, Harry Sherman would become a target. He was sure the ink was already drying on his death sentence. Conte was not going to risk leaving Sherman alive. That the theft had happened was already a black mark against the man. Conte was going to do all he could to let the east coast mob know that he did not allow such transgressions to go unpunished. Sherman visualized the terrible sight of Sol Lemke—bloody and broken, with more of the same to come.

Sherman would be next. He would be another example of how Marco Conte dealt with anyone who stole from him—because stealing from him meant stealing from the organization, and that was not to be tolerated.

Harry Sherman was walking a tightrope suspended over a drop into Hell.

* * *

FORTE LEANED OVER to hear Conte’s whispered words. The casino boss had made up his mind about Sol Lemke.

“Take him out of town,” Conte said. “Have a couple of the boys work on him until he gives. I don’t give a shit what they do. That turkey knows what this is all about. That’s why he was packed and ready to skip town when the boys picked him up. I want to know who he’s working with.”

Forte nodded. He stood and moved toward one of the hardmen. Lemke picked up on what was being said and jerked upright, staring at Conte.

“I told you how it is, Mr. Conte. It’s Sherman who’s fucking with your money. Not me. That mother has jacked your money. I had nothing to do with it.”

His ranting increased and the accusations poured from his bloody mouth, adding other names to his litany of blame. The shrillness rose as he pleaded for his life.

Conte eventually tired of hearing it. He made a sharp, cutting motion with his hand. Behind Lemke a pistol rose and fell, the solid blow rendering him unconscious.

“Get that piece of trash out of my office,” Conte said. “The back way. Stuff him in the trunk and drive into the desert. You know where. If I didn’t need him able to speak, I’d say cut out his tongue to shut him up. Hell, once he spills what he knows, you can cut it out. Make him eat it before you make him dig his own grave and bury him in it.”

Lemke was dragged from the office through a back door that led directly to the basement garage.

After he had dismissed everyone except Forte, Conte asked for a drink. He sat toying with the thick tumbler.

“Do you believe Harry?” Conte asked.

Forte shrugged. “I can’t decide. He’s always been a straight kind of guy. Boring. But I never would have had him down as a thief. Hell, Marco, how do we know? Working with all that money every day. Moving it around. It would be a hell of a temptation. Even a guy like Harry Sherman could be tempted.”

“I always liked Harry,” Conte said. “He kept the accounts straight. Never caused any problems.” He swallowed the contents of the tumbler and held it out for a refill. “Lemke made a good case against him. But the way Harry reacted... Jesus, Milo... I can’t pin it down one way or the other. And Lemke started to lose it. He was ready to drag in any name he could think of at the end.”

“If Harry’s in on it, he has the chance to make it right,” Forte said. “He must know you don’t mess around. You gave him four days. If it’s not done by then, he knows he’s a dead man. I mean, what’s he going to do? Run and hide?”

That made Conte think. What would Sherman do?

If he was in with Lemke, all he had to do was to keep playing the game until the nine million had been hidden away where it couldn’t be found. Then make a run for it.

If Sherman had been set up by Lemke, he would do his best to get the money back before the deadline. If he succeeded, or failed, he would have realized he was on the edge. He could easily fake the figures to get Conte to back off and then make a run for it.

However the dice rolled, one thing was certain. Marco Conte was going to get a hard time from Serge Bulova. The east coast head honcho would be determined to put the hammer down hard—and Conte, the man on the spot in Vegas, would be the choice to catch the flak. Bulova would see this as Conte having taken his eye off the ball. The Russian wouldn’t give a damn how it turned out. Money back or not, Bulova would make his displeasure known.

“Okay, put someone on Harry,” Conte said. “I need to know his moves. If he steps out of line, he’s finished. And when Harry’s four days are up, I want him dead if he comes through or not. I have to show we don’t let ourselves be played for suckers. We clean up. Make certain we’re covered. Right now I got to call back east and tell Bulova we have a problem.”

“He isn’t going to like it.”

Conte managed a mirthless smile. “You think I do, Milo? There’s no easy way around this. Sooner I call Serge the better. Yeah, he isn’t going to like what I have to tell him. He’ll want to send that prick Danichev to stand watch over us while we sort out this mess. You know, Milo, I hate that smart-ass son of a bitch.”

Conte reached for his phone and hit the speed dial number.

* * *

DESPERATE TO FIND the missing money, Sherman sat at his computer, checking the numbers for the tenth time. He was getting nowhere. As a last hope, he decided to key in a sequence of numbers he had almost forgotten about. Perhaps the money trail could somehow be picked up there.

The commands called up a series of files he had found by accident some months ago. The secret files had come into his possession during a financial data exchange between Sherman and Conte. In his haste, and most likely due to his poor computer skills, the casino boss had unknowingly sent the chief accountant a number of odd files. Sherman had never seen the lines of code before and, more out of curiosity than anything else, had saved them in a folder then deleted Conte’s error.

Immediately following the incident, Sherman had felt a sense of guilt at what he had done. Even so, he’d kept the new files and continued the transfer of accounts to Conte.

Now he opened the saved files and read them one by one. Once his eyes had scanned the first few pages of the lists on his monitor, he was unable to stop. Seeing and recognizing the names, and the payoffs made to those individuals, there was no going back. No erasing the information he had seen. The names and payoffs were in his mind and there was no delete button he could press to wipe them away.

He realized that he was looking at explosive information capable of bringing down powerful people. If this information was made public, a number of influential people were going to fall hard, as would Sherman’s employer and the head of Conte’s organization back east. Sherman had seen the information now. It had the potential to destroy lives, and he would be in the middle of it all.

He decided to save the information on a flash drive. It was all he had; the only insurance policy that might stay Conte’s hand. He only had to figure out what to do with it.

1

Washington, DC

Leo Turrin leaned back in his chair, pondering his next move. Once a deep undercover agent for the Justice Department, Turrin had penetrated the closed ranks of the Mafia and become a trusted confederate. Now he was “semiretired” from the mob and worked in Justice’s headquarters in Washington, DC. His current focus was a crime boss named Marco Conte.

A case board covered one wall of the little Fed’s office. The current layout was a montage of information on the Conte organization. Pinned in place were numerous photos of the main players—Conte in a variety of poses, his coterie of lieutenants, lesser men in the group and photos of other criminal figures; some friends, some enemies—as well as images of buildings that included houses and office complexes, and vehicles. The board contained anything and everything relating to Marco Conte’s operation.

Turrin spent a lot of time studying the information, going over what he knew and adding new data whenever it showed up.

He knew that if he got Conte, Justice would have a shot at taking down the head of the organization, Serge Bulova, an east coast crime lord.

All he wanted was the one small sliver of data that might give him his way in.

Finally his patience and dogged persistence had paid off. He’d learned from an inside source that Harry Sherman, Conte’s chief accountant, was in trouble with his boss. Money was missing.

After researching Sherman, Turrin asked his source to ferret out what he could about the missing money. He had no idea if Sherman would play ball but figured he had nothing to lose and a hell of a lot to gain if Sherman turned out to be the chink in the mob’s armor.

He decided to reach out to the man.

Las Vegas, Nevada

INTEL HAD REVEALED that Harry Sherman stopped at the same café every morning on the way to the casino.

The little Fed sat at the table behind him, watching and waiting for his moment. As Sherman briefly glanced away from the table, Turrin rose and, slipping a folded note beside the man’s coffee mug, walked away. He didn’t look back.

He had to wait until Sherman contacted him. If he didn’t, then the Justice man would try another approach.

The next morning Turrin’s cell phone rang.

Sherman got right down to business. “Who are you?”

“Someone who can help,” Turrin replied.

“Help?”

“You’re having problems with Marco Conte. He’s a dangerous man.”

“Who says I’m having problems?”

“Someone I know. Harry, I have good ears and I’m a listener.”

A long pause. Turrin knew Sherman was still on the line because he could hear the background noise.

“Do you have a solution?”

“I do. I’ll pull you out and get you clear,” Turrin said.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“I don’t hear either of us laughing, Harry.”

“Before I end this call, tell me what this is about.”

“Someone is taking a gamble, Harry, and is in the right place to do that for you.”

“Here? In Vegas? Are you trying to get me killed or what? Jesus, if Conte even sniffs I’ve been talking to you, I’m already dead.”

“So stay ahead of the game, Harry. Make that jump before he decides he can’t trust you any longer.”

“This is crazy. You know who you’re talking about? Why the hell am I even still on the line?” Sherman asked.

“Because you know what I’m saying is the truth, Harry. You’re mixed up with a bad crowd. Be honest. You handle the money for Conte. You know the kinds of things he gets involved with using the casino as a front. Do yourself a favor and get out before Conte makes a move.”

Turrin had no doubt that beads of sweat were sliding down the sides of Sherman’s face, that his body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the weather. The voice on the phone was telling him what he already knew. His days with Conte were numbered—and those numbers were already starting to fall.

“I’ll be at the café tomorrow, Harry. We’ll talk.” The little Fed ended the call.

* * *

TURRIN WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED—and relieved—when Sherman crossed the café and took his usual table. After the accountant had ordered, Turrin stood and crossed the floor to join him. The man glanced up, his face registering slight alarm.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” Turrin said as he took the seat across from Sherman. “Good to meet you, Harry. I’m Leo.”

Turrin waited as Sherman’s coffee and roll were delivered.

“If you can’t help me, Leo, this could be one of my last meals.”

“You have a cell phone on you?”

“Don’t they provide you with one?”

“It’s yours I want. Take it out and place it on the table.”