Kill Squad

2

In hospital and under guard, Leo Turrin was slowly recovering from surgery to remove a slug from his chest. The bullet had clipped a lung and had lodged in muscle.

Family and friends had visited after hurried cross-country flights. Even Hal Brognola, Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, a secret antiterrorist organization based at Stony Man Farm, had shown up, then quickly departed.

Turrin had given his evidence to the investigating team from Justice. Now, in the silence of his room, staring unseeing at the walls, Turrin tried to make sense of it all. He had been involved in the world of crime and its attendant horrors for so long he imagined nothing could shock him, yet he still found himself drawn into the effects of such pointless violence. He had learned that several innocents had been killed, including two children. What made it worse: there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

He heard the door to his room swish open. The door closed and Turrin became aware of a presence.

Unobtrusive.

Standing silently beside the bed.

Before a word was spoken, Turrin knew who it was.

“We are going to make this right, Leo.”

When he heard those simple words, the little Fed felt a degree of tension drain away.

“It’s not going to be easy.”

“It’s never easy,” Mack Bolan said. “But it’s doable.”

“It should have been straightforward, Mack. Sherman was ready to make a deal. A new identity for information on Conte.”

“Why would he do that?”

Turrin took a breath as a surge of pain slashed through his chest.

“The guy was at odds with Conte. My contact in Vegas said the casino boss was getting more and more aggressive with everyone around him—running the organization as if he was some kind of untouchable. A few people vanished after they had committed some minor discretions. Conte was showing there was no place for mistakes in his organization.

“Sherman knew his time had come when he was accused of stealing money from the accounts. He knew Conte would come after him. He’d want Sherman’s head on a plate. So he took the only option he could.” Turrin took another slow breath. “When Sherman found incriminating information in Conte’s files, he saved it on a flash drive. It was his bargaining chip. When we met, he told me he’d give us the data that would give us the go on Conte’s organization. Now I’m not sure the information will be worth what it’s already cost in lives.”

Turrin asked for water and Bolan obliged. Bolan placed the plastic cup in his old friend’s hand and waited as he sipped the water through a straw.

“Leo, if this is too much right now, we can leave it.”

Turrin shook his head.

“We don’t have the luxury of time. Sherman’s out there on his own. The guy is in a bad place, Mack. He’s an accountant, not a street soldier. I contacted him and offered my help. Now he’s on the run. Conte’s kill squads will be hunting him. If they get to him first, it’s over.”

“Then we stop Conte, Leo. Play him at his own game. By the rules he sets down.”

“Read up on him, Mack. This guy runs his organization through violence and intimidation and doesn’t give a damn about anyone. The casino is his legitimate cover for what goes on behind the scenes. From what we’ve learned that’s a hell of a lot.”

“Justice knows but can’t touch him?”

“Conte has the backing of his people out east. The real power is the Russian mob out of Brighton Beach. They have high-priced lawyers and money to burn on payoffs. These people know how to buy their protection, Mack. Justice has been trying to find a way in, but these guys have it sewed up tight. Sherman’s information could go a long way to bringing them all down. But right now I have no idea where he is or what he’s done with the evidence.”

“The thing about sewing things up is the opportunity to pick at the stitches,” Bolan said.

Those few words told Turrin that he could rest a little easier.

Mack Bolan was on board.

The Executioner was ready to roll.

Conte and the Russian mob were in for a rough ride.

3

“Marco, it’s a call for you,” Milo Forte said. “I think it’s Harry Sherman.”

Conte took the phone. “Yeah?”

“You double-crossed me, Marco,” Sherman said without preamble. “I valued your word. I should have known better.”

“Harry, it’s business. Nothing personal. I have to go with the percentages and they were telling me I should cut my losses.”

“You think? Marco, I might have had respect for you a while ago, but you just proved what a cheap hood you are—”

“You can’t talk to me like that, you fucking bean counter. You know who I am?”

“I know what you are, Marco. A scared little gofer who has to jump through hoops every time your Russian boss says so. And right now you’re in trouble. Bulova isn’t going to be happy you let nine million slip through your fingers. I would have stuck to my agreement, but you couldn’t even do that.”

The silence was thick enough to cut.

“Where are you, Harry? Tell me so I can come rip your throat out.”

“I would have helped, but now I’m going to do my best to see that you and Bulova go down. I have the goods on you, Marco. I found your hidden files. The ones that have all the names and dates and payoffs. I made a copy and I’m going to give it to the Feds. You just had to send out your guy with his gun to put me down. The trouble is, he screwed up. He missed me but hurt other people. So to hell with you all. You made me angry, Marco, and it takes a lot to do that, you loser.”

“We’ll find you, Harry, and I’ll make it my personal business to cut you into little pieces.”

The phone went dead in Conte’s hand.

“Milo, that piece of garbage is threatening to hand over files to the Feds. Goddamn it, we need to find him fast or we’re done.”

* * *

VITALY DANICHEV SAT in the rear of the SUV, making no move to climb out. His driver sat patiently at the wheel, staring out through the windshield. He knew better than to disturb his employer when he was in such a mood. Tibor Kolchak flanked the driver. Even though he was Danichev’s chief bodyguard, the huge man understood when to remain nothing more than a passive observer.

“All right, Tibor, let’s get this done.”

Kolchak climbed out of the SUV and moved his bulk to Danichev’s door, opening it so that his boss could step out. He headed directly for the casino’s entrance. Despite his powerful size, Kolchak stayed ahead of his boss, yanking open the door for him. Danichev walked inside and along the carpeted floor. Even at this time of day the casino was busy with people moving in and out. A constant stream of potential winners and losers.

“Mr. Conte is waiting for you in the Crater Lounge, sir,” said the floor manager.

He led them through the casino to a closed door at the far side of the opulent gambling floor. They stepped through the door and into the semi-lit area of the lounge. The empty dance floor was surrounded by tables and chairs, and a long, curved bar sat at the rear. The motif of the room was of planets and stars, the ceiling illuminated by simulated lunar craters and subdued light.

Marco Conte sat at the bar on a high stool, two of his hardmen close by. His gaze settled on Danichev and remained there as the Russian approached. Conte had a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. He was putting on an act of nonchalance, a display for Danichev’s benefit. It was a wasted effort. The Russian ignored it.

“Have you found him?” Danichev asked.

Any form of greeting Conte might have been considering faded fast.

“No.”

“And so you sit there doing nothing?”

“I have my people out looking for him,” Conte said.

Danichev’s lips curved into a faint smile a second before he exploded with rage.

“You have people looking for him. What the fuck does that mean? This accountant has run out on you. And you have done nothing to stop him. The Feds want him to give them this evidence he found.”

Danichev began to speak Russian, his rage filling the room as he subjected Conte to an intense verbal rant. His hands lashed out, knocking the cigar and the glass from Conte’s hands.

The casino boss took the verbal assault without protest, his shock at being so intensely attacked rendering him speechless. He might be the head man in Vegas but under Danichev’s intense rebuke he could have been a street soldier with no rank. He had heard about the Russian’s powerful presence, but this was the only time he had been on the receiving end. He was physically trembling, his face bloodless; he realized his position so he remained silent. The last thing he needed to do was to offer some lame excuse.

“Get me a drink,” Danichev said to Kolchak, suddenly reverting to English.

Kolchak stepped behind the bar. He sought out a bottle of expensive vodka and filled a tumbler, handing it to Danichev. The Russian savored the liquor before taking a swallow.

“At least this delivers as it should,” he said after the vodka slid down his throat. “Pour one for Marco. I think he is going to need it.”

Conte took the offered drink without protest. He hated the stuff, preferring a good malt whiskey, but at that moment he wasn’t going to do anything to upset Danichev further.

“Get rid of the monkeys,” Danichev ordered.

Conte dismissed his bodyguards. He was aware of Danichev’s scrutiny, so he took another swallow of the vodka.

“So,” Danichev said in a more conversational tone that did little to make Conte feel any better. “I got angry because you fucked up. You now understand how bad you fucked up. Because of your error the organization is now vulnerable to the Feds. The last thing we need is to be placed in their sights any more than we already are. Do you agree, Marco?”

“Yes. But we will find him.”

“That is not the answer I was hoping for. What I asked was whether you think Sherman has left us in a vulnerable position.”

Conte noticed that his hand holding the glass of vodka was trembling slightly. It angered him that Danichev could have that effect on him. And it annoyed him the way the man talked down to him.

In the seconds following his thoughts, Marco Conte realized his position, his power over events, was only granted by the ultimate heads of the organization. They wielded the big stick from their power base back east. His empire, out here in the sticks, only existed because it generated revenue—that ultimate power being demonstrated to him by the presence of Vitaly Danichev. If Danichev decided to end Conte’s reign, he could do it simply by clicking his fingers and unleashing the hulking figure of Tibor Kolchak. It could happen in an instant and Conte would cease to exist.

“If he manages to hand over that information to the Feds, we could have problems,” Conte conceded.

“Good. With that out of the way we must move to prevent this matter getting any further out of hand.”

Danichev glanced at Kolchak.

The big man took out a cell phone that was dwarfed by his massive hand. He tapped in a speed-dial number and waited until the call was answered. He leaned across the bar and handed it to Danichev.

“Where are you?” the Russian asked. “Excellent. Come straight inside when you arrive.”

* * *

TEN MINUTES and two more glasses of vodka later, Danichev heard the sound of raised voices. The doors to the lounge were pushed open and five men walked in.

“On time, as usual,” he said.

The group was headed by a well-muscled man in his late thirties. His dark hair was close-cut, his angular face tanned, emphasizing the pale color of his eyes.

“Mr. Danichev,” the man said, respect evident in his voice. His gaze passed over Conte before centering on Danichev again. “Ready to go, sir.”

“This is Marco Conte,” Danichev said. “He heads this territory for us. Marco, I want you to meet Anatole Killian. Anatole and his men are here to put right our little problem. I want you to give Anatole all the help he needs. He has my permission to ask any questions. To go through everything there is to know about our absent accountant. He has the full backing of the organization to do whatever is needed to resolve this matter.”

Conte understood exactly what was implied by Danichev’s words. He didn’t need to have it spelled out any clearer. He knew exactly who Anatole Killian was. His team’s reputation within the organization was well known, as was its purpose. He and his men were known as the Kill Squad.

“It appears that Sherman accessed sensitive data from Marco’s computer and saved it to a flash drive,” Danichev said. “That data, if handed over to the Feds, could prove extremely embarrassing to Mr. Bulova.”

Killian considered what had been said. “Is this information that important?”

“Yes. It is Conte’s master list of people, the amount of money paid to them, as well as the reason why it was paid and dates.”

“I can understand why that kind of information is important,” Killian said, “but how did Sherman manage to get hold of it?”

“Because he’s a smart son of a bitch who managed to get into my secure files and access what was on them.”

“Not so secure then,” Killian said.

Conte emptied his drink. “So it fucking well seems.”

“Anatole, don’t upset Marco. He’s not having too good a day.”

“Sorry,” Killian said. “Let me have everything on this Sherman. I need to find a starting point. Contacts this guy might have. Places he might go. Any family he might run to.”

“Sherman has a sister and a niece. They live in Des Moines. A nephew is deployed overseas,” Conte said. “We did a background check when he applied for the job. Apparently, Sherman and his sister don’t really get on. The sister doesn’t approve of his lifestyle. She believes Vegas is not the place to work.”

“You think she is worried we might corrupt him?” Danichev asked.

“Something like that.”

“If Sherman is on the move, he might contact his sister,” Killian said. “Family loyalty.”

“Have a local contact arrange for a home visit,” Danichev said. “The sister might have what we need.”

Killian nodded. “I’ll get on it.”

4

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Aaron Kurtzman, the head of Stony Man’s cyber team, propelled his wheelchair into the War Room and positioned himself beside Mack Bolan. In addition to the Executioner, Harold Brognola and Barbara Price, SOG’s mission controller, were seated at the conference table.

The cyber wizards had been instructed to dig into Marco Conte’s life and times. His background, the structure of his operations, the people he dealt with, his staff. All details had been entered into the Farm’s supercomputer, logged and pulled into order.

Kurtzman’s team had dug into FBI files, the records from ATF and police records. Even the legal firm Conte used to keep him out of jail had come under their cyber eyes. They had all that, plus the data that had been downloaded from Leo Turrin’s files courtesy of Brognola.

Kurtzman began his presentation.

“The organization run by Marco Conte is ultimately responsible to the crime syndicate headed by Serge Bulova. Conte has complete control of his outfit, but at the end of the day he’s part of the Bulova operation and anything that hurts Conte hurts Bulova. It seems that a recent task force investigation of Conte has made some inroads into his organization. Nothing that could stand up in court yet, but Bulova has been rattled by the interest shown in Conte’s setup. That said, once news reached Bulova that there was a significant problem within Conte’s organization, Justice intel says he sent Vitaly Danichev to monitor the situation.”

“I’ve heard that name before,” Bolan said.

“Danichev keeps people in line for Bulova. He’s got a reputation as a no-nonsense enforcer. He gets results. The hard way, according to intel reports. Never gets his own hands dirty. There’s a team of hit men who clean up any loose ends. They work under Danichev’s control.”

“Guns for hire?” Bolan asked.

Kurtzman nodded. “Unofficially they’re known as the Kill Squad.” He tapped at the slim keyboard on the table in front of him. A grainy image appeared on the large wall monitor, depicting a dark-haired man with an angular face and pale blue eyes. His hard features were clean-shaved and his expression was solemn. “These are the only pictures known to exist of the guy heading the squad and his second in command.”

Bolan studied the face and committed it to memory. He would know the guy if he encountered him.

“Do we have a name?”

“Anatole Killian. That’s all we’ve got. The other guy is Jake Fresco.”

“Not the types you’d want to meet on a dark night,” Price said. “Or even in broad daylight, for that matter.”

“Do we assume Killian was behind the attempt to kill Harry Sherman?” Bolan asked.

“We don’t know. The hit could have been set up by Conte. A sniper made the shot from a rooftop across from the café where Leo was meeting Sherman. You already know what went down. Sherman was on the verge of cooperating with Leo. He was ready to step away from the Conte organization and offer evidence that would give the task force enough to go for Marco Conte. Leo was going to give him protection.”

“But the shooter made a mess of the attempt,” Brognola said. “Hit Turrin instead of Sherman.”

“He tried to clean up by taking more shots as Sherman ran,” Kurtzman said. “He just made things worse, killing civilians, including two children.”

“I haven’t forgotten about the loss of those innocents, especially the kids,” Bolan rasped.

The deaths of the children would be in his thoughts for as long as it took to make things right. And he would. There had to be a reckoning for the indiscriminate slaughter of people who were merely collateral damage for a killer out to make a buck. Bolan would not forget those deaths.

Or the injury to Leo Turrin.

“What have you got on Sherman?” Bolan asked.

“Harry Sherman,” Kurtzman said. Another image flashed onto the monitor. “Thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. Pure and simple? A money man. He ran the accounts for Conte. Kept track of all the cash coming in and never took a wrong step until nine million dollars disappeared. We don’t have all the details, but it looks as if Sherman’s the fall guy for someone snatching the money.

“Sherman has a sister, Gwen Darrow,” Kurtzman went on. “She lives in Des Moines. She’s a lawyer with her own practice in the city. She’s a widow with two kids. Laura is in college. Carl is in the military. He’s on active service right now.”

He brought up a picture of a handsome woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. There were two more images. One of Darrow’s son, Carl, in uniform, and one of her daughter, Laura, who was an attractive, younger version of her mother.

“Good place to start looking for Sherman as any,” Bolan said.

“I’ll make travel arrangements for you,” Price advised, gathering her file and leaving the room.

“Aaron, will you download the intel you’ve gathered to my sat phone?”

“You’ll have it shortly.”

The meeting broke up after another half hour. Bolan made his way to the room he used when he was in residence at Stony Man and packed a bag. Then he dropped by the armory where he chose the weapons he’d need for the mission: a Beretta 93-R and several magazines loaded with 9 mm ammo. He also chose a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, as well as a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife and holsters for both handguns.

He liaised with Price, who set him up with his travel pack. Jack Grimaldi, the Stony Man resident pilot, would fly him to Des Moines.

“Pick up your vehicle at the airfield,” she said. “A Chevy Suburban is being delivered as we speak. Try not to return it to the rental agency full of holes.”

“That’s happened before?” Bolan asked with a grin.

“Take a look at our insurance premiums,” Price quipped and then winked.

“You ready, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.

“Let’s move out.”

As Grimaldi turned and headed for the door, Price leaned forward and kissed Bolan.

“Stay safe, soldier,” she said.

Outside Des Moines, Iowa

GRIMALDI TOUCHED DOWN at a private airstrip a few miles from the main airport. The ace pilot had contacts across the country when it came to safe landing spots. He was friendly with a large number of independent operators and those contacts came in handy when he needed an out-of-the-way place to land. Grimaldi was a sociable man, and when he made friends, those friendships tended to be strong and long-lasting. It was no secret that many of his acquaintances were of the female variety. He was the land-based version of the sailor with a girl in every port.