Deadly Command

Three armed figures stood at the head of the stairs

They were debating something that was also holding them back from approaching the office. The Executioner figured they had found the dead guy downstairs.

To Bolan’s right was the door that led to the parking garage—it was the only way open to his escape.

Aware the three men might push caution behind them and head for the office, Bolan acted. He eased the door wide enough to let him through, raised the Beretta and powered into the corridor. He fired off two 3-round bursts in the general direction of the group and heard the startled shouts. Return shots, fired in haste, gouged the wall, sending plaster dust across the corridor. Bolan kept moving, committed to his action. He reached the door and shouldered it open. A final shot from his pursuers thudded into the door frame inches from Bolan’s head. He slammed the door shut, knowing his freedom would be extremely short lived.

The thunder of boots approaching the door and the voices shouting back and forth warned him his time was running out fast. They had his scent. The hounds had taken up the chase and Bolan was the prize. The only thing they should have taken notice of was this prize had the choice of fighting back.

The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can and as often as you can, and keep moving on.

—Ulysses S. Grant

1822–1885

Those who supply the guns that kill innocent citizens can no longer keep their hands clean. I will hunt them down and end their game—hit them where it hurts, and hit them fast.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

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

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

1

Miami, Florida

The background intel that set Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, on his current mission had been encapsulated in frustration and not without a little impotent rage. Bolan had sensed the futility of the feelings behind the words transmitted via the interview that followed the triple funeral of slain police officers. He might not have even caught the televised segment if he had not been taking some downtime, following the completion of a mission he had undertaken at the behest of Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Bolan’s chosen R & R had him chilling out in an expensive hotel on Florida’s sunshine coast. It wasn’t usual for Bolan to indulge in such opulent surroundings but his state of mind had allowed him a few days of rest, something he needed at that precise moment in time. After three days of allowing himself to relax, Bolan knew his downtime was not going to last for much longer and when he turned on that evening’s newscast, the soldier realized just how true that was.

In a standoff with warring street gangs in Miami, five police officers had been fired on—three were dead, one was in a coma and the fifth still in critical condition. Two civilians caught in the cross fire were also dead. Eyewitness accounts had been corroborated in their descriptions of the weaponry used by the gangs. They had been using sophisticated arms, autorifles and the kind of ordnance not usually seen on the streets. A recovered weapon was shown. It was military ordnance, not available to the general public, and not even in use by the police.

The reporter, speaking to a Miami-Dade police officer, questioned why such weapons were on the streets. The cop, barely able to express himself calmly, said that the weapons were being supplied by organized crime groups, and that this was not the first time it had happened. The police had their suspicions as to who was behind the supply chain but had been unable to pursue any clear lines of evidence due to lack of solid proof.

The interview ended with a short piece on the funeral gathering, including shots of the four-year-old daughter of one of the slain officers placing a single rose on her father’s casket. The look of bewilderment and the shine of tears on the girl’s face caught Bolan off guard and he could relate to the held-back anger in the manner and tone of the cop who had been interviewed.

Bolan knew the man. He had worked with him on a mission that had taken the Executioner from Miami to an island off the Cuban mainland.

Gary Loomis was a good cop, a dedicated officer with the Miami-Dade force. Bolan remembered him clearly, and seeing the man’s barely checked grief over the slain officers reminded the soldier of the daily risks police officers took when they placed themselves in the line of fire.

Later that night Bolan found himself recalling the young daughter of one of the dead police officers placing that single rose on her father’s casket. It drifted back to him as he slept. It had been a long time since the soldier had been revisited by a disturbing vision—but the image of the child plagued him until he woke the following morning.

He called MDPD and was connected to Gary Loomis.

“Cooper? Hell, of course, I remember you.” Loomis chuckled. “No way I’m liable to forget. So what can I do for you?”

“It’s what I might be able to do for you, Loomis. Can we meet?”

“Sure. Give me an hour.”

Bolan told the intrigued police officer where he was staying, then went down to have breakfast.

On the terrace they faced each other across a small table, having a drink. The Executioner and the Miami cop, men who walked through the shadow world of violence and corruption, one on the side of the law, the other who worked outside that law.

“I saw the interview,” Bolan said.

“Bad time for Miami-Dade.”

“You know those men personally?”

“Every damn one of them. Worked with them. Drank with them off duty. Knew their families, too.”

“The girl who placed the rose?”

“Emily Crockett.” Loomis stared into empty space for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Sweet kid. She’ll be watched over. We take care of our own. Cooper, our guys never had a chance. They were cut down by state-of-the-art hardware. When I did some checking, I found out similar ordnance has turned up across the country. A definite in Chicago and Newark. I dig deeper. There’s a pattern here. Too much weaponry being sent out. It’s like a preamble for something bigger. The cops on the streets are our only line of defense against these bastards. Hell, Cooper, it’s out of control and we can’t keep up.”

“Any link to the vendors?”

“The suppliers?” Loomis gripped his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white. “We have files on them, but nothing strong enough to give us just cause. No real evidence. Oh, we have a couple of local dirtbags we figure are the organization’s crew, but we can’t touch them without airtight proof, and we don’t have that yet. They have lawyers on standby. They’d be back on the street before the charge sheets had finished printing. So we do nothing because if we screw up any investigation, that’s it.”

“So you have names? Locations?”

“Well, yeah. But what good…” Loomis stared at Bolan. “What the hell are you thinking, Cooper?”

Bolan raised his beer. “What am I thinking, Gary?”

Loomis gathered his thoughts before he spoke. “I know the way you operate, and your rules are way off-the-wall.”

“We got results last time.”

“Yeah, I know…but the department would go ape shit if we got involved in something illegal.”

“The department isn’t going to be involved. Or you. All I need are names and a place to start. After that you forget about me.”

Loomis ran his hand across his face, taking a deep breath as he considered.

“Gary, if I’m compromising you, just walk away. I’ll figure another way in.”

“You could be dealing your way into something heavy. So don’t be fooled into thinking they’ll be easy marks.”

“No chance of that.”

Loomis stood up. “Be at the cemetery at five-thirty. Take a look at Jimmy Crockett’s headstone. I’ll be there, too.”

“Yeah.”

Before he moved Loomis said, “There has to be a good reason you want in.”

“There is. Five good reasons, civilians and Emily Crockett.”

Loomis nodded and walked away, leaving Bolan to his thoughts.

The soldier could have moved on, walked away and left the matter in the hands of others. But the Executioner was the one who could stand up for the innocents who were unable to fight back.

Later, back in his room, Bolan powered up the laptop he had borrowed from the hotel. It would allow him to view the contents of the flash drive Loomis had slipped into his jacket pocket as they had stood briefly at the grave of Jimmy Crocket. Loomis had brushed past the soldier as he moved away without a word being spoken, and Bolan had left in the other direction, returning to his hotel.

Sitting with the laptop on the small table, he let the computer power up. He inserted the flash drive into the USB port and waited while it installed itself. He tapped the keys to open the file and scrolled down: a number of mug shots, each with a short note identifying the individuals.

Harry Quintain was the local crew chief, a chubby-faced, balding guy in his mid-thirties. His sheet detailed his extensive criminal record.

Roy Soames was Quintain’s broker-enforcer, a hard-looking guy with a lifelong rap sheet that had started when he was fourteen.

The files stated that Quintain handled illegal merchandise, including weapons, and had connections in Chicago, which was a distribution hub. Quintain ran the operation in Miami, but his allegiance was to the Chicago operation. It was suspected he moved around his local bases, using diverse locations, which meant law-enforcement agencies were having little success pinning them down.

For Bolan this was a beginning. The hard work lay ahead.

THE SOLDIER SPENT a couple of days watching the building that was Quintain’s current base of operations. It was close to the ocean, a modern structure with plenty of glass and shiny steel. The elevator was one of those exposed models that ran up the front of the building so he was able to see Quintain, flanked by two bodyguards and Soames, enter the lobby and step into the elevator. Bolan counted off the floors and saw them step out on the ninth, where Quintain has his suite of offices. His observation of the building, though tedious, fed him what he wanted and by the afternoon of the third day Bolan had enough to make his move.

Quintain and Soames always arrived in separate cars but traveled together to the ninth floor via the elevator. Quintain spent his days in the building, while Soames made a couple of trips outside daily. Same time each day. He always left on his own, the bodyguards staying in the building with Quintain.

Bolan was ready on the third day, in his rental car, watching patiently. When Soames stepped out and crossed to his vehicle, Bolan fired up the engine and fell in behind the man as he exited the parking area. The soldier allowed a couple of cars between them.

They traveled for a good thirty minutes, Soames in no hurry, observing the speed limits. He was in a dark blue metallic Ferrari California convertible, an easy car to follow. Bolan stayed well behind. He saw Soames make a right, off the main drag and into an industrial park. The soldier carried on past the entrance, able to monitor Soames through the chain-link fence as he coasted along the line of storage units. A couple of hundred yards along Bolan spotted a service road, swung onto it and parked. He checked the 93-R in its holster under his sports coat, locked the rental and backtracked until he found a break in the poorly maintained perimeter fence.

Bolan stood for a moment as he fixed the last position of Soames’s car, then moved steadily between the units as he closed in on the general area. It was plainly obvious the industrial area was deserted. Unit doors hung open. Windows, those not smashed, were dusty, which suited Bolan’s purpose.

He picked up the sound of voices and tracked in toward them, the Beretta in his hand. Edging around the building, he spotted the Ferrari parked nose-in by a unit. The doors were open. A parked panel truck stood inside. Next to Soames’s vehicle was a bright yellow Corvette.

He was in conversation with two men. One was well-dressed like Soames. The other had on denims and a florid silk shirt. The conversation appeared amiable.

Soames said something to the denim-clad man, who then went to the panel tuck and opened the rear doors, exposing a stack of long wooden crates. The top was removed from one of the crates and the guy lifted out an M240 7.62 mm machine gun. The weapon was strictly military ordnance, not designated for civilian use. It was a rapid-fire, belt-fed weapon and would prove devastatingly efficient in the hands of illegal users. Regular beat cops would have no defense against such a weapon if it got on the streets.

Soames checked the M240, nodding his approval. From what Bolan could see, Soames was the buyer, the other guy his source—which made him important to the Executioner.

Edging closer, Bolan was able to hear the conversation.

“You can get more?” Soames said.

“No problem.”

Soames waved his hand at the guy holding the machine gun. “Pack them tight and deliver them to the pickup point.” He took out a cell phone, tapped in a number and spoke. “Everything’s okay. One dozen as requested. We can arrange final delivery. Let Cameron know. Yeah, Jake can get more.” He closed the cell phone and dropped it in his pocket, turned and went to his car. He lifted out a leather satchel and handed it to his supplier. “Count it if you want, Jake.”

The man called Jake hefted the satchel. “I can tell by the weight it’s all there. And we trust each other, don’t we, Roy? In this business, trust is everything.”

Bolan allowed himself a tight smile. Trust between scum. That was a new concept.

“You’ll tell your boss the deal went okay? Like I said, I can work out some sweet terms for you on future buys.”

Soames nodded. “Don’t see why not,” he said, and tapped the satchel in Jake’s hand. “Glad to get that cash off my hands.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Jake said.

Bolan stepped into view, his Beretta covering the trio. “Let me take care of it for you,” he said.

Jake stared at the soldier, his face expressionless. “Pal, you don’t want to be doing this.”

Soames’s eyes blazed with anger, his cheeks coloring. “You know who I am, you fuck? Only thing that money will buy is your funeral. I work—”

“Roy, be advised that it doesn’t pay to upset the guy holding a gun on you. And I know who you work for. I’m not impressed.”

Soames’s reaction, whether provoked by arrogance, or a need to maintain his credibility, was way off the charts. The Executioner could only assume the man really believed he could deal with an adversary even under the threat of a gun.

The man went for the autopistol holstered at his hip, brushing aside the coat he was wearing, eyes widening with the surge of adrenaline that forced his action. His fingers brushed against the textured grips and got no further.

Bolan put a 9 mm triburst into his skull. The impact jerked Soames’s head to one side and he fell back against the Ferrari, blood speckling the gleaming paintwork even as the man dropped to the dusty ground.

Behind him the denim-clad guy pulled his own weapon from his belt. It was a heavy revolver, and to his credit he brought it up quickly.

Not fast enough. Bolan had dropped to a crouch, swinging the muzzle of the 93-R in anticipation of the guy’s move. He assumed a two-handed Weaver’s stance, centering his target, and hit the guy in the chest. The thug stumbled back, falling half inside the open panel truck, legs jerking in spasms as the 9 mm slugs dug in deep. Bolan hit him with a second burst that burned in under the guy’s chin and tore through to split his skull on exit.

Jake had turned on his heel and was moving for his own car when Bolan lunged forward. He hooked a hand in the weapons dealer’s coat collar and swung him around. The Beretta made a solid, meaty sound as it slammed against Jake’s jaw. The blow knocked him off his feet and he skidded on his knees into the side of the car. Then Bolan was standing over him, jabbing the hot muzzle of the Beretta into the man’s cheek. Jake stared up into the glacial blue of the Executioner’s eyes and saw his own terrified face reflected there.

“The bad things we do in life eventually catch up,” Bolan said. “I’m not going to reflect on your misdemeanors. But I have a couple of questions, and I need fast answers.”

Jake drew his sleeve across his torn and bloody jaw.

“Those two made wrong decisions and won’t get a chance to clear their consciences. How about you, Jake?”

“What do you want?”

“Military ordnance. Where do you source it, Jake?”

“I’m a dead man if I talk.”

“Look at me, Jake. Do I look as if care?”

The Beretta was pressed harder into his cheek.

“Time to think about yourself, Jake. Today isn’t going to get any better.”

“I can see that.”

“Help me, Jake. My patience runs out fast. Who do you get your weapons from?”

“Guy in the military. Orin Cage. He’s based at a main supply depot, in charge of weapons acquisition. He runs a little sideline business.” The words began to tumble out almost as if Jake was in the confessional.

“Answer one question. Who do Soames and Quintain answer to?”

“Fredo Bella. He runs the Chicago division. Believe me, you don’t want to screw with him. He’s the boss in Chicago but even he works for a higher-up man who’s based in New Mexico. There’s also another guy in Chicago. Bella’s paymaster, Guido Bertolli.”

Jake quickly blurted out the rest of the information Bolan needed before lapsing into a sullen silence.

Bolan stepped back. “You work a dirty business, Jake. Nothing that could ever redeem itself in you.”

“You got what you wanted. You happy?”

“Not exactly happy,” Bolan said. “But at least satisfied for the moment.” Then he hit the man on the side of his head with the butt of the Beretta, knocking him unconscious.

Bolan took the cell phone from Soames’s pocket and put in a call to Miami-Dade PD. He told them where they could find the bodies and a consignment of stolen military hardware, plus a weapons dealer who was ready to talk. He also fed them the information about the Orin Cage and military connection, then cut the call. A search of Soames’s jacket provided Bolan with a fat wallet and another cell phone. He put the items away for later examination and bent to pick up the satchel of money. It would help to finance his upcoming mission. He had a long drive ahead of him. Destination Chicago. The Windy City was going to experience an Executioner-style gale that would hopefully sweep away some of its seedier trash.

Bolan made his way back to his parked rental and took the back roads until he was well clear of the area. He made a wide, circuitous drive back into Miami and his hotel. In his room he packed his belongings and called down to the desk, asking for his account to be readied for checkout.

He recalled the wallet he had taken from Soames’s body and emptied the contents on the bed—a couple thousand in cash, multiple credit cards and a single business card. It told Bolan that Guido Bertolli worked out of Chicago with an office in the city. Bertolli’s profession was financial adviser and his office address was displayed below his title, along with his telephone and cell number. Handy information, Bolan decided. It gave him a starting point once he reached Chicago.

Soames’s cell phone offered nothing but a list of stored numbers. The one Bolan found interesting was listed under the name Quintain.

BOLAN MADE his call to Harry Quintain as he traveled the I-65 through Kentucky.

“Quintain, how’s it going?”

“Who the fuck are you? How did you get this number?”

“From the late Roy Soames. I imagine you’ve already heard.”

“You understand that wasn’t a wise thing to do.”

“Is this because I screwed a deal and lost your cargo to Miami PD?”

There was a considered silence. Bolan imagined Quintain working things through.

“I’ll find you and kill everyone you care about,” Quintain finally said.

Bolan thought about Stony Man and the people associated with it.

“Good luck with that,” he said. “Just one last thing, Harry, I know where you live, too. One day I might come calling.”

Bolan switched off the cell phone. A few miles farther on he exited the I-65 and drove into the small town he’d located. He parked close to the post office, wiped the cell phone clean of any prints and dropped it into the padded envelope he’d purchased earlier. It was addressed to Gary Loomis, Miami-Dade PD. Bolan went into the post office and mailed the envelope. Loomis might find the phone’s contact numbers interesting. Even useful. The soldier stayed in the town long enough to have a meal before rejoining the interstate and continuing his journey.

He had checked the distance to Chicago after leaving his hotel. Miami to Chicago was around thirteen hundred miles, a run of approximately twenty hours. Bolan made it in easy stages, with a motel break to catch up on sleep. He placed a single cell phone call from his room and made contact with Barbara Price.

“You still on R & R?”

There was a hint of something more than just asking about his health.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Bolan said.

“Let’s say a certain incident in Miami aroused my interest.”