Vigilante Run

“This is everything you have on the Purists and any killings involving them?” Bolan asked.

“Everything—murders we believe or that we know they’ve committed, and all of the killings of Purist members in the area,” Paglia confirmed. He shrugged. “To be honest, a lot of guys on the force seem to think the folks upstairs don’t want to try real hard to solve those.” He pointed to several crime-scene photos depicting what could only be dead bikers.

Bolan nodded. The Purists were scum and their deaths were no big loss. But innocent victims were getting caught in the cross fire. A vigilante war had been launched, and the killer apparently saw everyone who got in his way as legitimate targets, even if they had nothing to do with the gang or its members.

“What are you looking for?” Paglia asked. Bolan looked up at the young man. There was real intuition there—and Paglia could obviously see that Bolan was no by-the-book, procedural investigator or forensics analyst. The soldier decided to be honest with the cop.

“I need some way to predict where the killer will go next,” he admitted. “I can’t stay one step behind him. I’ve got to anticipate his moves so I can cut him off.”

Paglia considered the photographs and manila files, then started hunting through them. “I think I know,” he said.

Bolan watched, curious.

“Here.” Paglia presented him with a file. “As far as I know, there’s been no hit there, but the location is central to Purist operations. I’ve heard rumors through the force that we’ve tried a couple of times to get undercover agents in the gang, specifically to get a look at this place. The word is that this is where the bodies are buried.”

“And?” Bolan pressed.

“Can’t get in.” Paglia shrugged. “They’re too suspicious or just too smart. They won’t accept someone they don’t know. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

Bolan considered that. While relatively new to the force, Paglia was typical of police officers everywhere—hooked into gossip that was more true than false, though never completely accurate. The thin blue line was shot through with grapevines. You could drop a pen in the break room of a station house at three in the morning and, by five past three, every cop on duty within ten miles would know about it.

In the file photo, an innocuous building sat on a street corner in a vaguely industrial-commercial district. A large, fading sign on the front of the facade proclaimed it Zippers Arcade.

“You want to find the Purists,” Paglia told him, “go to Zippers. If you don’t find them first, they’ll find you. ”

Bolan nodded. It was time to make a move.

T HE SEEDY BAR AT THE corner of East Fayette Street and Columbus Avenue bore a cracked but still-bright sign proclaiming it Club Lightning. A stylized lightning bolt striking the silhouette of a man and woman adorned the sign and, Rook presumed, invoked its name. Across the street from the bar—which bore several No Loitering notices and boasted a metal sign forbidding the possession of guns, knives and drugs on the premises—was an equally seedy barbershop. Close examination of both buildings would reveal several old bullet holes. The corner of East Fayette and Columbus was notorious in Syracuse. Shootings occurred there regularly, thanks to violence in and around the club. Several attempts to shut down the bar under public safety ordinances had failed.

Rook pulled his pickup truck to a stop in the barbershop’s parking lot, blocking the exit. An African-American man in his late teens or early twenties immediately exited the shop and challenged him.

“Hey, man,” he said. “You can’t park that there. Move your ass.”

Without hesitation, Rook shot him.

The .45ACP round from Rook’s four-inch Smith & Wesson 625 Mountain Gun punched through the young man’s chest and turned his white shirt a bloody red. Without pausing, Rook walked calmly across the street, drawing his second Smith & Wesson 625 with his left hand. The Hogue grips on both weapons felt warm in his palms. He did not break stride as he kicked in the door, planting his foot in the center of the metal warning sign.

The Whiteshirts were strange bedfellows to the CNY Purists but, as Rook had discovered, drugs and drug money often forged alliances between otherwise bitter enemies. An inner-city gang composed primarily of young black men, the Whiteshirts’ uniform was simple: plain cotton T-shirts, usually worn many sizes too large, sometimes with white bandannas. They were among the city’s more brutal gangs.

Rook had known for some time that the CNY Purists used the Whiteshirts to distribute drugs throughout Whiteshirt territory. The white supremacist philosophy of the Purists did not seem to get in the way of using an allegedly inferior race to extend their reach and their profits. The fact that most of the customers were of the same race as their subcontractor pushers was probably something the Purists thought greatly amusing.

Rook didn’t care about most of that. He didn’t care about the politics, he didn’t care about the socioeconomic impact of crime in the city, and he didn’t care who was selling what to whom. That was a job for the police—a job they’d been failing at for some time. For years city leaders had resolutely denied that there were gangs operating in Syracuse, despite what everyone knew to be true. Rook could never understand how they thought pretending the problem didn’t exist would change reality.

All that mattered to Rook was that hurting the Whiteshirts would hurt the Purists. The more Rook kept up the pressure, the more he hurt them, the easier it would be to hurt them again. He would go on hurting them, too, until he’d gotten them all or until he was dead.

Jennifer deserved no less.

The heavy metal door gave under Rook’s booted foot, swinging inward on rusted hinges. The interior of the club was dark and smoke filled, some of it cigar and cigarette, some of it pot, all of it illegal in a state that outlawed smoking in all public buildings. Rook almost laughed out loud as he considered administering the death penalty for this particular violation.

He shot the first man he saw. In the darkness, with his pupils contracted from the outside light, he could barely see at all. He targeted shadows and movement, emptying both revolvers in an ear-stinging fusillade. He shot the bartender. He shot a waitress running for the back, where he presumed an exit through the rudimentary kitchen offered faint hope of safety. The revolvers clicked empty and he holstered them. Switching to his 1911s, he hammered slugs through furniture and people. There was no resistance and no shots were fired at him.

It had been a slaughter.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Rook counted a pair of Whiteshirts near the door and three more sprawled on the floor by the bar. The other bodies were collateral damage. Rook dismissed them. Anyone in the club was up to no good, regardless of their connection—or lack of it—to the Purists.

Rook spun on his heel and made for the door. He knew he’d have to move fast. The cops were never far from this part of town. He needed to be a long way away before they arrived on the scene. In the meantime, another message—and another declaration of war—had been left for the Purists, courtesy of their hired help.

P ICK M C W ILLIAMS , dressed in a gold shirt and khaki pants in an attempt to blend with the crowd, sat in the airport bar nursing a beer. He glanced around nervously and checked his watch again. He’d checked the boards. The man Trogg had called “Kohler’s guest” was late because his flight had been delayed. McWilliams had been waiting for almost two hours and was getting stiff and sore.

McWilliams was trying in vain to signal the bartender from his booth for another beer when he saw the man enter the lounge. McWilliams had no physical description to go by, but this newcomer had to be the right guy. His eyes never stopped moving. He watched every corner of the bar almost at once as he stalked through it like he wanted to kill everyone. If what Trogg had said about Kohler’s brief phone call was true, the guy could kill everyone there, McWilliams thought.

The newcomer zeroed in on McWilliams almost immediately, his eyes narrowing as he took in the biker’s out-of-date clothing. He made his way to the booth and sat without invitation, his hands hidden beneath the table.

“Well. Aren’t you a piece of work,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep and quiet. It was the voice of a man who didn’t shout, who didn’t repeat himself. It was the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted the first time he asked.

“Pick,” McWilliams said, extending a hand. The man’s gaze flickered to it disdainfully before centering on his face. McWilliams withdrew his hand, feeling like a sucker, and swallowed his pride. Getting angry with this dangerous bastard would only get his ticket punched.

“Carleton,” the man said.

McWilliams didn’t know if it was a first name or a last name. He did not ask. Carleton was maybe five-nine, five-ten, and nearly two hundred pounds. His hair was cropped close; his face was outlined by a severely trimmed mustache and beard. He was wearing a black button-down silk shirt, a subdued black-and-gray tie and black slacks under an expensive looking trench coat that might have been Armani. McWilliams didn’t know if Armani made coats, but he knew money when he saw it. This Carleton did well for himself and had a big Rolex watch on his wrist to show for it.

“I was told someone would meet me,” Carleton said.

McWilliams said nothing. He produced a large manila envelope and slid it across the table.

“Next time,” Carleton said with a sigh, “slide it under the table.” He opened the folder while holding it out of sight between his body and the wall against which the booth was set. Looking up at McWilliams from behind small, round, wire-frame glasses, his gaze flickered left and right before coming to rest on the biker again. He said nothing.

“What?” McWilliams finally asked.

“I was just thinking that Kohler strikes me as a lot more professional than, well, you,” he said. “What’s a worm like you doing in his employ?”

“I don’t work for him,” McWilliams said. “I’m with the Purists.”

“I’m sure you are,” Carleton said, waving one black-gloved hand. His tone was clear. He didn’t know or care who or what the Purists might be. “Regardless, when Kohler contacted me he said he had a serious problem. If I had a serious problem, I would hardly send the likes of you to convey it.”

“Now just wait a minute,” McWilliams began, finding his nerve. “Just who the hell do you—”

Something jabbed him.

“Ow!” McWilliams jumped in his seat. “What did you just do?”

“Mr. Pick,” Carleton said, cutting off the biker before McWilliams could protest, “have you heard the expression ‘shoot the messenger’?”

McWilliams started to go for the revolver in the back of his waistband, but his arms suddenly felt heavy and warm. He kept trying to reach for the gun, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. His head felt wobbly as he looked at Carleton, confused.

Carleton smiled tightly. “Thank you for the information. Good day.”

McWilliams could only watch as his visitor stood and strode out of the bar, the envelope in one hand. As the well-dressed man swept past a trash can at the entrance, he dropped something in it. McWilliams caught a glimpse of what he thought was a syringe.

He was already slumping in his chair, his throat closing, his breath catching as he tried and failed to cry out. He struggled to draw air, feeling and hearing the croak that left his lips.

Eventually, someone in the bar noticed him sitting there, flailing, and rushed over to try the Heimlich maneuver. By then it was far too late. Pick McWilliams was dead of anaphylactic shock before the EMTs were even called.

Z IPPERS A RCADE WAS A strip club sprawled in a commercial-industrial area on the northern fringes of Syracuse, with an auto yard on one side and a custom upholstery shop on the other. The Executioner had contacted Barbara Price to cross-reference the local data Paglia had provided. Given the size of the city and the scope of the operation—neither of which was particularly significant in the grand scheme of things—there wasn’t much, but Aaron Kurtzman had managed to turn up a few morsels.

The upholstery place, a family business in Syracuse founded forty years previously, was legitimate. The auto yard wasn’t. Tracing its ownership and the ownership of Zippers produced a common front company that was itself a placeholder for a trust that owned multiple other properties. Most of those properties had been connected to Purist-related violence. The trail went all the way back to something called the Diamond Corporation, headed by one Roger Kohler.

Kohler would receive Bolan’s attention in due time. For the moment, the soldier needed to find whoever was killing the Purists—and anyone else who stumbled into the path of the killer’s bullets.

Bolan left his SUV parked nearby, in the parking lot of a closed service station. Its windows were boarded over and bore faded paper signs proclaiming For Sale or Lease. He circled to the rear of the block of businesses and walked casually through the neighboring lot behind them. A dark, three-quarter-length windbreaker worn over his blacksuit covered his hardware from casual observers. Nothing in his manner was furtive or otherwise suspicious. He walked as if he belonged there, at a brisk but unhurried pace. He saw a few pedestrians. Traffic was moderate. It consisted mostly of delivery trucks, most likely headed to the assembly warehouse and lumberyard visible in the distance.

The back door of Zippers was labeled and unmanned. Bolan spotted a closed-circuit television camera aimed in his direction and paused. He looked hard at the device, then resumed his course. Up close, he confirmed what he’d thought to be the case—the cable leading from the rear of the camera terminated directly against a four-by-four wooden post set in the asphalt overlooking the rear of the club. It was a good bet nobody had taken the time to hollow out the post in order to run a cable down its length. The device was a dummy, the kind anyone could buy from a novelty catalog. As he approached he noticed the generic warning sticker pasted to the back door, claiming the building was protected by an alarm system.

Reaching out with his left hand, his right inside the windbreaker, Bolan tried the door handle.

The metal fire door swung silently open.

“Gotcha!” yelled the Purist in biker leathers and colors who stood just on the other side of the door. The twin muzzles of the sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in his fists looked very large as Bolan stared down their bores. He heard the metallic clicks of the weapon’s twin hammers being cocked.

“Wait—” Bolan said.

The roar of the shotgun was deafening at close range.

4

Bolan folded his knees beneath him as he spoke, dropping down and back in a controlled fall. The shotgun blast washed over him—he could feel the heat on his face. As he landed on his back, his chin tucked in to protect his head, he lashed out with a vicious kick that caught the gunman at the ankle.

Bone snapped. The man dropped like a felled tree, screaming. He’d spent both barrels in the shotgun. Bolan was up and on top of him before he could maneuver to reload. The Executioner drew his Beretta 93-R from its custom shoulder holster. The sound suppressore was already affixed, and three flat slaps signaled the biker’s end.

Ears ringing from the close-range shotgun blast, Bolan bent to pick up the fallen weapon. He dropped it into a nearby trash can, where it wouldn’t be quickly found and used against him. Then the soldier stepped over the corpse and made his way cautiously through the door, leading with the Beretta. He had lost the element of surprise with that 12-gauge detonation. He would have to rely on simple, brutal force. He shrugged out of his windbreaker and let it drop, giving him un-obstructed access to his combat harness and gear.

The corridor was empty. Bolan’s combat boots were loud on the creaking floorboards. He stopped, listened. There was no sign that anyone within had heard the shotgun, which made no sense.

He was staring down a dirty, poorly lit corridor lined in old wood paneling and cluttered with piles of old newspapers and a couple of stinking plastic bags of trash. The corridor terminated in a T leading left and right. Tattered posters for X-rated movies papered the far wall. From somewhere ahead came the muffled bass of dance music, obviously from the main area of the club. Bolan took another step and the floor creaked again. He froze.

He heard the answering creak from around the corner.

They were waiting for him, playing it smart, they thought. Bolan quietly plucked a flash-bang grenade from his combat harness. He triggered the little hockey-puck shaped device—one of Kissinger’s little helpers, as Cowboy called them—and threw it at an angle so it bounced off the far wall and ricocheted around the corner. Quickly he crouched, turned away, and shoved his hands over his ears while opening his mouth wide and squeezing his eyes shut. The deafening, blinding eruption was mercifully brief, so bright he could see the flash through his closed eyes.

Bolan was up and stalking as the afterimages of the blast left floating green shapes in his vision. There were three of them writhing on the floor—two to the right and one to the left, where they’d been waiting to ambush him. Two handguns and a shotgun littered the floor. The men wore Purist colors. This time he didn’t bother collecting weapons; he simply moved on, reloading the Beretta to replace the partially spent magazine with a fresh twenty rounds.

He chose the right-hand corridor; the left was a dead end that terminated in a bare cinder-block wall. Bolan made his way down the hallway, keeping his head, arms and weapon steady and searching for adversaries. There was a shriek, and then another. Ahead of him, he saw movement. Suddenly, five half-naked women ran from a dressing room ahead and to the left, brushing past him as if he wasn’t even there. Bolan let the strippers pass, his Beretta held at low ready. He waited.

The two gunners ducked out, one high, one low. The bottom man got off a shot that went high and wide. Bolan drilled him with two bursts through the torso, the Beretta rising to sweep the top man in the same arc. The second man—both were dressed in Zippers T-shirts and khakis, probably what passed for club security in this crime pit—was punched backward as the slugs entered his neck and chin. The little .380 Colt Mustang he had been clutching fell from nerveless fingers and clattered on the floor.

Bolan took the corner wide to maximize his cover and keep any potential targets in his field of vision as he entered the dressing room. He passed the lighted mirrors and scattered lingerie without a glance, instead scanning every corner for hidden threats. The door leading from the dressing room to the main part of the club was shut. He planted one boot just left of the doorknob and cracked it open without trying the handle, diving low as he entered.

“Now! Now!” someone yelled. Gunfire ripped from three points at once and Bolan had no choice but to blitz forward, legs pumping. The club area was multileveled, colored lights washing down from scaffolding on the ceiling. One of the shooters was in the DJ booth, where deafening techno continued to bleat from mammoth speakers along the walls. Another was somewhere in the scaffolding—Bolan couldn’t tell where—and a third was on the move on the lower dance-floor level. Bullets ripped the slick tiling behind Bolan’s feet as he ran for the DJ booth. Strobe lights flashed from above, obscuring the muzzle-flashes from the gang members’ guns. There were no customers. Bolan had reached the club before it opened. With the strippers gone, he knew chances were good there no innocents to get caught in the cross fire.

With no cover afforded by the tiered but largely open club area, Bolan shoved the Beretta before him and unleashed a fusillade of 9 mm rounds at the DJ booth, forcing the gunman there to duck. Gunfire followed him as the other two shooters tried to claim him, but he was moving too fast and the colored, flashing lights were causing the Purists as much trouble as they were causing the soldier. Bolan threw himself flat beside the half-height doorway to the DJ booth. The biker within—a broken, older-looking man with a shaved head, wearing a leather jacket with one sleeve cut off—swung his short-barreled 9 mm Colt submachine gun in Bolan’s direction, but he was too slow. The Exectutioner stitched him up the groin and through the torso, emptying the Beretta with two last triple bursts.

The two remaining shooters concentrated their fire on Bolan’s position. He stayed low, letting them rip up the wall above his head, dousing him with drywall dust. The dead Purist had several spare magazines for his Colt, so Bolan appropriated them and the weapon, shoving the long stick magazines under his web belt at his side. He reloaded his Beretta and holstered it, then reached up blindly and began slapping buttons on the DJ board. On the fourth try, the music stopped. Bolan slapped a couple of more buttons and managed to switch off the strobe lights and the track lighting, plunging Zippers into darkness.

He waited for the shooting to stop, then crept silently from the booth, feeling his way along the outer wall of the club area, walking in a low crouch with a corner of the Colt’s telescoping stock tucked against his shoulder. Then he stopped and remained perfectly still, controlling his breathing.

“Gord!” one of the Purists finally shouted. “Gord! Gordy, man, where are you?”

“Over here, moron,” Gordy finally answered.

“Do you see him?”

“No, Chigger, I don’t see him. If I saw him, I’d be shooting at him! I can’t see anything.”

“I don’t hear him.”

There was a pause. Bolan waited. He very quietly slipped the combat light from his pocket and held it in his fingers, wrapping his remaining free support-hand fingers around the forestock of the Colt.

“I think he snuck out!” Chigger offered from a spot across the room and to Bolan’s right. “Maybe when the lights were out!”

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