Deadly Command

“Incident?”

“The kind that sort of has your signature on it. Something I should know about?”

“This is not an SOG issue,” Bolan said. “Flying solo. But I need to talk to the Bear.”

“Okay. Hey, you watch your back, soldier. You want to reconsider the lone-wolf status on this one?”

“Thanks, but no, thanks. This is something I need to do without dragging you guys in.”

“Kind of personal, huh?”

“Kind of.”

“I’ll patch you through.”

“Catch up with you later.”

Bolan heard the soft click as the call was transferred to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s cyber lair. A moment later the recognizable, gruff sound of Kurtzman’s voice came on.

“Hey, big guy, haven’t heard from you in a while. You having an extended vacation?”

“Not any longer,” Bolan said. “I need some intel.”

“Sure,” Kurtzman said. “So what can I do for you?”

“Find out background details on a Chicago lowlife named Fredo Bella, head honcho in the trafficking of stolen arms in the area. A source said Bella’s strings are pulled by a Lou Cameron based in New Mexico. I’m driving to Chicago in the morning, so call my cell when you get the goods. I also need intel on a guy by the name of Guido Bertolli. According to his business card, he runs a financial advisory service in the city. Could be legit, but I found it in the wallet of a dirtbag named Roy Soames. And information I got suggested Bertolli is linked to Bella. I just need you to confirm.”

“You got it, Striker. Anything else?”

“No,” Bolan said. “Just the intel. And pictures if you can find them. Leave it until morning if you get anything. And thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Bolan put the cell phone on charge before he turned in. Last thing he needed was the phone going dead on him if Kurtzman was trying to send him information.

“YOU PICKED a prize specimen,” Kurtzman said over the cell phone.

Bolan was eating breakfast in the diner down the road from the motel. “So enlighten me,” he said.

“Fredo Bella. He’s forty-two years old and heads up one hell of an organized crime business. Arms dealing is one page in his dossier. The guy will buy and sell anything as long as he can make a profit. This is a slippery character, Striker. The Chicago PD and the Feds have been on his case for years, but the man knows the game too well. He’s lawyered up to the ears. Pays very well and expects the best protection. He’s been charged a number of times, but nothing ever gets beyond that. The guy’s been suspected of a couple of homicides, and I stress the word ‘suspected’ as in legally. CPD know he did them, but they haven’t been able to take it any further. Witnesses have a habit of disappearing, if you get my drift. And Bertolli does have connections with Bella. Looks like he could be the local money guy for the organization.”

“Understood. That’s the intel I got myself.”

“There’s a little more you might be interested in. Bella may be the hotshot in the Midwest, but he does dance to Lou Cameron’s tune. These guys are so connected it’s like an old-style Mafia Family.”

“Well, we know what happened to them, don’t we?”

Kurtzman’s rumbling chuckle made Bolan smile.

“You take care, Striker. These people have bad reputations. I kid you not.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Pictures are coming through when we finish speaking. Any thing else?”

“Background on this Cameron and his outfit might be helpful.”

“Leave it with me,” Kurtzman said. “Oh, and Fredo Bella has a number of properties in and around Chicago. His main residence…”

2

Fredo Bella’s main residence was a 2,500-square-foot apartment in a glittering steel-and-glass high-rise situated on Chicago’s North Lakeshore Drive. On the southwest corner of the building the apartment looked out over the city skyline and also had a view across the lake. According to Kurtzman’s intel, the apartment cost in the region of $1.5 million. Probably small change to Bella.

Like many career criminals, Bella, who viewed the law with distaste, had a penchant for flaunting his wealth. He was confident enough to show the results of his illegal operations because he felt secure, untouchable. He surrounded himself with legal battalions and bought favors from those in high places.

Bolan located the building on his arrival in Chicago. His drive by was just a recon. He parked up short of the apartment building, looking it over. He liked to know where his quarry was based. He had no hard and fast plans for the man’s home yet. The Executioner was more interested in Bella’s operations. He was hoping that a visit to Guido Bertolli’s office might give him that information.

GREGOR LEMINOV was far from happy, despite the luxurious surroundings of Fredo Bella’s apartment. The Russian Mafiya broker was not in good humor. In the past half hour he had ordered his burly bodyguard to pour him two more glasses of Bella’s expensive whiskey and had quickly downed each tumbler in hefty gulps.

The heavyset Russian stared out through the apartment’s panoramic windows, watching sheets of rain sweep in from Lake Michigan and slam against the glass. The gray clouds over the choppy water matched his mood, and the longer he had to wait, the worse his mood became. Leminov snapped his fingers and held out his glass.

“I might as well drink his liquor,” he said to Mikhail Rostov, his personal bodyguard.

Rostov, who would never drink while he was on duty, took the tumbler and refilled it. He handed it to his boss, then resumed his position close by.

“Is taking a long time, boss,” Rostov said.

“Always one to state the obvious, Mikhail. In this case you are right.” Leminov sat forward. “Perhaps it is time to remind our host how long we have been waiting.”

The double doors to the spacious room swung open then, and Fredo Bella strode through, a beaming smile on his rounded face.

“Gregor, my friend.” He noticed the almost empty glass in Leminov’s large hand. “Let me fix you another drink. What would you like?”

“An explanation would be nice. Fredo, where are Mr.

Poliokof’s machine guns?”

Bella sat behind his curving pale wood desk. The heavy executive chair creaked as Bella’s weight put it under some strain. The man was six feet tall, and carried a lot of weight. Even his hand-tailored Versace suit failed to hide his soft bulk. He was a big man with big appetites.

“No crap, Gregor. I’m nothing if not truthful. There was an incident in Florida. Somebody, and I don’t know who yet, showed up at the exchange. He killed my guy, Soames, and took out the driver of the van. He took off with the cash, as well.”

“What about the weapons?”

Bella dug a finger inside his shirt collar, where it suddenly started to dig into his neck. “Worst fuckin’ part,” he said. “The son of a bitch went and called the cops in. Miami PD have the M240s in their lockup, along with the delivery guy. I am not worried about him, though. His knowledge is limited.”

Leminov felt a compulsion to drain his glass of whiskey. As he held it up for a refill, Rostov stepped forward and took it.

“So everything has gone and the deal falls flat. I have to tell Mr. Poliokof he doesn’t get his weapons?”

Bella held up a hand. “No, Gregor. The guns will be delivered. A fresh shipment. That takes time. It may be a little late, but the weapons will be delivered.” He cleared his throat, forcing words out that plainly hurt to utter. “You won’t be out of pocket. I’ll stand the loss. It was my end of the deal, so I’ll take the hit.”

This time Leminov sipped the whiskey slowly, savoring it as much as he savored Bella’s offer.

“Look, Gregor, we’ve been doing business for a good few years. This is the first time something like this has happened. I’ve got my people on it. They’re looking for this bastard. We’ll find him, and when I get my hands on him he’ll beg to be killed.”

“Before you do, ask him what he did with the money.”

“If he’s spent it, I’ll strip it out of his flesh.”

“I wish you luck with that. This man sounds extremely capable. He’s not a reckless crackhead.”

Bella shrugged. “I didn’t get where I am by luck. Everything I’ve got is due to hard work. This asshole isn’t going to get the better of me.”

“I think he already did.” Leminov leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Be as casual as you like, Fredo. Just remember who you are dealing with. You do not want to upset Mr. Poliokof. In business he accepts no excuses. Late delivery is late delivery. All I say is this will be marked against you.”

“Christ, Gregor, what am I supposed to do? Snap my fingers and make the fucking guns appear like magic? Poliokof is going to have to wait. Okay?”

Leminov took out his cell phone and hit a number. He stared impassively across the room as he waited. When his call was answered he lapsed into Russian, leaving Bella to wonder what was being said. He completed the call and snapped his phone shut.

“So?” Bella asked.

“Mr. Poliokof is not happy. You lose the guns. You lose the money. Delivery is delayed. Nothing is resolved. He is angry that you make him wait. Mr. Poliokof is not the kind of man you disrespect like this. He warns you this is not the end of the matter.”

“Gregor, I have other clients. The only merchandise I have at the moment has already been sold to someone else. It’s due for pickup. When that goes, the pot is empty. Your order was next. Since it’s gone, I have to wait for my contact to bulk up on stock. Poliokof will have to stand in line until I can sort things out. He’s not the fucking President of the United States. Simple terms, Gregor. If I don’t have it, I can’t supply it.”

Leminov gave a slight shrug. “Then it will have to be. I will pass your remarks to Mr. Poliokof. Then we see what happens.” He pushed to his feet and crossed to the door. As he went through he said, “Watch out for yourself, Fredo.”

And then he was gone, his bodyguard trailing after him.

Next Morning.

“BERTOLLI IS THEIR paymaster,” Zader Poliokof said. “Maybe he can help us out with our cash problem. Find him, take him somewhere you won’t be disturbed and have a talk with him.”

“A friendly talk?” Leminov said.

“Of course. We are not animals, Gregor. Allow him his say. Within reason.”

“He may not be all that willing to cooperate.”

“Then make him realize he has no choice,” Poliokof stated.

“I can see this having a less than pleasant outcome.”

Poliokof smiled. “If it happens, it happens.”

Midafternoon.

FREDO BELLA PICKED UP the phone. “Yeah? What do you mean he isn’t around?”

“He’s not at his office, boss. We checked his apartment. He isn’t there, either.”

“Okay. I got the exchange tonight. Check around and see if anyone knows where he is. Go back to his office. Bring his laptop to me at the site,” Bella said. “No excuses on this, Jerry. Until we know where Bertolli is, I want those codes safe.”

“No problem, boss. Hey, boss, what do you think happened to him?”

“I’m working on it. You just concentrate on finding him.”

3

Bolan found Bertolli’s building and parked in the alley, then walked back to the front and entered the lobby. It was an old building, with few modern electronics. He paused at the indicator board and read off the list of offices and companies. Bertolli—Financial Adviser was on the third floor. Bolan climbed the stairs. He could hear business being conducted behind the closed doors of the offices he passed—the occasional sound of telephones, people chattering.

He reached the third floor and walked the corridor until he came to the door he wanted. The carpet underfoot was worn and dusty. It was obvious that Bertolli had maintained a low profile, conducting his dealings for Bella in seclusion. His financial advice business concealed his involvement in more lucrative operations.

The door, with its frosted glass upper panel, was in keeping with the rest of the building. Bolan grasped the handle and put his hip against the wooden frame, feeling the inner lock give after the third solid thrust. He held the door, glancing round. The corridor was empty. The soldier eased the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind him.

The office decor was impersonal and drab: one desk with a leather swivel seat, shelves holding box files, a row of filing cabinets, a couple of wooden chairs lined up against a wall. Bolan crossed to the desk, which held only a few office items—a phone, a desk pad.

Bolan checked the desk drawers. In the second one down he found an expensive laptop. He slid it out, then closed the drawer and straightened.

And looked at the muzzle of a pistol aimed at him.

There were two men, young and hard-faced. The one by the door had the look of the leader, and he had a hefty pistol in one hand. The other guy, who was holding the pistol on Bolan, had a faint smirk on his angular face.

“Naughty, naughty,” he crowed. “It’s illegal to break into someone’s office and steal things.”

“I’ll try not to lose sleep over it,” Bolan said.

“Should I rap him in the mouth?”

The guy at the door said, “No, Rick, but you should check him for a weapon.”

“Yeah,” the gunner said, and proceeded to feel under Bolan’s coat. He withdrew the Beretta. “You got a license to carry this?”

Bolan resisted the urge to make another smart reply. There was a gleam in the guy’s eyes that told him this one was less in control than his partner.

“You think he’s a cop?”

“No.”

“Fed of some kind. I don’t like Feds.”

“Only their mothers like Feds.”

The gunner dropped the Beretta into a side pocket of his jacket and flicked his head at Bolan.

“Let’s go,” he said before scooping up the laptop and stepping up close behind Bolan.

The guy by the door opened it and checked the corridor.

“Out,” he said. “Turn left and make for the fire exit at the end of the hall.”

The exit door was unlocked and Bolan was escorted through and down the iron fire escape fixed to the outer wall. It took them to a small parking lot, at the rear of the building.

Bolan watched as the laptop was placed inside a late-model Ford. He was considering his options, trying to place himself ahead of the game.

“We taking a ride?” he asked, directing his question at the lead guy.

“We’ve got what we came for, plus you,” the man said. He was looking pleased with himself. “You’re a bonus. The boss is going to be happy seeing you. Maybe you can tell him where Bertolli is.”

“Why should I know? He’s the guy I was looking for myself.”

“Rick, check him over again in case he has a backup.”

Bolan let the guy frisk him. They had his 93-R. It was his only weapon, but the pair was smart enough to make sure for themselves.

“He’s clean,” Rick said, disappointment in his tone.

“Hand me his pistol,” the lead guy said.

Rick passed it over.

“Thought I recognized it.” He inspected the Beretta, balancing it in his hand. “Nice piece,” he said with genuine appreciation.

Rick glanced at it. “It’s just a fuckin’ gun, Jerry. Don’t go getting a hard-on for it.”

“You think? This is a Beretta 93-R, an Italian masterpiece. There’s a setting on the selector that let’s you fire three-round bursts. How many other semiautos can do that?”

Jerry’s partner waggled his head. “Big whoop.”

“Rick, being a moron isn’t enough for you. You prove it every time you open your mouth.”

“Hey! There’s no call for that. I ain’t that dumb. Who got the blonde piece everyone was after the other night? Huh? Go on, tell me. Well, it wasn’t you, Beretta man.”

Jerry shook his head. “Just like I said, Rick, dumb as ever. Stop thinking with your dick and use your brain for a change.”

Rick stared at his partner for long seconds, concentration screwing up his face. Then he decided Jerry was belittling him, and he leaned forward to swipe at Jerry’s arm. “Cut that out…”

He didn’t finish. In fact those three words were the last he ever spoke.

Bolan moved, using the thin window of opportunity, and caught hold of Rick’s extended arm. He propelled the guy forward into Jerry, following through to slam his right elbow down into the back of Rick’s neck. The blow was hard, driving the guy to his knees. Before Rick hit the concrete Bolan had moved on, gripping Jerry’s gun arm and forcing it down. Jerry’s finger jerked the trigger and the pistol fired with a hard bang. The slug cored into the back of Rick’s skull, exiting through his face and blowing bloody gore onto the ground. Bolan drove the palm of his right hand up into Jerry’s face, crushing his nose. Blood squirted in bright streams. The sudden pain drained Jerry’s resistance, and he uttered a strangled moan. The Executioner hit him again, going for the man’s throat, knuckles driving into soft flesh and crushing everything in its path. Jerry gagged, dropping both guns he was holding, and clawed at his ruined throat, desperately trying to suck in air that wasn’t coming. He fell back against the side of the car as Bolan picked up the dropped Beretta. He stepped back and fired a single shot into Jerry’s skull, silencing him completely.

The soldier slid the Beretta into its shoulder holster, then went through the dead men’s pockets. They were carrying very little—some loose cash and a cell phone from Jerry’s leather jacket.

Bolan crossed to the car and slid inside. The laptop lay where Rick had placed it. Noticing a GPS unit mounted on the dash, he turned on the ignition and powered up the unit, checking on the current setting. The small screen illustrated a route that had been entered recently, according to the time readout. It might offer Bolan a destination. He detached the GPS unit from the dash, unplugged it from the power source and took it, along with the laptop, with him.

Back in his own car Bolan set the GPS unit on the dash panel and turned it on. The recent settings still showed. He took the cell phone he’d found and checked it out. No voice calls, but there were a couple of text messages. Bolan opened them. The first was a text from the cell phone provider, offering Jerry free credits. The soldier went to the second, most recent message. It had been received no more than a half hour ago. The text advised Jerry to enter the coordinates that followed into his GPS and to drive the route. They were expected within the next hour. At the end of the message was a single name— Bella. When Bolan checked the coordinates from the text they matched the ones entered into the GPS unit.

He started the car and drove out of the lot, following the screen directions and the female voice backup. He had no idea where he was going to end up, but if it brought him to Fredo Bella it was going to be worth the trip.

The journey lasted almost forty-five minutes. Though the dark and the rain made it difficult for Bolan to know where this trip was taking him, he was aware of the less than pleasant landscape as he drove down poorly illuminated streets, with rundown buildings on either side. There were abandoned cars. Shuttered windows. Then he was entering what would have been a busy industrial section of the city at one time, but urban decay had taken hold, leaving only blackened, abandoned buildings.

Bolan recalled what Jerry had said about Bertolli. It was plain the man had gone missing, and his disappearance was a mystery to Bella’s people. Maybe Bolan could figure it out later.

The soldier followed the GPS as it led him deeper into the industrial wasteland. The voice told him he was within a few hundred yards of his journey’s end. He swung the car into the deep shadows of an open-ended structure that had rusted, overgrown steel rails leading inside. He killed the engine and sat, hearing only the heavy rain on the corrugated roof above him.

Jerry and Rick had been ordered to meet with Bella at this location. Bolan was certain it wasn’t an invitation to a wine tasting.

Something was happening.

Imminently.

Bolan decided to crash the party.

Exiting the car, he raised the trunk and slipped off his outer clothing, revealing his blacksuit underneath. A black baseball cap completed his uniform. From his war bag he chose his weapons and checked their loads. He slipped a compact, powerful monocular into a pocket, closed the trunk and locked the car, placing the key in one of his blacksuit’s secure pockets. The GPS had shown that his destination lay directly to his right. Bolan followed the route, working his way silently through the gloom and the steady downpour. The falling rain would cover his movements and any peripheral sound he might make.

He spotted his destination through the downpour—a haze of light at first, then as he closed in, he made out the dark bulk of the building. Open doors showed him movement inside. Bolan edged closer, using the scatterings of industrial debris as cover as he moved in.

Bolan took out the monocular and focused in on the open doors of the building. He spotted vehicles, men moving back and forth, lifting wooden crates from the largest truck and distributing them between the smaller vehicles. There was enough illumination for him to be able to identify the size and shape of the boxes, even down to the military markings on them.

He saw a number of the men carrying weapons as they kept an eye on the proceedings.

A single, armed sentry covered the exterior, and overseeing the operation was the man himself.

Fredo Bella, in his expensive clothing, dominated the scene as he issued orders.

The darkness cloaked Bolan, the persistent rain matching his mood. He crouched close to his target, a chill wind tugging at his blacksuit. The sprawl of industrial buildings, long abandoned, served the predators who had no idea the Executioner was about to descend upon them and reduce their business to ashes. Inside the derelict structure they handled their illegal merchandise, preparing to ship out the weapons for the deals they had already made, none of them realizing the fury already making his move to close them down.

As he eased up behind the lone sentry by the entrance, Bolan wiped cold rain from his eyes with his sleeve, ignoring the keen slice of the wind scything across the compound. He adjusted the M-16 A-2 across his back where it hung alongside his regular 9 mm Uzi, reaching down to free the Cold Steel Tanto knife from its sheath at his waist. The black blade offered no reflection as Bolan rose to his full height behind the sentry.

The Executioner was a black-clad wraith fully armed for what lay ahead.

The sentry felt the strong fingers that pushed the cap from his head and curled into his hair, yanking his head back, then drew breath as the keen edge of the knife etched across his taut throat. It bit deeply, severing everything in its path, releasing a surge of warm blood that spilled down over his waterproof jacket. He struggled in wordless agony, held upright by Bolan’s powerful grip until his strength dissipated along with his spilled blood. Only when the sentry ceased to struggle did Bolan allow him to slump to his knees, then onto his face. The man was still in spasm as the soldier stepped over him and paused briefly at the entrance. He loosened the M-16, peering inside the opening before he stepped through into the dimly lit interior. Crouching against the wall, lost in the deep shadows there, Bolan surveyed the scene, spotting a ragged line of heavy steel containers. He eased along the wall until the containers provided him with a wall of protection.

From there he was able to view the operation at close quarters.

Two dilapidated panel trucks were parked beneath a bank of pallid fluorescent lights. A number of men were busy checking and loading cases from a third, larger vehicle, distributing them between the panel trucks. Bolan located an expensive late-model BMW nearby, the gleaming paintwork speckled with raindrops.

Even as he looked over the situation, Bolan’s hands were checking his handguns, the 9 mm Beretta 93-R in his shoulder rig, the big Magnum Desert Eagle resting snugly in the high ride holster on his right hip. He carried extra magazines for each handgun, as well as for the M-16 and Uzi, in the combat harness over the blacksuit. In addition he carried a number of flash-bang grenades and M-34 phosphorous grenades.