Vigilante Run

Listen to any radio or television newscast in Syracuse and the words “There was a shooting today” or “There was a stabbing today” would be immediately followed by the phrase “on the south side.” Every American city had such a place, if not more than one—an overwhelmingly poor ghetto wherein most of the local crime and the criminals committing it could be found. What better place to clear away for dynamic economic development, for commerce? Kohler couldn’t imagine why everyone in the city didn’t embrace the idea.

There was squawking from the local activist groups, of course. These included wealthy liberals consumed with guilt about their own success, neighborhood sign-wavers belonging to political action and protest organizations, and a scattered few local politicians who had refused to join Kohler’s unofficial payroll. They wouldn’t stop him. Those who couldn’t be marginalized or ignored could simply be eliminated. Kohler maintained certain “business contacts” for that purpose.

Those were not the only problems. There were those who said the city’s depressed economy—the natural outcome of a state whose taxes consistently ranked it among the highest in the nation—couldn’t support such a large project. They didn’t see the opportunities for tourism that Kohler and Diamond promised. They didn’t see the sales tax revenues his consumer and community development center offered. There were those who claimed the city was still reeling from his competitor’s failure to successfully implement the competitor’s own pie-in-the-sky dreams of consumer paradise.

It didn’t help that the failed project—a tremendous mall expansion included absurd plans for everything from a water park and amusement center to a monorail linking the expanded facility to downtown Syracuse—was irrevocably coupled in the minds of locals to a series of bizarre publicity stunts.

Kohler had himself helped sink the project to make way for his own plans, though he regretted just how well it had worked. His own operatives had signed on for the supposed jobs that were created during the project’s opening stages, doing everything from enforcing mall curfew policies to cleaning up area subsidized homes in a bid to perform community service busywork. He made sure that his operatives were among those kept most discreetly in his employ—those who had criminal records. Then he leaked the records to the local newspaper, whose editorial board gleefully reported both the busywork and the felonies. The resulting public relations nightmare put an end to Kohler’s competitor’s dream of revitalizing the city. That left Kohler in what was supposed to have been the perfect position to take up the slack.

The problem was that Kohler’s own project was losing money every day and didn’t seem likely to break even once ground was broken and construction started. The business plan simply wasn’t viable, and Kohler knew it. He could not and would not accept failure, however. That left him with only one option—supplementing his business plan off the books with income from another source.

Kohler was a realist. He had no family. He had no gods. He had only one goal, and that was to enrich himself. He was perfectly at ease with this fact. If it meant he had to consort with a certain class of people, so be it. They were necessary as long as they were useful. They were also easily removed once they stopped being useful.

It was with this thought in mind that Kohler told his secretary to admit Gerald “Pick” McWilliams. It was extremely unusual for Mr. McWilliams to show his face in the Kohler Towers. It was, in fact, forbidden, as far as Kohler was concerned. Only a matter of extreme urgency could bring McWilliams here. Only the severity of Kohler’s financial situation prompted him to permit such an intrusion.

McWilliams came dressed in a thrift store tweed suit that was at least a size too large for him, complete with a polyester tie as thick as a scarf that had to have dated back to the 1970s. The secretary admitted him without a word, and McWilliams almost managed to restrain a leer. Under other circumstances, Kohler would have had trouble blaming the man, as he’d hired Lori specifically to look good. She was blond, she looked great in a tight white blouse, and she never wore skirts longer than midcalf. She was even a passable typist. Mostly, however, she simply guarded the portal to Kohler’s domain and impressed anyone who came calling.

“Pick,” Kohler said without preamble, “what the hell are you doing here?”

McWilliams was a mouse of a man, thin and gaunt, missing a few teeth and suffering from questionable personal hygiene. He was Kohler’s go-between to the CNY Purists, a crude but effective local gang that had proved to be very useful in the less legal aspects of Diamond’s operations. McWilliams was easily intimidated, which was why Kohler tolerated him.

Roger Kohler was formidable enough in his own right. He stood three inches over six feet tall and had the thick build to show for the hours spent in his private gymnasium. He was also a third-degree black belt in karate, the knuckles of his hands scarred and thick from punching bricks and breaking boards. Though his silver hair was growing sparse, Kohler’s granite-hard features left no doubt that he was a man in his physical prime who had no qualms about crushing anyone who got in his way. Kohler permitted himself the visual fantasy of throwing an edge-of-hand strike into McWilliams’s throat simply for being beneath him.

“Mr. Kohler, sir.” McWilliams practically bowed and scraped as he spoke. “There’s a…a problem with the shipment.”

“A problem.”

“Yes, sir.”

“With the shipment.”

“Yes, sir,” McWilliams confirmed again.

“Would you mind telling me, Pick, just what the fuck I pay you people for? ”

Kohler came around from behind the desk, grabbing McWilliams by his wide lapels. “You and your friends have exactly one job to do, and that is to see that the product reaches Ithaca by Sunday! You have exactly five days to meet that deadline. If you do not, we have a serious problem. I will most certainly kill you, but I will have to get in line behind the Chinese and I’ll have to do it before they kill me! ”

“It’s not my fault!” McWilliams whined, making no attempt to protect himself as Kohler shook him like a dog worrying a chew toy. “They hit the cook house we were using. All the product’s gone and the place was blown to shit! We lost a lot of guys, man. You don’t know!”

Kohler paused and released McWilliams, straightening his own suit as he took a deep breath. “That,” he told McWilliams, “is precisely why I pay you and your fellow miscreants. These things happen. Straighten it out. Have a turf war, or something. Do whatever it is you people do. I don’t care who you have to kill. Just do it. Make the problem go away and make damned sure the shipment is all there, on time, by Sunday. Otherwise I swear I’ll break every bone in your body before Chang and his people get to me. ”

McWilliams nodded so hard that Kohler thought the unctuous little man’s head might snap off. The middleman scuttled away without another word, leaving Kohler to consider his empty office, his empty bank accounts and his very full schedule. He decided, then and there, that outside help was in order. He paused to bring up a few relevant files on his computer, including everything he had on McWilliams and his key associates. Then he accessed several of his confidential files. If the Purists couldn’t get the job done, he would bring in someone who could.

While he was at it, he’d see to it that McWilliams was erased simply for annoying him one time too many. McWilliams’s medical records contained an interesting fact. He’d pass that along in the spirit of cooperation. With luck, his new consultant could speed up the process and Kohler could get his business ventures back on track all the sooner.

Despite what he’d told McWilliams, he knew it was unlikely they’d make Chang’s shipment deadline. Given that, he’d have to make alternate arrangements, and given Chang’s difficult temperament, he’d have to make them himself.

Kohler sighed.

It was so hard to get good help these days.

Armory Square, Syracuse

T HE INTERIOR OF THE Tyrannosaur Barbecue was dark, crowded and loud, just the way Trogg Sharpe liked it. The massive leader of the CNY Purists held court there almost every day, seated at a plank table in the far corner of his domain with a plate of suicide wings or hotsauced spareribs in front of him. There was always a row of gleaming chromed motorcycles parked in front of the Tyrannosaur, which had been a Syracuse landmark for more than thirty years. At any given time, at least half of those bikes belonged to the CNY Purists, central New York’s largest and most brutal motorcycle club.

Sharpe’s bulk was as much fat as muscle. His tremendous belly distended the black Live to Ride T-shirt he wore under a leather vest sporting plenty of chain and the Purist’s colors. Still, he was no one to test lightly. Sharpe had put his fair share of men in hospitals with nothing more than his ham-size hands. At five foot eight and well over three hundred pounds, he lumbered slowly and inexorably through life, confident in the power of the Purists and in the damage he could do through sheer viciousness. The biker demanded relatively little of life—good booze, the occasional smoke. He liked a willing woman from time to time, the younger the better. Apart from that, he was content—as long as nobody got in his way. Those who did he beat down. Any man or woman who messed with him learned never to test him again. Or they died.

Sharpe smiled as he worked his way through a plate of ribs, reaching out and trying to grab the leather-skirted waitress as she clicked by on stiletto heels. She told him to screw himself and kept walking. Sharpe laughed. The Tyrannosaur was known for its great barbecue and its lousy, rude service. It was a tradition. He wiped hot sauce from his bushy beard with the back of his hand and reached for his beer amid the empties already collecting on the table.

The other Purists in attendance were circulating through the room, some eating at tables of their own, others engaged in a game of poker in the back room. Sharpe planned to join the poker game when he was finished eating. First things first.

Snapper, Sharpe’s third in command, was examining the jukebox across the room. He stared at the scarred glass box as if his life depended on the song he picked. Jesus, but it took Snapper forever to make a decision. Sharpe had just about run out of patience and was getting ready to demand something by CCR.

His world exploded.

One moment he was watching as the front door of the place opened—he saw the silhouette of a big man in dark clothing against the almost blinding light of day outside the darkened barbecue shack. The next moment, he was falling backward in his chair, a deafening roar in his ears as lightning bolts danced in front of his dimming vision. He hit the floor, but did not feel it. For Sharpe, everything that ever was disappeared into pain and brightness and then nothing.

B OLAN, IN HIS RENTED Blazer, pulled away from the drop point. A heavy war bag sat in the passenger seat, its zippers pulled open to reveal the cache of equipment and weapons within. The Farm’s gunsmith, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had done his usual excellent work, from the look of things. The men and women at the Farm had filled his gear requests and had even thrown in a few extras.

One of the items Bolan had specifically asked for was a portable police scanner, programmed with the appropriate local frequencies. Another was a handheld GPS unit. If he was to track a murderer in unfamiliar territory—territory his quarry knew, presumably—Bolan would need a technological edge. He’d learned well in battlefields across the globe that terrain, and knowledge of it, could make all the difference in an armed conflict.

Bolan switched on the scanner and set it to rotate through its presets automatically. Almost immediately, it came to life with an excited voice: “…I say again, shots fired, shots fired, Tyrannosaur Barbecue, North Willow. It sounds like a damned war! Shots fired, shots fired…”

Bolan thumbed the GPS unit to life and checked it. He was only blocks away.

The Blazer’s tires squealed as he put the accelerator to the floor.

G ARY R OOK HAD PLANTED ONE combat boot against the crash bar on the front door of the Tyrannosaur. He’d kicked it in, took a single step, raised his Smith & Wesson 625 and fired. The .45ACP hollowpoint round thundered straight for Trogg Sharpe, bowling over the fat man and dumping him in a corpulent heap on the sawdust-strewed floor.

There was a moment of absolute silence as bikers, other patrons and serving staff all turned to Rook, eyes wide in shock.

Rook cut loose.

He methodically moved the four-inch barrel of the big stainless-steel revolver, firing the weapon double-action each time he found a target. A biker standing by the jukebox was hammered into the now-shattered glass, blood and bone flecking the shattered CDs inside the unit. Another was whipped backward as a slug tore a channel through his head, spraying brain tissue out an exit wound the size of a quarter. Rook did not hear the screaming as he dropped men and women alike, his ears ringing despite the foam earplugs he wore. As the revolver clicked empty on the seventh pull, he used his left hand to draw an identical weapon from the second of two cross-draw leather holsters at his waist. His prey began to return fire as he started cycling through another half-dozen 230-grain rounds.

The bikers were brutal enough, but they had no technique and no initiative. As long as Rook could keep them on the defensive, he knew he would win every time. He almost laughed as a stocky Purist in leather pants and a denim vest popped up from behind an overturned table—just in time for Rook to pump a round through his chest. The biker caved in on himself and Rook dropped to the floor.

Holstering his revolvers, Rook drew two full-size Rock Island Armory 1911-style .45 automatic pistols from leather shoulder holsters under both arms. Then he was up again, sparing two rounds for a crawling Purist he’d wounded through the gut with the first salvo. He stepped over a dead waitress, her hair snaking through a growing puddle of blood, and made his way to the back. There, he knew, there was almost always a card game going on.

Automatic gunfire ripped through the doorway as Rook hugged one side of the opening. There were Purists back there, all right, and they were waiting for him to stick his head in and get it shot off. Rook smiled again. From the shoulder bag hanging across his chest, he withdrew a Molotov—a simple beer bottle filled with gasoline, a gas-soaked rag plugging the neck of the bottle. He waited for a lull in the gunfire and then tossed the bottle.

“Look out!” someone shouted from the back room.

Rook whipped one hand around the doorjamb and fired the .45 dry. At least one of the rounds managed to ignite the gasoline. The whoosh of flame was followed by an agonized cry as one of the room’s occupants began to burn. Rook risked a direct look through the doorway and fired his other .45 empty, tagging at least one cowering Purist who had not been caught by the fire. Then he backed out into the main room of the Tyrannosaur, reloading each of his .45s awkwardly as he juggled both weapons.

The crackle of fire and the sudden squealing of smoke alarms did not distract him as he stalked through the room. Something moved in the shadow of one of the booths on the far wall. Rook blasted it three times and kept going. He shouldered through the doors to the Tyrannosaur’s kitchen.

“You bastard!” someone screamed. Rook jumped back and narrowly missed being slashed by the big kitchen knife, wielded by a heavy man in a dirty white T-shirt and apron. The balding, middle-aged man could only be a cook, from the look of him.

“Wait,” Rook protested.

The man grunted and slashed again, driving Rook back the way he’d come. Rook shrugged mentally and shot the man center mass, watching dispassionately as he dropped his knife and fell to the floor.

That was life in the big city, wasn’t it?

The police would arrive at any moment. Rook took another Molotov from his bag, lit it with a disposable lighter from his pocket and tossed it in to the center of the kitchen. It burst and tinted the scene orange. Rook could feel the searing heat on his face as he left through the kitchen’s emergency exit, ignoring the alarm bell that started ringing as soon as the door opened. His truck, parked illegally in the alley behind the Tyrannosaur, was waiting for him.

He did not even spare the burning restaurant a glance in his rearview mirror as he sped away.

B OLAN SKIDDED AROUND THE corner at the Willow Street intersection, skirting the Tyrannosaur and almost sideswiping a row of parked motorcycles. He came to a halt and threw himself from the vehicle, war bag slung across his body over one shoulder. He could see flames dancing at the rear of the building as black smoke filled the sky. There was no other activity. The place was a loss, and the soldier had obviously just missed whatever had happened. Several people from neighboring businesses had come out to watch the fire and were talking animatedly to one another. Bolan could sense their eyes on him as he backed away from the building.

Bolan caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned in time to see a gigantic man, his face covered in blood, stagger from the building. He was followed by a second, much thinner man, who was cradling his arm. The smaller man’s skin was lobster red. He was badly burned.

The fat man raised a .38 revolver and opened fire, screaming.

Bolan heaved himself behind the Blazer. One of the slugs tore into the fender; another blew the tire. Bolan unleathered his Beretta and prepared to bring it into play. Before he could fire, he heard the revving of a motorcycle engine.

Jumping up, the Executioner tracked the big man as the chopper squealed away, carrying both wounded men. It shot past the Blazer and toward the milling crowds on the street. The big man on the bike spared Bolan a venomous glance backward but did not fire again as he surged away. Bolan held his fire; there were too many innocents between him and the biker. The bike burned around a corner and disappeared as Bolan turned back to his Blazer and its flat front tire.

For the second time in as many days, he heard police and fire sirens in the background, headed his way. The Tyrannosaur continued to burn and he was no closer to finding the man responsible.

3

Liverpool, New York

Gary Rook was in hell.

He visited hell every night. Every night was the same as the last. In his sleep, he was terrorized by dreams of Jennifer as she’d been near the end—toothless, thinner than seemed possible, racked with spasms and tics. The haunted look in her sunken, bloodshot eyes was something he’d never forget, not for as long as he lived. There was no doubt in Rook’s mind that when he finally got to hell, she would be there to meet him. Seeing her every night was simply his penance, his prepayment for the sins he had committed and would continue to commit. Only when he was on the streets, making them pay, could Rook feel some measure of peace, some sense of justice and satisfaction. At night, the knowledge of what he’d done weighed heavily on him. Thoughts of what Jennifer herself would think of what he was doing hurt him even more.

Rook had no illusions. He knew that what he was doing was wrong. He knew that he was doing it for himself, too—Jennifer was long past caring and nothing he did would bring her back. Rook was a murderer. He was guilty and he expected, eventually, to be caught or killed.

He didn’t care.

Whipping his head to the side as he woke himself from the nightmare, Rook gasped. He blinked a few times, then brought his wristwatch to his face and tried to focus on it. It was morning, and later than he liked. He sighed. He had better waste no more time.

He sat up in the sweat-stained, tangled sheets, staring uncomprehendingly at the pillow lying on the floor near the full-size bed. The apartment was almost bare except for the bed and a few cardboard boxes stuffed with clothes and other personal items. Guns, ammunition and other supplies were strewed about the floor. There was no furniture on which to place them. Rook owned no television, either—he couldn’t be bothered to spend any time in front of one.

Empty bottles of bourbon lay on their sides at the foot of the bed, next to an overflowing ashtray. Rook found his mostly crushed box of Marlboros, in which he’d stuffed another disposable lighter, and sucked to life one of the last of his cigarettes. One of his .45s, cocked and locked with a round in the chamber, lay on the sheet where it had been under his pillow. He picked it up, snapped off the safety and considered it.

He would never kill himself. He wanted to, sometimes, but not badly enough to actually do it. To be honest, it scared him. He knew where he was going and wasn’t in a hurry to get there. Besides, while he was alive, he could keep killing members of the Purists. He might even be able to kill them all.

He wondered what he would do, then. But it didn’t matter. It would be a long time before he got them all.

Syracuse, New York

“C OME ON , J ACKER ,” T ROGG grunted, holding the bloodstained bag of ice to his aching head. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“I’m doing my best, man,” Jacker whined. His left arm in a sling, Jacker moved a felt-tipped marker back and forth on the dog-eared sheet of copy paper. He paused to push stringy, dirty-blond hair out of his eyes and then bent to his work again.

“Don’t test me, Jacker,” Trogg rumbled. He flexed the fingers of both his hands, picturing them wrapped around a throat. He wanted to find that commando. It had to be the same guy; there was no question. It was the guy who’d hit the cook house, the guy who’d butchered Chopper Mike, Mike’s old lady, and even his rug rat. Trogg had done worse himself over the course of his life, but this was different. This was family. This was the Purists. Nobody tried to do the Purists like this son of a bitch had done. He was going to pay. Yeah, he was going to pay, but first he was going to suffer. Trogg was going to take great pleasure in torturing the bastard until he went insane—and then torturing him some more until he died.

The doctor Trogg used for these little incidents had treated him and Jacker, taken his bribe and scuttled off. Trogg almost had to laugh. It was a good bet the city’s south side was the only part of Syracuse that still got house calls from the local medical establishment. Like anything in life, you could have whatever you wanted if you didn’t care what it cost and you didn’t care what laws you broke. Sure, a lot of the doctors paid to come by were, well, less than legitimate, but you took what you could get.

Trogg knew he was lucky to be alive. His head felt as if it were going to split open. The bullet had creased his forehead but left his skull intact, leaving him with what was going to be an impressive scar when the stitches came out. He was doped to the gills on codeine from his private stash of painkillers. Jacker had bad burns and a busted arm, but he’d recover, too. He wasn’t going to be very pretty, what with the skin all screwed up on his arm and face and neck, but then, he hadn’t been that pretty to start with.

“He’s gonna pay, man,” Trogg said out loud, not so much to Jacker as to the Universe itself. “We’re gonna find him and we’re going to make him scream and beg to die.”

B OLAN SAT AT THE interrogation room table with the rookie, Officer Paglia, opposite him, both of them shuffling through files. The impromptu work space had that entrenched locker-room tang that so many rooms like it never lost—sweat, mostly, mixed with stale air, peeling paint, and the stink of bodies long neglected and abused by their owners. Bolan’s credentials had gotten him the space and enough cooperation to get the young officer assigned to him for support, but Syracuse’s chief of police and his federal counterparts had made it clear they weren’t happy to have him butting in. Bolan didn’t care what they thought as long as they stayed out of his way.