Death List

Pierce exchanged a few words with the guard at the shack before the iron gates opened on smoothly oiled tracks. The Town Car carried them effortlessly up the winding drive to the house. Bolan took careful note of the layout, as well as the various statues, shrubbery and other items that could be used for cover and concealment. The winding drive didn’t have to be winding at all. It had been designed that way to make it harder for an enemy to drive a truck full of explosives straight through the gate and into the house. The statues were likely bollards with deep concrete posts securing them in the ground. Grates in the paved drive also bore holes large enough for hydraulic barriers or tire-damaging spike belts.

“Quite the spread, isn’t it?” Pierce said. He pulled into a covered car park opposite the stairs leading to the columned front door. Throwing the Lincoln in Park, he pocketed his keys and gestured for Bolan to follow him. Two hulking guards in expensive suits stood at either side of the door. They wore Beretta 12 submachine guns on straps over their shoulders. The display was probably meant for Bolan’s benefit, but then, given that the front door wasn’t visible from outside the estate, it was possible they just stood around that way all the time. One of them held up a hand as Pierce and Bolan approached.

“Who’s this guy?” the guard asked.

“Move it, Tommy,” Pierce replied. “Vincent Harmon. He’s on the list. Got an appointment with you know who.”

Tommy started to move aside, although he looked like he wanted to argue. He waved them through, saying, “Mrs. Corino is pretty mad about Vincenzo’s.”

Bolan knew that was the name of the restaurant the Torettos had shot up.

Pierce made a face. “It’d be a frigging miracle if she wasn’t,” he said. “Now get outta the way.”

Bolan didn’t yet have enough information to put his finger on Pierce’s position within the Corino organization, but the smaller man walked around as if he were untouchable. That, too, was an interesting detail. The fact that none of the Mob guys they’d encountered offered more than a perfunctory challenge to Pierce’s approach told Bolan that the man was highly placed. He would need to contact the Farm to see why the Corino dossier he had been supplied had not contained a single mention of Pierce.

As he followed the mobster through the sprawling, opulently appointed home, Bolan felt like he was walking through a movie set rather than a place people lived. The whole house was decorated in Mob Modern: faux-tasteful antique furniture, paintings as forgettable as they were expensive and packaged decorator color schemes that might have come straight from the set of some overwrought Mafia film. The floors were polished hardwoods covered in expensive Persian rugs. Pierce, who wore hard-soled, Italian-leather shoes, seemed to delight in grinding his feet into the rugs, as if he thought them as tasteless an affectation as Bolan judged them to be.

One more note for the mental file, Bolan thought.

In an anteroom at the end of a long hallway, another pair of hardmen stopped them. Pierce looked more annoyed than usual as he and Bolan approached. “Stay steady and don’t kill nobody if I have to get a little rough,” he whispered to Bolan. “Things usually get a little rocky between me and Dumb-Dumb over here. He’s a nephew of the Corino family, and he figures he should have my job, not guard duty outside the sanctum sanctorum over here.”

Bolan shot Pierce a glance.

“Well, well,” one of the two guards said when Bolan and Pierce were in earshot. “If it isn’t Davey. Hey, Davey. I been meaning to ask you a favor.”

“Yeah, Seb?” Pierce queried. “What’s that?” His tone did not match his words. He sounded angry, as if he knew what was coming and didn’t like it.

“Yeah. I was wondering if you could take this magic ring back to the evil mountain where it was forged.”

Bolan’s brow furrowed. Pierce, meanwhile, didn’t say a word for a moment. Finally he said, “We’re expected. Open the door.”

“You know,” Seb said, as if he hadn’t heard, “because you’re short. Short like those guys in that thing.”

“That narrows it down,” Bolan said.

Now it was Pierce’s turn to look at Bolan. Seb took a step closer and put a finger on the Executioner’s chest. “Look, dim bulb, maybe you don’t hear so good—”

That was the last word he got out before Bolan reached up, grabbed his finger and hand, and twisted, applying a joint lock that made the big thug howl in agony. Before Seb’s partner could step in, Pierce put himself in front of Bolan and Seb, blocking the way.

“Nope,” Pierce said. “Keep it in your pants, Joey.”

“Seb?” Joey asked. “What you want me to do?”

But Seb wasn’t in a position to answer any questions. Bolan continued to apply pressure to Seb’s finger joints and wrist, turning and twisting. “Here’s a free piece of advice, pal,” Bolan said quietly. “Never reach for another man. Never put your finger anywhere near him unless that finger is backed up with the rest of your arm. You can spear a guy in the throat. You can poke a thumb into his eye. Hell, you can grab a man’s eye socket like it’s a bowling ball, if you want. But never just put your finger on a man’s chest. You’re just looking to get hurt real bad.”

“What he said,” Pierce muttered, still eyeing Joey.

“You get me?” Bolan asked. “Or do I add a little pressure and make your nickname ‘Lefty’ for the rest of your life?”

“Nah,” Seb ground out through his teeth.

“I can’t hear you,” Bolan said, twisting.

“I said no! No!” Seb yelled. “I get you! I get you!”

Bolan released him. The mobster collapsed to the floor, grabbing his injured hand with his opposite palm and curling into a fetal ball. Pierce looked down, smiling, and shot Joey a disgusted look before he gestured to the doorway.

“After you, Mr. Harmon,” he said with a flourish. “And thank you.”

“De nada.”

They found Aldo and Rose Corino in a study decorated in the same manner as what Bolan had so far seen in the house. The appointments were opulent and over the top, as if it was all for show. Bolan ran the implications through his mind. The Corinos cared about being perceived as powerful and wealthy. Their images mattered to them. When an enemy’s ego put style over substance, that pointed to weakness. Which could be exploited and would ultimately be the fissures through which Bolan would crack and tear apart the Corinos’ armor.

“What was all that grab-ass in the hall?” the elderly Don asked.

“Nothing, Mr. Corino,” said Pierce. “Nothing at all. Uh, sorry for the interruption. And it’s very nice to see you again, Mrs. Corino.” He bowed slightly to the matriarch of the Corino family, perhaps even unaware that he was doing it.

One look at the dour, wrinkled, battle-ax face on Rosa Corino and Bolan could understand why. She had the permanently pinched, furrowed look of someone who wielded a lot of power...and who wasn’t particularly happy about it. She wore a neatly tailored suit jacket and skirt and surprisingly tasteful jewelry. A pair of half-lens glasses was perched on her nose, attached to a chain around her neck.

If Rosa Corino had a kind of Lady Macbeth aura about her, Aldo Corino was complementary to the role. He was a hunched, gaunt old man, wearing a cashmere sweater over a Ralph Lauren shirt. His slacks were expensive. His shoes, Italian loafers. He looked like he hadn’t gotten up out of his chair in days. He had a turkey neck and the face of a buzzard, with a prominent nose and sunken eyes. The Corino patriarch waved one hand, which bore a large, golden signet ring. The ring might, Bolan mused, be the only genuine antique in this ersatz mausoleum.

“Vincent Harmon,” Rosa Corino said. “We’re told that you were instrumental in driving back the attack by the Torettos today.”

“I was,” Bolan replied.

“You should have seen him, Mrs. Corino,” Pierce stated. “You’re getting your money’s worth with this character.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Aldo told him. From the pocket of his sweater he removed a brass pocket watch. He made a big show of opening and staring at the timepiece before slowly closing it and returning it to his pocket. “He has to prove himself.” The Mob boss put his fist to his gaunt face and coughed several times. He looked to his wife.

“The Torettos,” Rosa said. “They are your first test.”

“I don’t follow,” said Bolan, who followed just fine. He wanted there to be no doubt. He wanted to hear the Corinos explain precisely what they expected.

“All of the Chicago families have been deep in meetings for the better part of a year and a half,” Rosa went on. She kept her gnarled hands folded on her lap as she spoke, never gesturing with them. The absence of motion was what drew Bolan’s eyes. It was very likely, from the appearance of her fingers and knuckles, that Rosa suffered from severe arthritis.

“In that time,” Aldo added, having recovered from his coughing fit, “we’ve all agreed on a list. There are names. There are dates. There are specific places. The plan has been worked out and agreed to so that it benefits all of the families and doesn’t step on any toes. The times and places are nonnegotiable. The dates are nonnegotiable. The list is a list of people we need you to take out.”

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “I got that much. But you’re tying my hands if you expect me to hit these people only in the times and places you specify. It’s bad tactics.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Rosa said coldly. “You’re supposed to be the best. The best can work within those constraints, can’t he? Because if he can, he can get very, very rich.”

“And if he can’t,” Aldo said, “he can get very...dead.” The old man had to stop to draw a breath in the middle of his sentence; clearly he suffered from some kind of pulmonary issue.

“How rich?” Bolan asked.

“Six figures for each hit. The families have pooled their money into a war chest for the right man. That man is you, Harmon. At least, that’s what we thought. You going to...make a liar out of me?” Aldo asked.

“No. Six figures I can work with. But I’ll need the list and the details. As much information as you have.”

“Not quite so fast,” Rosa said. “We called the meeting for the restaurant so David here could lay it out for you. There’s a test we need you to pass first. It will show us that we’re not wasting our time, our money and all our plans on you. If you can pass the test, you can have the list. We can’t afford to have anyone try and fail. If what we’re doing got out, all the families would suffer for it, and we’d miss our chance. The man who takes on this job has to prove he can succeed.”

“I’m waiting,” Bolan prompted.

“David is an expert on the Toretto family,” Rosa stated. “He’s going to go with you, give you the lay of the land. We want you to remove the thorn that is the Torettos from our side. I don’t care how you do it. I don’t even care if people know you did it for us. That’s actually part of why we need them taken out. They struck us because they think we’re weak. They think they can defy us. We have to show the other families that anyone who defies us will die. Make it big. Make it loud. Or make it quiet, so long as it’s horrible. We want to make a statement.”

“Right. I feel like there’s a catch.”

The Corinos looked at Pierce, who swallowed hard. “Nobody knows where the Torettos are headquartered,” he said. “We know some of their territories, and we know some of their holdings, but they’ve guarded their whereabouts carefully when it comes to the Toretto bosses. That’s one of the reasons we haven’t been able to take them down before now.”

“David is modest,” Aldo said, wheezing. “David himself is one of the reasons we haven’t been...able to take down the Torettos. Because David was given the job, and he couldn’t do it.”

Pierce turned red but shifted so that he was facing Bolan and away from the Corinos. “We need the help of a professional,” Pierce said. “Somebody skilled in assassination. Somebody who can help me root out the Torettos and decimate them once and for all.”

“I’m your man,” Bolan said.

“We’ll see,” Aldo told him. “We’ll...see.”

3

Chicago’s South Side

“You mind telling me what that was all about?” Bolan asked, as Pierce guided his Town Car through the seedier sections of town. The smaller man had not discussed their destination with the man he thought was Vincent Harmon. He had merely motioned to the car, fired it up and started driving. Bolan had been content to give Pierce some time with his thoughts, but his patience had its limits.

“It’s a long-standing thing,” Pierce said. “Son of a friend of the family, I told you. In syndicate circles, family is everything. If you aren’t blood, you’ve got to work twice as hard, be twice as hard, to show them you deserve to be here. And when somebody like Seb figures he should be the field commander for our street guns? Well, somebody like me, who fought his way up through the ranks over years of service... He figures I don’t rate, and I should be pushed outta the way. All because my father worked for the Corinos all his life but wasn’t a member of the family itself. The syndicate has changed, Harmon. We used to believe in loyalty.”

“Yeah,” Bolan said, unable to help himself. “It’s like a guy can’t shark loans at three hundred percent interest and then sell his clients’ daughters into prostitution to pay off their debts anymore.”

“Hey, hey, that’s not fair,” Pierce protested. “I don’t go in for any of that crap. I don’t run girls and I don’t have a hand in any of that type of thing. It’s my job to keep the other families from killing the Corinos. I run our guns and I make sure security is tight. I’m a security specialist, Harmon, not some loan shark’s leg-breaker.”

“It’s a dirty business,” Bolan said. “I’m not sure anyone can dip his hands in that river of blood and come up clean.”

“Says the guy who kills people for a living,” Pierce shot back.

“Touché.”

“Anyway,” Pierce said, “I’m not going to be doing this forever. I’ve been saving my money. I’m gonna open up my own shop.”

“To sell what?”

“It’s not important,” Pierce replied. “C’mon, let’s focus on the task at hand. You know where we are?”

“The south side.”

“No kidding.” Piece sounded annoyed. “I remember I used to walk into the room while my old man was watching television. I’d say, ‘What you watching, Dad?’ And he’d say, ‘A movie.’ Look, Colonel Obvious, this is Toretto territory. We’re way behind enemy lines down here. Keep your eyes peeled for gun barrels pointed our way.”

“What’s your plan?”

“This is your show,” Pierce said. The Corinos figure you’re the guy who can bring down the Torettos where I’ve failed. Well, fine. Show me you can do it.”

Bolan shrugged. “You don’t think we should gear up first?”

“Trunk’s fully stocked,” Pierce said. “We’ve got everything you could ever need.”

“You might be surprised,” Bolan replied. He paused, mulling over the situation. It was not the first time he’d had to think on his feet. “You don’t know where the Toretto headquarters is, but you know this is their territory. That means they’ve got business holdings in the area that you do know about.”

“Right.”

“Take us to one,” Bolan said. “Someplace where a lot of money changes hands.”

“We know the Torettos have a laundry,” Pierce told him. “But they keep the location as secret as their headquarters. For obvious reasons.”

“Doesn’t matter. Someplace that handles a lot of cash would have to have that cash laundered. We find the first, it leads us to the second, assuming we leave at least one person alive.”

Pierce stared at Bolan for a long moment before turning his eyes back to the road. “What about a numbers joint? Sammy Pinch books for the Torettos out of the back of a bar on 79th. The Rose, it’s called.”

“Numbers? There’s still money to be made with all the lotteries that offer the three-number game?” Bolan asked.

“You’d be surprised. The payoffs are larger and a bettor can run a tab. Can’t do that with the state lottery.”

“Okay. That’ll do.”

“There’s always a bunch of guys guarding the place,” Pierce warned. “A couple of cars outside and plenty of triggermen inside. The Torettos don’t screw around when it comes to their cash.”

“I’m counting on that. Just get us there.”

“So what about you, Harmon?” Pierce asked. “You aren’t what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I dunno,” Pierce said. “A skinny guy in a black-on-black suit and a pencil-thin mustache, constantly playing with a switchblade. Maybe a silenced pistol in a shoulder holster. That kind of jazz.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a mustache.”

“You aren’t exactly skinny, either,” Pierce said. “You’re tall, though. I’d have to get up on my own shoulders just to look you in the eye.”

“I’ve never known a man’s height to make much difference in his ability to fight.”

“Me, either,” Pierce said. “But you’d be surprised how many of the Corinos’ own bully-boys have tried to take a shot at me over the years. They see a short guy, they figure he goes down easy.”

“But not you.”

Pierce raised his right hand and made a fist. His knuckles were massive knobs. “There’s not a knuckle in this fist that hasn’t been broken,” he said. “I drove a truck over the road for eight years before I came to work for the Corinos. My shifting arm still hits like a hammer.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Yeah,” Pierce said, laughing. “I bet you will.”

It didn’t take much longer for them to reach the bar in question. Bolan surveyed the neighborhood with a practiced eye. “This place have a back door?” he asked.

“Yeah. That alley goes all the way back to the other side.” Pierce jerked his chin in the direction of the alley.

“Park us around back. You promised me a fully stocked trunk.”

“Yeah, we got that,” Pierce said.

With the Lincoln parked to block the rear entrance, Pierce popped the trunk.

Bolan whistled in appreciation. “You do have all the toys,” he said.

“Never leave home without ’em.”

Packed away in the trunk were at least half a dozen submachine guns, loaded magazines and a couple of shotguns. A pair of AK-47 assault rifles had modular bags beside them that Bolan assumed contained 30-or 40-round magazines, and a bandolier of grenades. A couple of nondescript crates sat underneath the weaponry, which Pierce kept concealed beneath a black wool blanket. The Lincoln’s trunk was very deep, allowing a person to transport a great deal of cargo.

“All this weight, it’s a wonder it doesn’t play hell with your air suspension.”

“You know about that, eh?” Pierce said. “Yeah, it’s a pain. But I like the old girl. She has a sense of style. Show me another car that will let me haul a payload like this and still give me room to bring home groceries.”

“Do a lot of grocery shopping, do you?”

“It sounds better than saying I can still fold a guy up and fit him in there.”

“I can’t argue there.”

Pierce selected a 12-gauge Mossberg 500 shotgun. A Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment—MOLLE—pouch full of shells was part of the arsenal inside the trunk. The little Mafia operative tucked the tab of the bag into his belt, giving him fast access to reloads. He jacked the first shell into the shotgun.

“Cover the rear door,” Bolan ordered. “I’m going to go around the front.” He selected an integrally suppressed HK MP-5, as well as several loaded 9 mm magazines clamped together in groups of two. Bolan took a canvas shoulder bag from the trunk, slung it across his chest and tucked magazines and grenades into it.

“You sure you wanna do that?” Pierce asked. “I just got done telling you there’s always a bunch of guys in there.”

“I like the direct approach when it’s appropriate. Anybody who comes at you who looks like a Toretto doesn’t get to leave. Anybody else is not our problem. Can you handle that?”

“I know most of the Toretto crew by sight. Shouldn’t be a problem.” When Bolan paused, he said, “Hey, look, Harmon, I don’t go around shooting just anybody. I been in this game too long to be some kind of mad-dog killer.”

“Or an assassin?”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“Just keep that shotgun at the ready. You’re sure there are no innocents here? I don’t want to cap some guy whose only crime is showing up to work today.”

“The Torettos own the Rose, body and soul,” Pierce said. “The full-time bartender is a Toretto hire, a lifer named Jack. Has a big scar across his nose. You can’t miss him. There are a few waitresses and whatever. They’re not players, but they work for the Torettos, and they know it. No innocents in there by any definition I can speak to, Harmon. They know the score.”

“Fair enough, but just because the waitresses know who they work for doesn’t make them dirty. Just stupid. So take care.” Bolan slung the MP-5 behind his back and made his way through the alley, watchful for enemy gunners. For purposes of this exercise, he had to consider the enemies of the Corinos his own enemies. It was part of staying in role camouflage for an undercover job like this.

He would never forget, nor ever forgive, the role the Mafia had played so long ago in the destruction of those near and dear to him. It was fighting the Mafia that had propelled him onto the path he walked. Organized crime in the United States had lost considerable power over the years, but still, like a bad skin rash, the organization kept coming back. And because he was the Executioner, he would continue burning them out of their hidey-holes wherever he found them.

Despite himself, he found Pierce more than a little likable. The man had the kind of no-nonsense, down-to-earth demeanor that Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi had possessed when he’d first encountered the man on a mission against organized crime. Few people brought up Grimaldi’s past as a pilot for hire for the Mob, but Jack never forgot it, Bolan knew. The man was driven to atone for any early mistakes he might have made in that regard. It was one of the things that made him so brave and committed to the mission of Brognola’s Sensitive Operations Group.

Were there similar redeeming qualities in Pierce? Possibly.

Emerging from the alley, he surveyed the street in front of the bar. Pierce had said there were always a couple of cars out front. Those would be guard vehicles, with sentries posted inside. Probably something nondescript, so that sentries could sit and watch unnoticed. It was less conspicuous than posting men outside the bar itself, especially if they were typical Mob toughs. A practiced eye, including those of law enforcement, could spot a character like that from blocks away.

It didn’t take him long to find what he needed. There was an old Chrysler K-car on one side and a newer Chevy Malibu on the other. Each had a man sitting at the wheel. Of course, he couldn’t take a chance that these were simply innocent people sitting in their vehicles for whatever reason. There was an easy way to make sure of that.

He reached into his borrowed war bag, pulled out a pair of grenades and yanked the pins. He let the spoons fly free and shouted, “Hey! You guys with the Mob?” As he did so, he held the grenades aloft.

The two sentries wrenched open their doors, clawing for guns hidden under their coats. Bolan threw the two lethal eggs and then put himself to the sidewalk. The move stung, but it beat eating the shrapnel that was about to—

The grenades exploded, ripping through the gas tank of the K-car and punching into the engine compartment of the Malibu. The explosions flattened the two sentries. Bolan paused long enough to kick their guns into the burning wreckage, preventing them from being picked up and used against him. He was philosophically opposed to leaving loaded guns on the street for the neighborhood kids to find, too. Bringing up the MP-5 on its sling, he slapped the charging handle, jacking a 9 mm round into the chamber. The Heckler & Koch machine pistol was a fine weapon. It would serve him well, provided it had been properly maintained. Pierce didn’t seem like the sort to tolerate sloppy weapons maintenance.