Chicago Vendetta. Don Pendleton
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“So, when are we going to get this show on the road?” asked Brett’s partner, Reginald “Iggy” Taylor.
“I’m still waiting for the call from Hillman.”
“What’s taking him so long?”
Brett looked at his partner with disbelief. “A holiday weekend and trying to find a judge awake at this hour?”
The cell phone buzzed for attention. Brett looked at the caller ID before answering and said, “Speak of the devil.”
“I finally got Judge Baker to sign off.”
“Took long enough.”
“I had to go to three other places before I got lucky enough to catch her at home. She said, and I quote, ‘Any chance to get this son of a bitch behind bars once and for all, I’m glad to put ink to paper.’ I’m on my way with hard copies, so go ahead and get into position. I’ll be there in less than five with the BearCat.”
“Acknowledged. We’re in position.”
Brett disconnected the call and said, “Let’s do this.”
Taylor nodded, then looked around at the deserted neighborhood street before drawing his .40 Smith & Wesson pistol. He eased the slide back partway to verify a round sat in the chamber, then put the semiautomatic weapon at half cock and engaged the safety.
Brett was out of the car and had the trunk open by the time Taylor joined him. The pair donned their bulletproof vests before each withdrew a Colt M-4 carbine. Unlike the M-4 A1, this variant only supported a safe/semiauto/3-round-burst trigger configuration. With a maximum effective range of 500 to 600 meters and chambering 5.56 mm NATO rounds, the M-4 had a muzzle velocity that exceeded 900 meters per second. It was an effective tool in a modern arsenal required to combat crime. Brett and Taylor were both fully trained and certified on the weapon as full-fledged members of the warrant squad.
As Brett closed the trunk he said, “Let’s take this bastard down once and for all.”
Taylor couldn’t resist flashing a sardonic grin. “You’re such a drama queen.”
His partner chuckled, and the two crossed the street to the sidewalk on the far side. Tall, immaculate hedges lined the walk and obscured their approach. To Brett’s surprise, they hadn’t seen any movement through the visible parts of the massive wrought iron fence surrounding the grounds of Madera’s palatial home. It annoyed the hell out of the detective when he considered Madera had the guts to live in such an affluent neighborhood. While others in this part of town were probably law-abiding citizens for the most part, and had worked to earn a nice home here, Madera had built his fortune selling drugs.
To rub salt in the wound, federal authorities had marked Madera as a person of interest in the murder of a US border patrol agent. They hadn’t gathered enough evidence to secure a conviction, but he was wanted for questioning. Brett hoped if they managed to make the arrest that the Feds wouldn’t swoop in and take charge. While murdering a federal agent was a serious crime, mere suspicion couldn’t trump the various drug-related charges accompanied by a mountain of evidence. That’s what would ultimately put Madera behind bars.
Brett and Taylor made it to the southwest corner of Madera’s property. The senior detective checked his watch, heart thudding in his ears with the surge of adrenaline. He looked down the nearby avenue, searching for the familiar shape of the armored BearCat LE. Manufactured by Lenco Industries and weighing in at almost nine tons, the BearCat could travel at highway speeds and boasted an inch of NIJ Type IV armor. CPD’s SWAT team had two of them in their fleet. Both featured running boards, battering ram, gun ports and a rotating roof hatch. The BearCat would be a formidable weapon against anything Madera could throw at them.
The vehicle passed beneath the illumination of the streetlight as it lumbered into view, its familiar lines sending a small measure of comfort through Brett’s gut. “Right on time, Hillman. Nice.”
Brett heard Taylor stir and turned to see what his friend and partner was saying, but abruptly Taylor’s reply became muffled as the big cop began to choke on his own blood, and a red hole seemed to materialize in his neck out of nowhere. Brett froze; he heard the pop emanate from somewhere, but between the broad street and vast grounds of Madera’s estate, he couldn’t really determine from where the sniper shot had originated. What he did realize, even before he saw Taylor grab at his neck and the spurts of arterial blood, was that they no longer had the advantage of surprise. Brett whirled toward his partner, intending to help his friend, who simply sat down as his lifeblood gushed from between his fingers.
Brett didn’t get far. A bullet slammed into his back, striking him squarely between the shoulders like a sledgehammer with enough force to pile drive him to the pavement. The force knocked the wind out of him, his lungs burning instantaneously as he fought the urge to pass out and stars danced in front of his eyes. Then something burned in his right buttock, and he heard the third pop; the pain grew to excruciating proportions.
Flashing lights from the approaching BearCat were the last things Sergeant Mick Brett saw.
* * *
Just before six o’clock on the following morning, Chicago Fire Engine Company 9 and Rescue Truck 3 were dispatched to a two-story house nestled among houses of similar construction along the historic West Jackson Boulevard District. Several reports had been called in regarding smoke coming from the first story.
They would later discover the home belonged to twenty-eight-year-old Kendra James, a second-shift dispatcher for the Chicago Police Department.
Firefighters entered the structure with a two-inch attack line, knocked down the blaze in the living room and adjoining kitchen, then rescue crews scoured the house. They found James in a second-story bedroom, unresponsive after having succumbed to natural gas exposure. They rushed her to the hospital but she couldn’t be revived. The young woman was pronounced dead at 0704 hours.
For 99 percent of residents, it was just another crazy twenty-four-hour period in the circle of life on the mean streets of the Windy City. But it did capture the attention of one man. Mack Bolan was convinced the events were related, that someone had gone on a killing spree to eliminate Chicago’s finest. The man known as the Executioner was determined to learn the truth about these incidents.
Whatever the cost.
Johnny Gray—born Johnny Bolan—shouldered his way through one of the glass doors of the Chicago PD headquarters building on Michigan Avenue.
The blustery cold of the early morning swirled in behind him, biting at his skin even through his cotton slacks. It made a striking difference from home in Southern California. When his brother called and asked for his help, Johnny dropped everything and hopped aboard the first flight to O’Hare.
Mack was convinced the recent murders of the police weren’t a coincidence. He needed Johnny to check things out on the ground. With the help of Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group—and the rest of the team at Stony Man Farm in Virginia—Mack arranged for it to look as if his brother and Detective Rich Walburn had been longtime friends. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer ace, had used his skills to fake the dossier beyond reproach, complete with photos of Johnny and Walburn together at various ages. It should get Johnny inside the cop shop, after which the rest was up to him.
Johnny welcomed the assignment. He so rarely got a chance to work in concert with his older brother—or to see him off the job for that matter—it was worth the risk.
When Mack called, Johnny knew action was in the wind.
After getting cleared through security, a desk sergeant showed Johnny to the offices of the Internal Affairs Division, which was attached to Intelligence. Within a few minutes, he found himself seated in a cramped office that was too hot and narrow because it was apparently occupied by two detectives. The magnetic