Kill Squad. Don Pendleton
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He shut off the engine, got out of the van and went to the rear where he opened the door and slid out a package and a clipboard. He made a show of checking the clipboard before dropping it back inside the van and closing the door. While he did that, Riker slid over to the driver’s seat and sat waiting. Cushman carried the package and walked up the driveway, bypassing the Volkswagen and walking to the back of the house.
He barely glanced at the rear yard, moving directly to the back door and tapping on the glass panel. He waited and tapped again. He heard movement inside then, through the frosted glass, saw a blurred figure approach the door. The door was opened on a security chain and a young woman’s face appeared.
“Delivery for Gwen Darrow,” Cushman said, a friendly smile on his face. He juggled the package and used his left hand to pull a folded sheet from his pocket. “I just need a signature, miss.”
“My mom isn’t at home.”
“You can take the parcel,” Cushman said. He waggled the sheet of paper. “I just need you to sign, is all.”
The young woman hesitated then eased the door closed so she could remove the chain and open it wider.
“Mom didn’t say anything about a delivery.”
Cushman gave a shrug. “I don’t know about that. I just deliver what I’m given.”
He offered the package. The young woman, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, hesitated for a few seconds before taking the package. She moved back into the kitchen to place the package on the work surface and turned to go sign the delivery sheet.
Cushman had already stepped inside and had closed the gap between them. He had pushed the sheet of paper back into his pocket, producing a knife that he held out at the young woman.
“What are you—”
Cushman grabbed her arm and moved her from the kitchen and through open French doors that led to a family room.
“Hey,” she snapped, “I don’t know what you want but—”
“I want you to shut your mouth until I tell you to speak,” Cushman ordered. “I ask a question, you answer. Tell me what I want or I’ll cut your face to ribbons.”
The young woman stood there, silently defiant.
“Okay,” Cushman continued. “Where’s your uncle? Harry Sherman.”
* * *
GWEN DARROW LIVED in a town house in West Des Moines. It was a nice area. Big houses on a pleasant residential street. Mack Bolan cruised by the Darrow residence. It was late morning when the soldier made his pass, noting that the majority of drives were devoid of cars; at this time of day most people were already at work. He circled the area, also noting the absence of vehicles parked on the street. Bolan fixed the address in his mind and drove on.
A quarter mile down the road the residential area gave way to a small shopping mall. Bolan drove the Suburban onto the rooftop level of a parking garage and eased the vehicle into a vacant space. Turning off the engine, he retrieved his weapon from the glove compartment. He donned the shoulder rig and checked the Beretta 93-R, then shrugged on a leather jacket, knowing it would conceal his weapon. After securing the SUV, Bolan made his way out of the mall and retraced the route to the residential area. He moved at a steady pace, observing his surroundings.
The Darrow place was a couple of houses away when he saw the blue van parked in the drive behind a red Volkswagen Beetle. It had not been there when he had passed by earlier. The panel van had no company logo on its sides. Bolan took out his sat phone and called Stony Man. He wasted no time on small talk, simply quoting the van’s plate number and asking for a vehicle check.
He got a call back minutes later.
“The plates are from a stolen vehicle,” Kurtzman told him, “taken six months ago. They’re from an SUV. Not a panel van.”
Bolan put his phone away and increased his pace, his hand sliding inside his jacket and easing the 93-R from shoulder leather. He flicked the selector to single shot.
The Executioner had spotted the silhouette of a man sitting behind the van’s wheel and kept him in mind as he moved up the driveway. The side of the house was on his right, a privacy fence on his left cutting him off from the neighboring house. Bolan was halfway along the side of the house when he picked up the sound of footfalls coming up behind him.
Bolan allowed the guy to get within a few feet before he came to a sudden halt and turned to face him. The move caught the guy by surprise. He wore coveralls and had a pistol in his hand. He made a halfhearted attempt to pull it into firing position. Bolan raised the Beretta and slammed the weapon into the guy’s exposed throat. The impact stunned him, his eyes bugging open in shock. He stumbled back against the house, offering no resistance when Bolan snatched his pistol from his hand. The gunner clutched at his throat, choking as his crushed larynx restricted air flow. Then he slumped to his knees.
Bolan pulled a pair of riot cuffs from his pocket and tightly secured the guy’s wrists and ankles, rolling him off the driveway and into the shrubs lining the fence.
He stuck his acquired pistol into his web belt then continued to the rear of the house, emerging onto a paved patio. The back door, which was open, led into a large kitchen. There was also a set of French doors that gave access to what seemed to be a family room.
Bolan recognized Laura Darrow from the photo Kurtzman had displayed.
A man in a pair of coveralls had his back to Bolan. The guy had a long-bladed knife in his right hand and was using it to make threatening gestures at the young woman. As Bolan quietly entered the kitchen, he picked up the verbal threats, too. Almost as an aside he noted the stubborn expression on Laura Darrow’s face, caught the defiance in her voice as she answered back.
“...haven’t seen my uncle for months. And even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you...”
Bolan crossed the kitchen and moved through to the family room.
The attacker swung the knife back. As his right arm reached the apex of his swing, Bolan grabbed his wrist, yanking him off balance and kicking him behind a knee, taking him to the floor. As the guy went down, Bolan kept a solid grip on the wrist, twisting it hard until he heard bone crack. He raised the Beretta and slammed it across the guy’s skull. There was enough force behind the blow to lay the guy out on the carpet. Blood seeped from the deep gash in his head. Bending over the unconscious man, Bolan secured him with plastic cuffs as he’d done to the first guy—wrists and ankles.
“What the hell is going on?” Laura Darrow shouted.
Bolan held up a warning hand. “Later,” he said. He took out his sat phone and punched in the number for Barbara Price’s direct line. When she answered, he gave her a quick rundown on the situation.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“There are two perps at Gwen Darrow’s home that need to be taken care of as soon as possible. Only Darrow’s daughter was at home.”
“What about Laura?”
“She’s unhurt. I’ll keep her with me for now. I need to locate Gwen. She might be next on the list.”
“I’ll tell Hal and alert the local PD,” Price said. “I assume the men are immobile?”
“I cuffed them both. The one in the house may have a broken wrist, so send medical help, as well.”
“On it.”
Laura Darrow was in his face the moment Bolan ended his call.
“Yes, well...” she said, “I guess I should say thanks for what you did. But what is this all about? Guns. Knives. Why do these guys want my uncle Harry? Has he done something wrong?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Bolan said. “Do you need a coat? Your purse?”
The young woman stared at him for a moment then shook her head, turning to cross