Deadly Command. Don Pendleton
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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