Point Blank. Don Pendleton
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operations.
One rotten apple in that barrel could alert ’ndranghetisti to impending prosecutions and allow them to tamper with state’s evidence and mark potential witnesses for execution. Multiply that rotten apple by a dozen or a hundred, and it came as no surprise when top-flight mobsters walked away from court unscathed, time after time.
But living through a Bolan blitz was something else entirely.
As the Maglioni organization was about to learn.
Bolan would be traveling to Italy as Scott Parker, a businessman from Baltimore with diverse interests in petroleum, real estate and information technology. His passport was impeccable, as was the Maryland driver’s license, Platinum American Express card and the matching Platinum Visa. Any background check on “Parker” would reveal two years of military service in his teens, a B.A. in business administration from UM-Baltimore and a solid stock portfolio. As CEO of Parker International, he had the time and wherewithal to travel as he pleased, for business and for pleasure.
This would not be Bolan’s first trip to Italy, by any means. Even before his public “death” in New York City, while Brognola’s Stony Man project was still on the drawing board, Bolan had paid a hellfire visit to Sicily, ancestral home of the Mafia, reminding its godfathers that they were not untouchable. Since then, he’d been back several times, pursuing different angles in the war on terrorism but returning now brought on a flashback to old times.
It never failed. A mention of the Mafia, or any of the syndicates that mimicked it under other names, brought back the nightmare that had devastated Bolan’s family and launched him into a crusade he’d never imagined as a young man. Bolan had been a Green Beret, on track to a distinguished lifer’s career in the military, when he’d lost three-quarters of his family, only his younger brother still alive to tell a tale of murder-suicide provoked by vicious loan sharks. Bolan—already tagged as “The Executioner” for his cold eye and steady hand in battle—had settled that score, then decided personal vengeance fell short of the mark. A whole class of parasites still fed on society’s blood.
Old times, bad times—but what had changed?
Bolan was not religious, in the normal sense. He didn’t shun the notion of a higher power or discount any particular creed at a glance, but if he’d learned one thing from a lifetime of struggle, it was that predators never relented. They might “find the Lord” to impress a parole board, but once they hit the streets again, 99.99 percent reverted to their old ways.
Long story short, the only cure for evil was extinction.
And the Magolino organization’s day was coming.
Bolan’s flight to Rome lifted off from Dulles more or less on time, and it would be eight hours and forty-one minutes from takeoff to touchdown, nonstop. The long flight gave him time to sleep. Downtime was a rare commodity in Bolan’s world, and he took full advantage of it when he could.
As far as planning went, he’d done all he could before his feet were on Italian soil. He had a rental car lined up, along with weapons if the dealer didn’t sell him out. Beyond that, he had targets and certain thoughts on how he should proceed, but plans were always transient in battle. They changed by the day, by the minute, forcing warriors to adapt or die.
And Bolan was a master when it came to adapting.
He’d hit the ground running, begin with a blitz and be ready for whatever happened from there. Take the war to his enemies, grinding them down with no quarter.
Bolan had an hour to kill at the terminal in Rome, before his Alitalia flight took off for Lamezia Terme. Time enough for him to drift along the concourse, eavesdropping on conversations as he passed, translating them with the Italian he had learned while hunting monsters who defiled their race’s ancient, honorable reputation with the taint of crime. When he stopped to order coffee, overpriced but hot and strong, he’d engaged in conversation with the girl behind the counter, raising no eyebrows.
No one in Catanzaro would mistake him for a native, but he could communicate without an interpreter, and that was all Bolan required. Beyond the basics, he would let his weapons do his talking, confident his enemies would get the message.
Hal’s instructions were explicit: crush the Magolino family and leave it beaten to the point that, if it managed to survive, it would refrain from planting any more flags in the States. Drive home that message in the classic Bolan style, while still preserving plausible deniability.
If he was captured, naturally, Hal would have to cut him loose. If Bolan died in battle, there would be no record of him in the files at Stony Man, in Washington, or anywhere at all. His second passing might evoke some tears, but life went on. The fight went on. Survivors couldn’t do their best if they were burdened by the memories of those who’d fallen along the way. It was a soldier’s life, willingly accepted by those few who made the cut.
He had another chance to try out his Italian at the auto rental booth in Lamezia Terme. His second test subject, a young man with a mop of curly hair and the pathetic ghost of a mustache, appeared to have no trouble understanding anything Bolan said. More to the point, his answers to some routine questions, given back in rapid-fire, came through to Bolan loud and clear.
Ten minutes later, he was on the road, eastbound, toward his final destination. One more stop, to arm himself, and he’d be ready for anything.
But was the ’Ndrangheta ready for the Executioner?
Tuesday—Le Croci, Calabria
“Still with us,” Terranova said.
Cortale swiveled in his seat, ignoring the frightened woman beside him as he peered through the sedan’s rear window at the gray Alfa Romeo that was clearly trailing them.
“Stop, and let’s take him,” Malara said. He’d already retrieved an Uzi from under his seat and was ready to cock it.
“Not yet,” Cortale replied. To Terranova, he added, “Drive on past these houses, along to where we choose left or right.”
Via Solferino was a dead-end road that split before you reached its terminus, each segment leading to a different farm before it simply stopped. There was a point, just at the split, where neither of the two homes was close enough for residents to witness any action on the road or for a fool to get his courage up and try to intervene.
“The rest of you,” Cortale said, “be ready.”
Terranova reached beneath the driver’s seat, took out a lupara, the classic sawed-off shotgun and set it beside him. Aiello drew a Beretta Cougar from its shoulder holster, easing back the slide an inch or so to make sure he had a live round in the pipe.
Cortale, for his part, preferred a larger weapon. Leaning forward, he released a hidden catch that, in turn, released a sort of flap in the seat in front of him. Once opened, it revealed an AKS-74U assault rifle, the Kalashnikov carbine with shortened barrel and folding stock, which still retained the full firepower of its parent AK-74. Cortale lifted out the little man-shredder, retrieved two extra magazines, then closed the hidden hatch. He turned again and saw the Alfa still behind them, hanging back three hundred yards or so but matching every twist and turn they made.
“Who is it?” the woman asked.
“How should I know?”
“Maybe someone Aldo sent to help us,” Terranova offered, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“What help?” Malara challenged him. “We don’t need any help.”
To which the driver simply shrugged.
“More likely, someone from the Gugliero family,” Aiello said with an expression like he had a bad taste in his mouth.
“It’s possible,” Cortale granted.
There’d been trouble off and on for two years