"Baltimore Trackdown" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

4

As the Executioner drove away from the racetrack on a country road, a fire truck charged toward him, its siren wailing and red lights flashing. He pulled to one side to let it pass. He figured the fire at the track had attracted them. But he was too far away to be connected with it.

He had about half an hour to get to Herring Run Park, just off Sinclair, where he was to meet Nino Tattaglia.

His forehead wrinkled as he reviewed his mission in Baltimore. He had to find out what deadly, destructive event was about to go down here, and hoped Nino would be able to tell him.

The Executioner was a big man, more than six feet tall and a finely muscled two hundred pounds. Right now his cold blue eyes were trained on the road. He was not moved one way or the other by the dead men he left behind. Eradicating human evil had long been a necessary fact of life for him.

This was an everlasting war, and it had brought him to Baltimore. It was a war he knew no one man could win.

Bolan was a realist. He knew that one day he would move too slowly, or a bullet or grenade would be in exactly the right spot and the warrior would be killed. But until that happened, he was charging ahead, he was digging into every dirty Mafia operation he could find, he was pumping the Mafia full of hot lead. He was also living large and making every second count.

He would make the Mafia fear him for as long as his strength and life remained.

The holy war against the Mafia had become Bolan’s purpose in life.

And so, to fight again.

He swung the rented Chevy into the park, watching for a man on a picnic bench. He saw him and parked.

Nino slid into the car and frowned. “Bad for my image to be seen sitting on a park bench.”

“What’s going down in Baltimore?”

Nino’s eyes widened. “You’ll never believe it. It’s a capo’s dream!”

“Try me.”

“The Nazarione family’s about to take over the whole goddamned police department! The operation has been in place for months and is coming down to the last phase. Already we’ve got two city councilmen pinned down and two of the four assistant chiefs!”

“Blackmail?” Bolan asked, his face turning grim.

“Most likely, or exposure on some corruption. The family has the whole damn department on the hook, not just a hundred officers and some captains! The whole town will become our playground!”

“What two assistant chiefs have been caught?”

“I don’t know. Hell, I was lucky to get this much. But it’s all on a timetable, so much done each week, and we’re near the end of the game.”

“You and I are going to call off the game because of a number of deaths in the Nazarione family, Nino.”

“Maybe. You hear about the cop getting killed this morning?”

Bolan shook his head.

“Some lieutenant in a shoot-out with a robber. And guess who was on hand, ‘working’ with the lieutenant? Our own Capt. Harley Davis. Which probably means the lieutenant was honest and they gunned him down because he couldn’t be bought or bribed or blackmailed. Odds are that Captain Davis pulled the trigger with three or four bribed cops as backup.”

“What’s the next target?”

“That much I do know,” Nino said. “It will be Assistant Chief Larry Jansen. And it’s set to go down in two hours. I’m supposed to be along for extra protection.”

“I’ll be there as soon as it happens. When you see me, hit the deck and stay down. I may have to use quick target selection.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just be sure you make it. This is a key man in their plans because he’s next in line to be chief.”

An hour later, Nino Tattaglia helped carry Assistant Chief Jansen from a car at a back unit of a motel. The door was open and they put the chief on the motel bed beside a black girl. The lady was nude and dead, and her body and the bed were covered with blood. There were six long slashes on her torso. Three stab wounds marred the soft dark skin.

Polaroid pictures were taken of the chief in several positions beside the girl. In one, his hand was taped around a bloody knife and the blade pushed into the dead girl’s chest. Enough of his face was showing to be recognizable.

“Strip him!” Big Jake Milano said. “Get his pants and shorts off and spread him out over her.” Milano was satisfied. He was getting good at this. Third time! Hell, he’d get a bonus. This time he’d take the old lady on a cruise of the Caribbean.

“Got enough pictures?” Big Jake asked.

“One more,” Tony Larasso said. He put another print on the dresser.

Suddenly the door exploded inward. Before anyone could move, a figure dressed in black stormed in, waving an Uzi submachine gun. Big Jake went for his side arm, caught three slugs in his chest and collapsed against the far wall, dead.

Mack Bolan sized up the four others in the motel room at a glance. There was a kid with a camera to the left, and two hardcases behind the bed to the right. Nino stood near the back.

“Don’t move!” Bolan barked. One of the hard-cases dug for his belt holster and the Uzi spit out five rounds, nailing him against the wall for a few seconds until his corpse slid slowly to the floor.

“Anyone else?” Bolan asked. The kid dropped the camera, leaned over and vomited. Bolan pointed at Nino.

“Take out your piece and drop it on the bed, then get this other goon’s gun and put them both under the bed. Check out the puker here for hardware.”

Nino did as he was told. He turned, holding his hands high.

“Get the chief’s pants on fast!” Bolan snapped.

As Nino complied Bolan grabbed the developed Polaroid prints from the dresser and pushed them inside his black jersey. He picked up the camera and ripped out the film, then checked out the door. No problems.

Bolan pointed to the kid and the older man behind the bed. “Both of you, strip off all your clothes, then lie down on the bed beside the girl. Move it!”

Both men shed every piece of clothing and lay down gingerly on the bloody bedspread.

Nino put the chief’s pants and shirt on him. The cop was starting to come out of his drugged state.

“You, carry that man outside,” Bolan barked at Nino. “You make any noise, or one false move, badass, and I’ll blow your head off.” Nino picked up the blood-smeared cop and took him to the door.

Bolan’s rented Chevy sat six feet away from the motel room. The two Mafia lookouts were hunched over beside the door as though they were sleeping. Nino knew they would never wake up. He lowered the chief into the passenger seat and closed the door.

Bolan waved Nino back inside the room and followed him.

“Now, tough guy. Off with your clothes, too. Then join the others on the bed.”

Bolan grabbed the bundle of clothing, closed the door, stepped into the Chevy and drove to the front of the motel. He stopped to call the police from a phone booth, watching the motel-room door as he dialed. As soon as he had them on the line, Nino stepped out of the motel room and ran full tilt down the alley.

The Executioner told the police a girl had been killed in the motel by Mafia hoodlums. He gave the address, hung up and deposited the garments at the side of the booth. Then he drove off. Half a mile away he pulled over to the curb. Slowly Bolan brought the groggy cop back to his senses.

Chief Jansen shook his head, his vision fuzzy, his mouth tasting foul.

“What the hell?” He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them. He looked at Bolan. “Who are you?”

“A friend, Chief Jansen. Just relax — you’re safe now.”

“Safe? Where are we?”

“In my car on the street. I just pulled you out of a motel.”

“Motel? I went out for a cup of coffee with one of my sergeants. He said he owed me a store-bought cup and he had a problem he wanted to talk about privately.”

“And then he slipped you some knockout drops. Look at the blood on your hands and your clothes.”

“Oh, Christ! Mine? Where did it come from?”

Bolan made sure the chief was totally back in the current time zone, then explained the whole thing to him.

“Damn! I fell for it. Now I don’t know who to trust! We’ve got to get some units over to that motel!” he exclaimed, still a cop.

“I reported it. The place should be swarming with cops by now.”

The chief nodded. “You didn’t tell me why somebody tried to get blackmail evidence on me in that motel. Are you sure the girl was dead?”

Bolan took out the pictures. One of them had blood splatters on the back.

The policeman’s eyes widened in astonishment. “They were setting me up. What for?”

“Certain groups in town want to take over the police department. They have already blackmailed two assistant chiefs. You were the next target. That officer who was shot this morning was probably murdered by one or more of his fellow officers.”

“No! Captain Davis was with him. One of our best men.”

“Are you sure? Check out Davis’s bank account. He’s taking two thousand a week in payoff money from the Mafia.”

Chief Jansen stared at his bloody hands.

“You’re sure of this?”

“Yeah. You won’t have to dig far into Davis to find out he’s as dirty as hell.”

The chief opened the ashtray on the car and burned the pictures of himself. He saved the other shots of the body and nodded at Bolan.

“I still don’t know who you are, but it looks like I owe my whole career to you. Another ten minutes and they would have had me so tightly tied up I never would have gotten out. How do you fit into this?”

“Just trying to be helpful.” Bolan turned on the car radio to an all-news station and kept the sound low.

“Where can I drop you off, chief?”

“Take me to the side door of the downtown station. I have some clothes there.”

Bolan heard something and turned up the volume on the radio.

“And Baltimore police said it was one of the most grisly killings they have seen in a long time. The body of the woman lay faceup on the bed. The bedspread was soaked with blood, and the nude bodies of two men, both shot, lay sprawled on the bed. Two more men, sitting against the steps outside the room, had also been shot dead. Police have blocked off the area and are talking to all witnesses.

“One man in the motel room next door said he saw one young man running naked down the alley about ten minutes before police arrived. A car that had been parked in front of the room was seen leaving the area, but no one could say who was in the car, or what the license number had been.

“In other news...”

Bolan shut it off.

“You didn’t say anything about the four dead men.”

“Right, I didn’t. Let’s leave it at that. When you identify them you’ll find them all to be Mafia soldiers connected to Carlo Nazarione, who claims he has no organized-crime affiliations.”

“At least we know better than that.” The cop shrugged. “Hell, I won’t push to find out who you are. I’ll never be able to thank you for what you did for me today. Now, one ride downtown, then I want to get showered and dressed and back out to that motel.”

As Bolan let the chief off fifteen minutes later, the cop stared at him a moment. “Have we met somewhere before? Something about your face seems familiar.”

“Thanks. I used to do some modeling — a lot of those rugged outdoor-type print ads. I did a lot for one cigarette company.”

The chief nodded. “Yeah, that was probably it.” But as the car swung away and the cop hurried through the private entrance into the police department’s top-brass area, he knew he had not seen the man’s face in an ad. It was on a Wanted poster. And the guy wore the same black suit. It would come back to him. Damn, he wished he could remember.

He went down the short hall to the chiefs’ men’s room with its lockers and showers. He undressed before anyone else came in, stuffed the bloody clothes into a plastic bag and then showered off the blood. He had never seen so much blood in a shower before. Wrong. That bathtub suicide when the drain plugged.

Half an hour later the chief was dressed and heading for the motel in the passenger side of an unmarked car. When he and his driver arrived he took command of the investigation. As he pushed through the crowd behind the police tape he remembered who the man was who had saved him — Mack Bolan, the Executioner, the one who was at war with the Mafia and wanted by the FBI and in dozens of states!