"Death Squad" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

Chapter Seven Face to Face

Captain Braddock was perturbed. Worse than that, he was beginning to feel a bit unsure of himself. He turned away from the large map on the wall of his office and faced his Hardcase-detail leaders. The two lieutenants and four sergeants who stared back at him had been carefully selected for this project. Each was an outstanding officer with an unblemished record of police efficiency.

quot;All right,quot; Braddock said quietly, quot;what went wrong?quot;

Lieutenant Andy Foster cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. He and Braddock had been friends since police-academy days. quot;We underestimated the guy,quot; he flatly declared.

quot;He did it so smoothly, I didn't even realize I'd been sucked in,quot; spoke up a young sergeant, Carl Lyons. quot;Not until I started putting the pieces together.quot;

quot;There was a confusion factor,quot; Foster explained, as though to soften Lyon's admission. quot;First off, Giordano comes out in two vehicles. Somewhere along the line, God knows where, he added a third. Carl had no way of identifying the players. Cars were jumping into that procession all the way down to the freeway. It was pretty obvious that Giordano was trying to provoke a fight, and we simply had no way of determining which of those vehicles were Giordano's, which were Bolan's if any, and which were just unwitting participants. I ordered Carl to simply stay on Giordano's tail and report developments.quot;

quot;I kept looking for a sudden strike,quot; Lyons admitted. I guess I really wasn't thinking in terms of a Bolan tail. I was just trying to hang in there on Giordano. We hit the freeway, and I tried to tighten it up some. Then, zot!—I'm trapped into the cloverleaf of the interchange with another car hung on my rear bumper.quot;

quot;And you immediately reported your trouble?quot; Braddock inquired.

quot;Sure. I was in contact with Lieutenant Foster the whole time.quot;

quot;I realized we'd lost Giordano,quot; Foster said. quot;It was 3:30 the peak period was beginning, and the freeways were beginning to pack. We're spread too thin, Tim. If we'd had three times our capability, we still couldn't have covered all possibilities—not short of a general alert. I had to cover the Golden State, the San Bernardino, the Santa Ana, and I couldn't even positively write off the harbor.quot;

quot;Yeah,quot; Braddock grunted. His guts were faintly churning.

quot;And remember, we had no way of knowing that Bolan was even interested in Giordano at that particular time. If I'd punched the panic button and sent all the Hardcase vehicles scurrying after Giordano, that would have left the rest of the possibilities free and clear for Bolan to tap. You said he was a brilliant tactician. I had to assume that...quot;

quot;Of course, Andy,quot; Braddock interrupted. quot;You played it right. No criticism there.quot;

quot;I played it safe, not right,quot; Foster muttered. quot;I alerted the neighboring communities and asked them to put out a soft watch for the Giordano vehicles, and then I stewed and chewed my nails and waited for a contact report.quot;

The other lieutenant present, Charlie Rickert, joined the discussion at that point. The man unofficially referred to as quot;the twenty-four-hour copquot; said, The biggest goof was our failure to tail Bruno Scarelli. I think that was dumb. He was our one sure lead to Giordano's destination.quot;

Carl Lyons flushed a deep scarlet. quot;I had to make a decision, and I made it,quot; he said. quot;I detained Scarelli as long as I could, without tipping our hand. Couldn't tail him myself, not with that rear fender buckled in on the wheel. When one of those big cars tap your butt, you damn well know you've been tapped.quot; He rubbed the back of his neck and scowled at Rickert.

quot;I sent a car to cover Scarelli,quot; Foster reported, tight lipped. quot;Got there about thirty seconds late and lost him right back at that same damn interchange.quot;

quot;I still think...quot;

Rickert's knife-twisting rejoiner was interrupted by the appearance of a uniformed officer in the doorway. quot;Got that report from the Riverside lab, Captain,quot; he announced.

quot;Let's hear it,quot; Braddock clipped.

quot;It was an armor-piercing projectile, all right. Probably fired from a bazooka. Slammed into the Rolls just forward of the doorpost, angling in from the rear. Instant death for the two men in front. The other scars were made by steel-jacketed slugs from a fifty-caliber machine gun. Each of the vehicles was pretty thoroughly worked over by that fifty.quot;

quot;Thanks, Art,quot; Braddock replied. The uniformed officer smiled and went away, shaking his head. quot;Full-scale warfare,quot; Braddock growled.

quot;And the neatest ambush I've ever ...quot; Foster commented, his voice trailing off into quiet speculation.

Rickert reached into his pocket, withdrew a long metallic object, and tossed it onto Braddock's desk. quot;There was a small mountain of these fifty-caliber casings in the rocks over against the butte,quot; he said.

Braddock picked up the casing and absently turned it end over end in his big hand. quot;They had that jeep out there, that's certain,quot; he concluded. quot;Now somebody tell me how they can run around in an armed jeep without arousing curiosity? Where are they getting this heavy stuff—the bazooka and all that crap? How the hell did they move that heavy boulder onto the road? How the hell ... ?

Lieutenant Rickert sighed heavily and produced a small notebook from his jacket pocket. quot;I may have some answers,quot; he said. quot;I spent the past three hours sifting through the various reports, and . . . well, just listen. From the Bel Air investigation: The jeep was last seen proceeding north on Skylane Drive. Yet two witnesses at the next intersection, swear that no jeep came past them. Aside from the police and fire-department vehicles, the only moving thing reported through that intersection, in that time period, was a large diesel semitrailer van. The witness paid it very little attention, and couldn't recall any identifying decals, or even the color.quot; Rickert glanced at Sergeant Lyons. quot;Next I quote from Carl's report: '… and I was forced to follow a slow-moving semitrailer into the cloverleaf.'quot; Rickert smiled wryly. quot;You did not specify, Carl. This wouldn't have been a van-type trailer, would it?quot;

Lyons silently nodded his head, staring speculatively into the lieutenant's eyes.

quot;Uh-huh. The plot thickens. Now—from the statement by Giordano's accountant, the sole survivor of the ambush: quot;Mr. Giordano thought we were being followed on the way out there, and we even waited at the back road to let them catch up; he was trying to lure them into a trap. But the only thing that came along was a big diesel truck. It was a blue-and-white moving van, I believe.quot; Rickert angled a glance at the captain. quot;It, uh, could be entirely coincidental. Then, again, there could be an answer in there.quot;

A fire had been lighted in Braddock's eyes. The clever bastard,quot; he murmured.

quot;You think it's too strong for coincidence?quot; Foster asked.

quot;I'm not leaving anything to coincidence!quot; Brad-dock snapped. quot;Not when Bolan's hand is in it.quot; He whirled around to his desk and shuffled through a pile of papers, came up with one, and hastily skimmed down the typewritten lines. quot;Here it is,quot; he announced. This is the transcript of the interrogation of Gerald Young, the accountant. He was questioned as to why Giordano had felt they were being tailed. He says: 'Well, I thought so myself. There were these same two cars that kept showing up behind us. One was a blue Ford sedan, late model, and the other was an older station wagon, a big one. Maybe a Buick or a Mercury.quot; Braddock's eyes swung to Carl Lyons. quot;Ring any bells, Sergeant?quot;

The young officer's eyes were haunted pools of revelation. The blue Ford joined the procession at Lani Way,quot; he growled. The wagon joined up at the arterial, just behind me. We hit the on ramp in that order—the big Continental, the Rolls, the Ford, me, the station wagon. Then everything got scrambled up when we moved into the freeway traffic. I was concentrating on the Rolls.quot;

They had you spotted all the way!quot; Rickert howled. quot;Hell, boy, they suckered you and packaged you off neat and clean.quot;

quot;How the hell was I supposed to keep on Giordano and every other damn car on the freeway at the same time? I never gave a passing thought to those other cars—and certainly not to a semi. Who would?quot;

quot;Carl is right,quot; Braddock muttered. quot;Anyone would have jerked up damn quick, though, if a military jeep with a wicked-looking machine gun on the rear deck had joined the parade. That clever bastard. That's how he's doing it. He's using a Trojan horse. He could pack a small armored unit in that van.quot;

quot;I wouldn't be surprised if the sonofabitch had a tank in there,quot; Foster declared.

Braddock ignored the remark. quot;Carl—think carefully now. Which vehicle actually sprung the trap on you? The Ford or the wagon?quot;

quot;Neither one,quot; Lyons replied immediately. quot;I've been trying to ... I was so pissed off, I ... Wait, now. I was wondering why he was going so slow, and it ... Sure! It was a sports car, a red sports car!quot;

quot;What make?quot;

quot;Damn, I ... Out-of-state tags. I remember, now, I was thinking, if you can't drive on our freeways, even with a roadrunner like that one, then keep the hell off. Then I started around him, and that was all she wrote.quot;

quot;The timing for that little trick must have been fantastic,quot; Foster observed. quot;And it couldn't have been just a spontaneous thing. They had to have radios in those cars.quot;

quot;Goddammit!quot; Braddock said softly.

quot;That adds an entire new dimension to this thing,quot; Rickert put in.

quot;Why not?quot; Braddock muttered. quot;Why shouldn't he think of radios? They're as much a military tool as a gun. And hell, you can practically buy them in dime stores nowadays.quot; He paused, then added thoughtfully, quot;We have to completely revamp our strategy. Let's see if we can't find a way to intercept their radio signals. Andy, I'm making that your responsibility. Electronic intelligence gathering is a sophisticated science, so you'll have to dig up some expert assistance. Try the FCC—hell, try the army and the navy, and the CIA, if necessary—but let's get something working on this angle.quot;

This is a smoothly oiled machine we're going against. These guys are going to make us look like monkeys unless we ...quot; He left the statement dangling and turned worried eyes to twenty-four-hour Rickert. quot;Well, Chuck, it looks like you've called the play on this thing. Let's learn all we can about these vehicles they're using. Get the information to all units as quickly as possible. Shake as many people as possible onto this semitrailer. A thing like that must be hard to conceal if it isn't in motion or parked in a terminal. Check out every possible lead, anything and everything unusual regarding the use or the location of a van-type semi. Follow up on the weapons angle, Carl. You just don't pick up bazookas and machine guns at the neighborhood hardware store. Look into recent purchases of sophisticated radio equipment. I want an around-the-clock effort. I want every...quot;

quot;It's nearly midnight, Tim,'' Foster reminded the captain. quot;Some of our people have logged fourteen straight hours already.quot;

quot;I'm getting you some more poeple,quot; Braddock assured him. quot;I want this thing covered. I want it...quot;

He was interrupted again by the same uniformed officer charging through the doorway. quot;They're at it again!quot; he reported breathlessly. quot;Just hit Tri-Coast Records in Burbank!quot;

quot;A recording company?quot; Braddock seemed stunned. quot;What makes you think it's Bolan? I don't get the—*

quot;I don't know about that,quot; the officer said. quot;It's at the distribution warehouse out on Studio Way. They just said some guys are running around out there throwing firebombs and shooting up the place with choppers. Sounds like a Hardcase to me!quot;

Braddock was already out the door, the officer on his heels, the group of lawmen following close behind and spilling into the special Hardcase control room. Braddock spun on them and barked, quot;Get going! Ill feed you via radio!quot;

The detail leaders about-faced and jogged into the corridor, heading for the garage. Braddock, at the control console, depressed a button and bawled, quot;Dispatch. Hardcase alert, all available units. Code 7-10 and double it! Burbank Studio City, Santa Monica, Glendale, converge on Alpha that is Alpha Four, and stand by further.quot;

He did not wait for an acknowledgement from the central dispatcher but flipped another switch, picked up a pedestal-type microphone, and began hurling instructions into the Hardcase special network.

Sergeant Carl Lyons, jogging down the long tunnel toward the garage at the side of Lieutenant Foster, said, Is this guy for real? Three hits in one day! He moves fast!quot;

Foster was getting winded. quot;Makes you wonder why we haven't won the war in Vietnam, doesn't it?quot; he panted. quot;And I'm getting the feeling that we're losing this one.quot;

quot;Well get 'im!quot; Lyons snapped. quot;I just want to meet the guy face to face, that's all.quot;

quot;Myself, I think we oughta call in artillery and air support. This's no job for cops. That bastard might have a Sherman tank out there. He might have a goddamn B-52, and I wouldn't be a damn bit surprised.quot;

Lyons chuckled and split away. They had reached the garage. He sprinted to his car, which his waiting partner already had in motion. Lyons hoped they would catch Bolan in the net this time. He wanted to meet the clever bastard face to face. He wanted to thank him for making a total idiot out of the quote most promising young detective sergeant on the force, unquote. He wanted to thank him with a bullet up each nostril.

quot;Okay, break off!quot; Bolan yelled into his radio. The warehouse was blazing furiously, great mushrooms of roaring flames boiling high overhead and turning night into day for a hundred yards in all directions, intense heat generating into an inpenetrable barrier surrounding the long structure.

quot;Yea, man!quot; Chopper Fontenelli sang back. quot;Listen to it sizzle. Whatta they make these records out of, anyway?quot;

Bolan was jumping for his vehicle, parked along the fence at the back of the lot. He jumped inside, clipped the radio to a fixture above the dash, and fishtailed along the graveled back lot in a full-power swoop tow;ard the warehouse office at the far corner. There he collected Boom-Boom Hoffower, who had been standing a casual guard over a small collection of warehouse employees, evacuated just prior to the incendiary attack. Hoffower swung the door open and nonchalantly slid into the seat alongside Bolan.

quot;And I forgot to bring the marshmallows,quot; he sighed.

Bolan grunted into the gears and sent the little speedster whining along the macadam drive. They flashed through the open gateway and skidded into the street, then straightened in a full-throttle roar toward the distant line of hills. They were free and clear. Bolan tensed over the wheel and poked a finger at the transmitter button. quot;Chopper! Where away?quot;

There was no response to the query. Bolan's foot held steady on the accelerator. Hoffower fidgeted, then reached for the radio. Just as his hand closed on it, Fontenelli's voice came through in a breathless wail. quot;Sarge! Fuzz all over the place!quot;

Bolan muttered something under his breath. His hand and foot moved in concert, the hand toward the radio, the foot heavy on the brake. The Corvette was still sliding to a squealing halt when he barked into the radio, quot;Situation, Chopper!quot;

Fontenelli's excited voice flashed back immediately. quot;My gas tank blew! Vehicle's burning! I'm hurt. Fuzz crawling heavy. Gate blocked. I'm sewed in!quot;

The Corvette was spinning into a U-turn across the country road, Bolan twirling the wheel with one hand and operating the radio with the other. quot;Get to the northwest comer of the fence and lay low. I'm coming after you.quot;

quot;Make it damn quick.quot;

quot;Cool it! Just cool it and watch for me! We'll get you out, Chopper!quot;

Carl Lyons could see the flames leaping high above the valley floor. The wail of sirens and the heavy gut-rumble of fire trucks were lacing the night and adding to the unreality of the scene. His driver tramped the accelerator pedal and leaned into the curving approach to the warehouse area just as the radio crackled and Captain Braddock's crisp tones joined them. quot;Hardcase units 1, 3, 5, and 7, attention—Hardcase alert—Zone immediate! Divert and stand by further.quot;

quot;Christ, they're hitting in Hollywood, too,quot; Officer Evers commented, glancing at Lyons. His foot faltered on the accelerator.

quot;Forget it, we're on this one now!quot; Lyons snapped. They were threading between a line of parked patrol cars. Uniformed officers in white helmets and carrying riot guns could be seen moving cautiously on from hi the compound. A fire captain was vigorously waving Lyon's vehicle through, to clear the drive. Firemen were darting about in the intense heat, dragging hoses and other paraphernalia.

Braddock's voice had returned to the air. quot;... screen across all Zone 2 intersections between King Five and King Nine. Close and apprehend. Unit 3, acknowledge.quot;

Evers stared morosely at Lyons. quot;Are you going to acknowledge?quot; he asked tightly.

The sergeant was leaving the vehicle. He leaned tensely back through the doorway and said, quot;You acknowledge, if you want to. Tell him we're already here and I'm out of the vehicle.quot;

quot;I better acknowledge,quot; Evers replied, reaching for the mike. Lyons was even then out of earshot, moving swiftly into the confusion.

George Zitka was pounding along a narrow alleyway, a canvas bag suspended from his shoulder. Deadeye Washington loped along at his heels, the long legs moving in an effortless stride, an automatic weapon riding across his chest, a smaller bag dangling from a huge hand. They angled across a deserted parking lot, passing to the rear of a taco house, and spurted across Vine Street. A Ford sedan eased around a corner, moving slowly. They ran alongside the Ford for a short distance, passing weapons and other burdens through the open windows; then the doors opened, and Zitka and Washington flung themselves inside, the car already picking up speed.

Gunsmoke Harrington, behind the wheel, asked anxiously, quot;How'd it go?quot;

Washington chuckled and said, quot;Scared the pee out of bigshot Varone. He insisted we take the money—just plain insisted. We obliged him.quot;

Zitka was panting with exertion. quot;We caught 'im throwin' one into some hot little blonde.quot;

quot;Yeah?quot; Harrington swiveled his head about in a long stare at Zitka, then almost reluctantly returned his attention to the road. He swung into a sidestreet and gunned along in second gear to the next intersection and swerved into the approach to the Hollywood Freeway. quot;How come I miss all the fun?quot; he groused.

quot;Hell, he was having the fun, we wasn't,quot; Washington replied. quot;Anyway, she seemed almost glad to see us. He was probably making her put out to get herself on a record. I hear these guys do that.quot;

A police car, beacon flashing angrily, tore past them in the opposite direction. quot;Wonder where he's going?quot; Harrington asked, grinning.

quot;I bet he's headed for that recording studio,quot; Zitka said. He flashed an amused glance toward Washington. quot;You know—that place back there where we heard all the commotion?quot;

Deadeye Washington was all smiles. quot;Sounded to me like somebody was just tearin' hell out of all that expensive equipment. Wonder who'd want to do a thing like that?quot;

The Ford was on the freeway ramp and angling for a shot into the traffic. Harrington stiffened momentarily, his eyes following a speeding vehicle that had just zipped past them. quot;There goes Blood-brother,quot; he announced. quot;Looks like our timing was perfect.quot; Harrington found his spot and moved the Ford smoothly into the flow of traffic. quot;Wonder how the sarge is doing with his strike.quot;

quot;Don't you worry none about that man,quot; Washington said softly. quot;He knows where it is, man, and what it is and how it is. Don't you worry none about that soul.quot;

Sweat was running down Carl Lyons's arms and dripping from the tips of his fingers. He could not have said, moments earlier, whether it had been the incredible heat or some stubborn cop's instinct that had driven him to this corner of the yard, but the muffled explosion along the fence corner suddenly assured him that fate had placed him there, whatever the form of persuasion. He sensed, more than saw, the movement of the tall grass near the fence. His weapon was in his hand before he even realized it, and he was in a weirdly frozen eyeball-to-eyeball encounter with a grinning ape and a light machine gun. The man was clad in army fatigues and a dark beret, with crossed, solid-state two-way radio was strapped to his shoulder. He was kneeling on one knee and grinning up at Lyons over the sights of the very efficient-looking automatic weapon.

quot;Drop it,quot; Lyons instinctively commanded.

quot;Huh-uh,quot; the other man said, still grinning.

The noise and confusion a bare hundred yards distant seemed entirely remote and part of an entirely different reality, the dancing firelight adding to the weirdness of the scene.

quot;This is no Mexican standoff, Bolan,quot; Lyons said, his voice slightly quivering in the contained excitement. quot;I'm police officer, and I'm ordering you to drop your weapon.quot;

quot;I'm not Bolan. Go ahead and shoot. You'll reach hell one sure step ahead of me.quot;

Lyons's blood ran cold as another voice joined the conversation. It was cool and deliberate, and it was saying, Thumb off, Chopper, and walk away.quot; A tall man was standing on the outide of the chain link fence. Lyons suddenly understood the explosion that had focused his attention to the spot. The center post was half-concealed in a cloud of black smoke; it was twisted grotesquely, and torn strands of the chain link were clinging to it. One section of the fence was curling back toward the next supporting post. They had blown the fence.

The tall man with the cold voice was holding an army .45 at arm's length, and he was pointing the gun at the grinning ape.

quot;I ain't used to walkin' away, Sarge,quot; the ape snarled.

quot;It's either walk or be carried, Chopper,quot; the cool voice advised.

Lyons experienced a vague sense of mental confusion. The big guy was taking his part. quot;Just a minute,quot; Lyons said thickly. quot;No one is walking away.quot;

quot;Start walking, Chopper,quot; the tall man commanded sternly, ignoring Lyons's protest completely.

The ape was still grinning but without humor. A growl rattled in his throat; then he got slowly to his feet, his eyes remaining hard and unflickering on the lawman.

Lyons felt dazed. His ears roared. The .38 police special seemed to be hanging out there in front of him of its own volition; yet he was very strongly aware of the slowly tightening pressure of his finger upon the trigger. The ape took a slow backward step, then another, carefully placing his feet on the uneven ground. Lyons angled his gaze toward the tall man. quot;You're Bolan,quot; he said.

The man nodded curtly. quot;No fight with you, Officer,quot; he said lightly.

quot;Since when?quot; Lyons asked. He did not recognize the sound of his own voice.

Bolan was moving softly toward the ape now, getting between the slowly retreating figure and Lyons. quot;Never have,quot; he intoned soberly. quot;You're right, and I'm right.quot; His eyes flicked toward the burning warehouse. There's the wrong ones. There's my fight.quot;

The ape was fading fast now. Lyons wondered vaguely why he was just standing there. Bolan's .45 was now moving slowly down and in. He eased it into the flap of the holster. quot;Now I'm walking,quot; he said softly.

Lyons shoved his pistol to full arm-extension toward the tall, black-clad figure. quot;You're under arrest, Bolan,quot; he snapped.

quot;I'm walking,quot; Bolan repeated. He spun on his heel and faded silently into the darkness.

Lyons stared unbelievingly at the spot where The Executioner had stood. He lowered his revolver and poked it angrily into the holster. The sound of running feet advanced from the confused din at his back, and a moment later two uniformed officers drew up alongside him.

quot;I thought that explosion came from back here,quot; one of the officers exclaimed. He knelt down and laid a hand on the section of fallen fence, then hastily jerked it away. quot;Damn, it's still hot. You see anything, sir?quot;

quot;Must have been a timed explosive,quot; Lyons muttered. quot;Damn thing practically blew up in my face.quot;

quot;You didn't see anything, eh?quot;

quot;No.quot; Lyons gazed out into the darkness beyond the fence. So—he'd met the clever bastard face to face. And let him simply walk away. quot;No, I didn't see anything,quot; he said calmly.