Don Pendleton - The Violent Streets

Bolan would see his task through to the end, whatever that end might be, and he would strike against Animal Man with his last breath of life, if necessary.

There could be — hell, would be — no turning back short of victory or death.

And yeah, it looked like war everlasting all right. Mack Bolan vs. the cannibals in whatever twisted shape they might assume.

The Executioner knew he couldn't have it any other way.

A swift conversation with Pol Blancanales netted Bolan the information that the hardmen he'd encountered earlier that morning were driving vehicles registered in the name of Twin Cities Development, Inc. And the Politician's encyclopedic mind had filled in the fact that TCD was, in reality, a dummy corporation manufactured to front for the numbers and shylock operations of one Benny Copa, mobster.

Copa had been born Benjamin Coppacetti in the Hell's Kitchen district of New York City, and had migrated westward at the tender age of sixteen, one jump ahead of some heavy-duty robbery and assault indictments in the Big Apple. He had never been a real power in the Mafia, no one to be reckoned with outside St. Paul, even in the days before Mack Bolan's syndicate wars, but he was a localized underworld honcho of sorts.

He needed to know from Copa why the guns had been called out, and he needed that information before the day got any older.

Benny Copa operated from second-floor offices set above a billiard parlour two blocks over off Arcade Street. The place was called Freddy's, but there was no Freddy in residence, and no one in the neighborhood was quite sure anymore if he had ever existed.

Bolan found the place easily and parked his rental sedan a block past the darkened entrance, near an intersection. He had passed an alley as he circled the block, and he found it now on foot, moving cautiously along behind the businesses that faced the street. In a moment, he had reached the rear entrance of Freddy's.

And the place was locked. Naturally.

No pool hall would be open at that hour of the morning.

The cheap lock yielded quickly to the Executioner's pick, and he found himself inside a darkened doorway. The service stairs were immediately to his left.

Bolan's combat senses made a quick remote probe of the ground floor, picking up no sounds of human occupation. When he was satisfied that he wasn't leaving unknown dangers behind, he moved to the staircase, Beretta Belle in hand and ready to meet any challenge.

There was a hardman stationed at the top of the stairs, leaning back against the wall in a metal folding chair and dozing after a long night on duty. Bolan was almost on top of the guy when he woke, trying to right his leaning chair and reach holstered gunmetal in one awkward, unbalanced motion.

The Beretta coughed its single deadly word, and the guy went down with a thud, the chair rattling out from under him as he fell. His passing left a viscous crimson smear on the grimy wall.

Bolan had to assume that the racket of the hardman's dying had alerted everyone inside the adjacent office. He hit the door with a flying kick and burst in, the Belle up and seeking targets.

There were three of them, all clustered around a big desk littered with loose cash and crumpled bits of paper.

Three pairs of eyes locked onto Mack Bolan at his explosive entrance, noting his hard eyes and deadly side arm. Two of the men, conditioned by a lifetime in the mob's gutter wars, broke for their weapons, peeling off in opposite directions in an effort to divide Bolan's attention.

It almost worked.

But almost isn't good enough.

Bolan nailed the one on the left, plugging a 9mm mangler through the bridge of his nose before he could reach gun leather. Then he spun to take the guy on the right. Round one pinned the guy's gun hand to his chest as he was coming out of his death spin. Round two entered his gaping mouth and exited from the rear in a shower of blood and bone fragments.

And the sole survivor was taking it all in with astonished eyes, standing behind the desk with both hands flat on the broad top and making no move to leave it. His round eyes never left the smoking muzzle of Bolan's lethal Beretta.

Mack Bolan had known from the moment of entry that this man would be Benny Copa, and that he would not be packing. The self-styled honchos of the mob considered themselves exempt from the dirty chores of the gun-bearers, and Bolan had learned from experience that that arrogance made them vulnerable in a pinch.

The pinch was on Benny Copa now, and he knew it.

Bolan crossed the office, his eyes and gun never wavering from Benny's pallid face. When he was less than a foot from the mobster, his Beretta almost grazing the little guy's nose and letting him savor the cordite smell of death, Bolan gave the guy a light push that dumped his slack form into a waiting swivel chair.

And at that, Benny Copa recovered enough of his voice to break the silence.

"Easy, man," he said, not quite pleading. "There must be some mistake."

"You made it, Benny."

Copa thought that one over quickly, licking dry lips.

"Well, hey, I mean... it can't be all that bad, can it?"

Bolan's face and voice were hard, unyielding.

"That depends on you."

And Bolan could see the guy's face and mind working, trying to read the possibility of a deal — or survival — into Bolan's words.

"Okay, yeah," he said at last. "I can dig it. Let's talk a deal here."

"Make it simple," Bolan said. "You have some information, and I want it. You give, you live. Simple."

The look in Benny Copa's eyes was telling the Executioner that, yeah, the guy understood simple very well indeed. Copa nodded rapidly as he spoke.

"Fire away... hey, I mean... ask, okay?"

"You sent some crews out this morning, Benny. They didn't come home."

Copa's face registered shock at Bolan's inside knowledge. He covered it a second later, but not before Bolan had duly noted the reaction.

"Uh, I've got lots of crews, man," he said, stalling. "I run a big operation here."

"I'm only interested in two."

"Uh-huh, well... maybe we can make a deal here," he said, smiling craftily.

Bolan pressed the hot muzzle of the Beretta Belle against Benny's forehead, hearing the flesh sizzle on contact. He let Copa wince and wiggle for a moment before withdrawing the gun, leaving an angry red circle above the guy's left eye.

"You heard the deal, Benny. The minute I think you're shucking, I terminate the conversation."

And Bolan's tone left no doubt that the conversation would not be the only thing terminated, sure.

"Okay, okay," he said hastily. "Jesus, you can't blame a guy for trying."

"Sure I can," Bolan said.

Copa glowered back at his uninvited guest.

"Christ, you don't give a man much slack, do you?"

"The crews, Benny. Last chance."

"All right, dammit! We're talking about five boys, right? Two at the airport, and three more at a certain lady's house?"

Bolan nodded silently, letting the cornered weasel continue.

"Okay, right," Copa said, nodding affirmation of his own words. "They were part of a package deal. Outside contract, you know? Nothing to do with organization business."

And he smiled, as if that piece of information should settle everything.

But it didn't.

"What was their mission?" Bolan asked.

The little mobster managed a sarcastic snort.

"What do you think?"

The cold expression of the Executioner's face stifled the feeble snicker.

"They were disposal teams, man, you know?" Benny hastened to explain. "They were sent to dispose."

"Hit teams," Bolan said.

Copa nodded jerkily.

"Who was their mark at the airport?"

Copa shrugged elaborately, making a show of ignorance.