Don Pendleton - Baltimore Trackdown

His feet were not burned inside the shoes. That might be all that saved his life... if he could get to the road.

Another car came, and he saw he was now less than a hundred feet from the road, but he would not get there in time to stop the car.

One more step.

Another step.

He felt as if he were walking through knee-deep mud. He had never been so tired, so physically spent.

“Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be alive!” He chanted the words out loud as he worked with half steps slowly toward the hazy shape of the ditch ahead and the road.

Damn, it was a long way.

For the first time in years he had not checked to see if his weapon was in place. Now his clublike hands reached for his hip holster. It was empty, the big .44 AutoMag gone. Should not have a holster on. People would ask questions.

He tried to undo it. His belt went through a loop on his holster; again and again he tried to get the belt unfastened. His hands refused to obey his commands. Three fingers on his right hand were burned together.

Carboni tried with his left hand. On the fourth try he opened the belt and painfully pulled it out of the loops until the holster fell off.

He took a deep breath of relief, only to scream as the cool air hit his burned lungs. He gagged, almost threw up, then shook his head in fury and frustration and continued for the road.

He realized his shirt was nearly burned off. There was little left of the front. He would need a great story to explain this. He would think of something. First, the road.

He struggled ahead.

The ditch itself came as a surprise. He fell into it and rolled into the foot of water from the thunderstorm. The coolness felt marvelous on his burning hands. He immersed them again, then dunked his head.

He almost lapsed into unconsciousness. The sound of a car whizzing by roused him. He struggled to his hands and knees. His hands felt better. He turned his palms upward, raised his fingers and used the backs of his wrists to hold his weight as he crawled forward.

He lay at the edge of the blacktopped lane, hoping the next driver saw him before he ran over him.

Vince Carboni, who vowed to destroy Mack Bolan, lay on the warm blacktop waiting to find out if he would live or die.

Mack Bolan drove back to his hotel and changed from a conservative business suit to a black skin suit with the silenced Beretta 93-R under his arm. He hooked a fragger on his web belt opposite his “flesh-shredding” .44AutoMag.

He called Nino Tattaglia but there was no answer. He probably had already been picked up by the police. This would help cement his position in the mob, and he would be out in a week or so.

Bolan figured Nazarione would find out about the warrants for him before they could be served. Which meant he would be holed up in his mansion or off on a sudden trip in his private jet. Either way there was one proved method to find out.

Wearing a light-blue jacket to cover his weapons, the Executioner went to the rented car and drove to the Nazarione estate.

He parked within a block of the gate and left his car unlocked in case a quick getaway would be needed. He walked to the high block wall bordering the estate, seeing that only the second floor of the mansion was lit. He slipped along the wall to a point across from the pool and its acre of lawn. This was the long way to the house. It also should be the least patrolled.

Bolan peered over the wall. Security seemed nonexistent. Perhaps Nazarione was trying to convince prospective jurors that he was just another businessman. A guard slid from a shadowy area beside the pool to some low trees and worked toward the fence. He made a circuit of the fence, then passed behind the house. Only one guard outside?

Again he studied the house. Rooms were lit on the second floor, but no lights showed on the first or third floors or in the half basement recreation and crew rooms he had seen before.

Possum. They were playing possum, pretending not to be there. The Executioner would find out in a hell of a rush. He took the small radio detonator from his pocket and flipped the toggle switch to activate it, then pushed the red button twice.

There was an immediate splintering roar from one of the bombs Bolan had planted days before in the mansion. The first came from the third floor, the one near Nazarione’s office. Almost at once a deeper, heavier roar came from the half basement; that would be the powder magazine and arms cache. Two more smaller blasts added to the noises echoing in the previously quiet neighborhood.

No fire was visible. Dust spewed from upper windows, and clouds of smoke and dust gushed from the basement door.

Calling to somebody, the guard ran for the basement. Bolan scaled the wall, darted for the shadows, then worked across the lawn to the back door. It was unlocked. He cautiously slid inside. He expected at least five hardmen guarding the don. There did not seem to be that many.

A shout sounded above. A door opened near Bolan. It was the elevator. A tall man ran out, a handkerchief held to the side of his head, a .45 in his right hand. He saw Bolan and fired, but too late — his target had leaped into the shelter of a doorway. Bolan returned the fire with the Beretta on single shot.

The man was Nazarione. He ran out the door and into the yard.

Bolan waited to see that no one was backing him, then raced after the Mafia don. He met a hardman rounding the corner of the hall. The Executioner stroked the trigger of the Beretta automatically, putting two rounds in the Mafia soldier’s chest, eliminating him from the payroll for all time.

The Executioner charged the side door. By the time he was outside he heard a car engine roar, and reached the parking lot in time to see a crew wagon race away.

Bolan ran to the next black Caddy in line, saw the keys on the car seat and jumped inside. The rig started on the first twist of the key, and he raced after Nazarione. By the time the guard had opened the big gate at the end of the drive for his boss, Bolan had made up the fifty-yard lead. As the iron grillwork began to close, the Executioner’s crew wagon screeched past it, scraping the side of the Caddy, but charging forward after the other black car.

The Caddies screamed through the posh residential section, then down a hill into a more modest area. Soon they careened through a small deserted industrial park. Bolan found a safe spot to shoot the big .44 and put one shot through the crew wagon’s rear window and a second through the left rear tire.

His next blast punctured another tire, and the big rig swerved but continued through the industrial area, stopping beside a vacant lot. Two doors popped open and two figures ran across the lot toward a traveling carnival that had set up on the far side of the field next to a shopping center.

The Executioner jumped the curb with the Caddy and drove into the field until he reached a large ditch. He bailed out and ran after the pair, but saw he could not reach them before they entered the midway.

By the time Bolan ran to the big trailers that opened into carnival attractions, he saw Nazarione and his driver rush past a ticket taker into the fun house.

Bolan charged forward, said, “Police,” to the ticket taker and hurried after them.

It was a slow night. Only two teenagers were inside the first room, inspecting themselves in the skinny-fat mirrors. The door closest to the entrance swung toward him and Bolan guessed the Mafia hardman and his boss had gone through it. He crouched as he followed, and two shots snarled over him in the darkness.

The area was as black as a Mafia don’s heart. A soft recorded voice pleaded with them to save the fair maiden from the villain who was about to terrorize her.

Bolan held absolutely still, listening.