Don Pendleton - War Against the Mafia

There was a momentary silence, then: "You've got an undercover operation going?"

"Of course we have. Where do you think we've been getting all this information I'm passing to you?"

"Five years, eh? How many more years had you planned on staying undercover?"

"Forever if necessary. We're interested in nailing these people good, Bolan. We've just been waiting for the proper moment."

"For five years? You have any idea how much hell these people have brought to earth during those five years?"

The policeman's voice was growing heavy with exasperation. "We know what we're doing."

"I know what I'm doing, too," Bolan told him. "And I'm not taking any five damn years to do it, either. Keep your cops away from me, Weatherbee. I'm hitting them again tonight."

"We'll stop you if we can!"

"You can't. All you can do is provide aid and comfort to the mutual enemy. Keep your cops away. I'm hitting tonight."

Bolan broke the connection, returned to his car, and sat quietly pondering the conversation with Weatherbee.

The cop had been right, of course. The campaign had moved into a dimension which seemed impossibly weighted against him.

Mack Bolan was a military realist. In the traditional strategems of warfare, a superior force spelled victory over an inferior one; superiority, however, had never been an item of mere numbers. An elite platoon could easily take on a green company; one lone tank could devastate a field of foot soldiers. In Vietnam, firepower and mobility had become the catchwords of military superiority. Bolan had learned well the lessons of military survival. He was not an idle dreamer, and he had never had much respect for banzai warfare. He needed an equalizer. His strategy had thus far paid off; it had accomplished his aims. He had forced the enemy to reveal its position. He had smoked them out of their bunkers of social respectability and made it necessary that they regroup and reform and expose themselves even further. But-as Bolan well knew-he had accomplished this initial objective at the cost of a vital military necessity: he had lost the edge of superiority which had carried his campaign this far.

Weatherbee's assessment of the situation had been an accurate one. The Mafiosi would be alert and ready this time, and undoubtedly with some tricky defensive tactics of their own. Bolan's next offensive action would undoubtedly be little more than a hopeless banzai attack -unless... A lone rifleman could not hope to successfully take on an entire enemy company-unless... Bolan grinned suddenly, started the engine, and moved out into no-man's land. Superiority, he reminded himself, was not an item of mere numbers.

He drove directly to the industrial district on the south edge of the city, then turned into a warehouse complex, vague memories stirring and fighting to the surface of mind. Several years earlier, Bolan had spent several weeks on special assignment at one of these warehouses. If he could just find the right one...

He located it easily, a low-slung, corrugated steel structure with a peculiarly flat roof, the now-weathered sign-suRplus exports, inc.-and the smaller decal: MDI-which, Bolan recalled, were the initials for Munitions Distributors International.

As a skilled armorer, Bolan had been assigned temporarily to assist in the cataloguing and storing of a large shipment of surplused weapons and ammunition which had been sold to the firm by the Government. Many of the items Bolan had handled during that assignment had never been used, though there had also been genuine surpluses dating back to the Second World War. The stuff could not be sold to private citizens in the U.S., but the export business in these materials had been quite active at the time of Bolan's involvement. He was hoping that the Vietnam escalations had not shut off the source of supply. In the back of his mind had long lurked the suspicion that many of the so-called war surpluses were not, in fact, surpluses at all, but Government goofs of overproduction and oversupply. Still-the shipment which Bolan had been assigned to catalogue had been bona fide surpluses of obsolete weaponry. He would be quite content to get his hands on three or four of these "obsolete" weapons.

Bolan left the car in the shadows of the freight dock and circled the building on foot in a cautious reconnoiter, simultaneously searching his memory for the security details. Then he returned to the car, buckled on a tool kit, and fished a packet of U.S. currency from the spare-tire well. He had decided upon his mode of entry.

Ten minutes later he was scooting along the interior of a ventilation shaft; soon thereafter he had located the "special weapons" area and was shopping grimly and methodically for the advantages of military superiority, jotting down the nomenclature and estimated dollar value of each item on a sheet of paper.

He double-checked the completed list, totalled the dollar value, added a ten percent "error factor," and left the list and the money in a conspicuous place. A thief, Bolan reminded himself, he was not. Besides, he ruminated darkly, it was especially fitting that the enemy's money was paying for this purchase.

He disabled the alarm system, boldly rolled open the door to the freight dock, loaded the hardware into his car, then went back inside and resecured the building, exiting the same way he had gained entry. As he was driving away, Bolan spotted the patrol car of the private security guard assigned to the protection of the complex, cruising slowly in the opposite direction. Bolan grinned and gunned up onto the highway. Step One, equalization, had gone off without a hitch. "A "smoke-out" mission was next on tap.

Bolan left the car at the rear entrance to the apartment building and went up the service elevator to the fifth floor, padded softly down the hall to a door marked "511" and leaned on the doorbell. Forty seconds or so later he heard sounds within the apartment and a male voice called, "Okay, okay, just a minute."

He let up on the button and braced his good shoulder against the door. As soon as it cracked he shoved on in, nearly upsetting the man on the other side. "Wha- what...?" the man stuttered.

"You know me," Bolan snapped. "Get dressed. We're going out."

The man turned and ran toward the rear of the apartment, but Bolan was right with him. He grabbed an arm and swung the fleeing man around, driving a balled fist into his midsection. The man's breath left him in a loud grunt and he sank limply onto a small table. Bolan steadied him there until he was breathing normally again, then shoved him roughly toward the bedroom.

Several minutes later they left the apartment together, went down the back way, and got into Bolan's car. Not a word had passed between them since the original confrontation at the door to the apartment. Now the man gawked at the canvas-covered bulk in the back seat of the car and said: "What's that back there?"

"It could be dead bodies," Bolan replied quietly. "You could end up back there if you get stupid."

The man jerked around and faced stonily forward. A short drive later they were at the offices of Escorts Unlimited. The man opened the door with no outward sign of reluctance, and Bolan followed him inside.

"What are we doing here?" the man asked.

"Not we- you," Bolan replied. "You're going to give me a print-out on the entire prostitution operation. I want it all-call girls, house girls, streetwalkers, the whole thing. And I want it damn quick."

"Yes, sir," the programmer quickly agreed.

"Punch the wrong button and it'll be your death program. Make sure you understand that. If I get what I want, that's all I want. But if you screw me up, I'll screw you up. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, I understand."