Don Pendleton - Exit Code

“Okay, so I’ve got some idea of where this has gone,” Bolan said. “Now I need a starting point, and I think we can all agree Nicolas Lenzini is the best candidate.”

“We agree,” Price replied. “We know that Lenzini’s running the operation from Boston, and he’s got his two sons handling matters at the other major Internet portals in North America. Bear?”

Kurtzman put the map back on the screen. “Striker, the gold stars you see represent the major network trafficking hubs. They include Boston and Washington, D.C., on the East Block, and out West you’ve got San Diego, Los Angeles, Oakland, Portland and Seattle.”

“Sounds like I’m going to be busy.”

“You’re not joking,” Brognola replied. “We’ve got less than seventy-two hours to put this thing down.”

The Executioner pinned his friend with the icy blue stare and said, “That’s a tall order. It’s going to take me some time to get inside Lenzini’s organization, even if I go right to the source.”

“We’ve already set that up,” Price replied. “We have someone inside their system already that will be your contact.”

“Leo?” Bolan asked.

Price nodded. “We have word that the guy you shook up when you took down the Garden of Allah nightclub skipped out with quite a bit of Lenzini’s cash. His name is Gino Pescia, and word in the OC circles at the Justice Department is that he’s gathering up a crew.”

“We think when the time’s right,” Brognola said, “he’ll end the relationship between Lenzini and the NIF, carve out a niche for himself and retire.”

Bolan shook his head. “Make no mistake this could get ugly real quick. I’ve been up against the NIF firsthand, and I can tell you that if Pescia tries to pit a bunch of his thugs against them, it’ll turn into a bloodbath.”

“Lenzini’s put an open contract on Pescia’s head,” Price continued, “so it shouldn’t be hard to get you inside as a gun-for-hire looking for a new place to settle down.”

The Executioner could buy that. It was his hit on the Garden of Allah that first turned them onto the fact Nicolas Lenzini was working with NIF. He’d spared the life of Lenzini’s errand boy, Pescia—who had blubbered and quivered like a child when confronted by Bolan—and now it sounded as if the guy chose to split off and do things his own way.

Price continued, “We’re going to send you in with the Frank Lambretta cover. Thanks to Leo, word on you is that you’re known by the nickname Loyal Lambretta.”

Brognola added, “The cover story says you got the name working for the Giancarlo Family as a button guy until their collapse in Florida last year. This is your chance to make that rumor a reality.”

“And perhaps do a little looking around to see what I can find out about Lenzini’s ties with the NIF and just how deep this goes.” Bolan nodded. “Perfect.”

Price said, “Your recent history is you’re just out of Rikers, on a manslaughter beef. That will be confirmed on the inside if anybody checks, and the paperwork is already in place at New York State headquarters. We even opened an arrest record for you.”

“Sounds like something I can play with. Not too specific and not too vague. Nice job, Barb.”

Price smiled but didn’t bask in the moment—that wasn’t her style.

“Well, I’d better get cleaned up and catch up on a few winks before I leave,” Bolan said, pushing away from the table.

Brognola stood with him and shook his hand. “Sounds like a good idea. You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Bolan said.

“Any time. With Jack out of things for a while, we’ll have to make some alternate travel arrangements for you.”

“That’s fine. I imagine once I’m inside that everything else will be on Lenzini’s dime.”

The Executioner considered the irony of his statement. He’d pose as a tough guy, quickly get on Lenzini’s good side, and then topple the Lenzini network and use the old man’s money to do it. It was a different enemy now, with different rules, but Bolan knew that the basics hadn’t changed at all. They were still ignorant of those within their own ranks and they hadn’t been subjected to the skill of the Executioner in some time. Not much had changed in that regard, as far as Bolan was concerned. Yeah, the battle plan was still the same.

Infiltration!

Target Identification!

Confirmation!

Destruction!

As Mack Bolan, a.k.a. Frank “Loyal” Lambretta, stepped off the Greyhound bus in downtown Boston, he knew the two men waiting under the overhang weren’t the only ones watching him.

He’d spotted the tail in seconds, and his cursory glance marked the guy as a cop. Bolan immediately settled into his role as a tough veteran of the syndicate, just out of Rikers on a manslaughter beef that was beat on a technicality by a slick-boy attorney.

The two men waiting for him weren’t hard to spot, either. They were well-dressed, but their suits didn’t quite hang on them in a normal way; their clothes hadn’t been tailored for fashion but more for practicality. Yeah, they were definitely packing heat. Then there were their stances. To any trained expert how the men watched their surroundings was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t just mere curiosity or idle interest—they were looking for trouble, plain and simple.

Bolan ignored the rain that pounded the pavement and rolled off his old Navy pea coat. The Boston weather was a refreshing change to his past two weeks in the dusty climate and mountainous terrain of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Executioner had been to Boston many times before, but it had been a while since his last visit. And every time he stepped foot in Massachusetts it brought back some haunting memories. But Bolan was concerned only with the situation at hand.

The New Islamic Front had proved itself a formidable enemy in its own right, and Nicolas Lenzini had chosen to ally his family with the NIF for reasons still unknown. That gave Bolan a two-front war to fight, and that was never a good situation for a soldier. His body still ached where he’d pushed himself to the limits of endurance fighting the terrorists and destroying their camp in Afghanistan, but Bolan shoved that from his mind as a minor annoyance. He needed to be on top of things every moment. One misstep around these guys and it would be over. They would immediately suspect something was up and then try to take him when he least expected it.

Stony Man had plenty of intelligence on Nicolas Lenzini’s operations, but they didn’t have much on the guy’s personal life, so he’d have to play any direct interaction with Lenzini by ear. That was okay. He’d played this part many times, and while Bolan never made the mistake of underestimating his enemy, he had invented the concept of role camouflage and applied in it ways no other agent who’d ever penetrated the Mob had managed. Most agents either got caught up in the lifestyle, or they just plain got caught.

“You Lambretta?” the shorter of the two men asked.

Bolan nodded. “Are you with Mr. Lenzini?”

As the guy stuck out his hand and Bolan shook it without ceremony, he replied, “Yeah, I’m Serge Grano, the house boss.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of his larger companion and added, “This is Alfonse. We just call him Ape. We’re the welcoming party.”

“I don’t think you’re the only ones,” Bolan replied, flicking his eyes to his left.

Grano turned and looked at Ape. “You know what he’s talking about?”

“Nope,” Ape replied with a shrug.

Grano looked at Bolan again. “What are you talking about?”

“You guys are being watched,” Bolan replied. “By a cop.” Grano started to look around, but Bolan immediately stopped him by adding, “Don’t look for him or he’ll run scared. I’d play cool, wait until he’s where we can deal with it.”