Don Pendleton - Exit Code

The Executioner reached for his Beretta 93-R.

If the new arrivals were expecting trouble, they certainly weren’t expecting it to come from above.

The Executioner decided to keep his advantage by leaping over the wide divider between the descending and ascending escalators. As Bolan climbed back toward the second floor, he took the first gunman with two successive shots to the chest. The Beretta’s reports were not much louder than muted coughs as the twin 9 mm subsonic rounds punched holes in the guy’s torso and tossed him into a display.

Bolan got the second one with a clean shot through the skull before the rest of the crew realized they were taking fire from above. Blood and brain matter splattered across a glass counter, followed a moment later by the gunner’s body. The frame collapsed under the weight of the corpse and glass shattered with the impact. The contents of the case—dozens of bottles of cologne and perfume—broke and spilled their odiferous contents onto the counter base and floor, mixing with a rapidly forming pool of blood.

Bolan reached the second floor and started across the room, but he stopped short on seeing the government agent who’d tailed him surrounded by a cluster of security guards. The Executioner ducked between some racks of clothing and weighed his options as the numbers ticked off in his head. It was not likely the gunmen below were part of Lenzini’s crew, which left only one likelihood—they were NIF terrorists.

It didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t much matter because he didn’t have the time or luxury to stop and think it through. Without question, the department store security guards were trained to handle shoplifters and riotous customers, but were hardly in a position to handle armed terrorists. Not to mention the chance of innocents getting hurt were a gun battle to ensue between the security officers and NIF gunmen. No, the Executioner would have to handle the terrorists himself.

Bolan made his way back to the escalator. He dropped to his belly and crawled the remaining five feet to the descending stairway. He was betting the NIF crew would be headed up the escalator by now, and most likely they would move in pairs. He lay on his side, waiting until he was about three-quarters of the way down before jumping into view and picking targets. As Bolan suspected, the first pair of gunners were halfway up, crouched on the ascending stairway with their machine pistols held at the ready. The others were positioned to his immediate flank, and also positioned low.

Bolan took them without hesitation, noting that customers were still making for the exits while several employees were clustered around the first two dead gunmen and a manager was screaming into the phone. The Executioner jumped onto the divider, thumbed the selector to 3-round bursts and squeezed the trigger. A trio of 115-grain hollowpoint rounds ripped through the base of one terrorist’s skull. The 9 mm bullets nearly decapitated him, and the suddenness of his attack startled the second terrorist. Bolan shot the surprised NIF gunner through the throat, and blood spurted from the terrorist’s gaping wounds.

The remaining pair, almost reaching the top of the escalator, turned at the sound of the commotion. The looks on their faces told the story. They had made the worst mistake they could have in any battlefield scenario—they had severely underestimated the ingenuity of their enemy.

Bolan ended the surprised looks with another volley, this one more controlled as the Beretta recoiled in the Weaver’s grip had adopted. Both 3-round salvos were true, the first punching through the lungs and stomach of one terrorist who rose and tried to outshoot Bolan. The second terrorist took two of the soldier’s shots in his chest and shoulder. He screamed with pain as his finger curled on the trigger of his AKSU and sent a cluster of 7.62 mm bullets into the ceiling above Bolan’s head.

The falling debris missed the Executioner entirely, as he was already on the move and headed for the exit. The terrorist threat had been neutralized, and he saw no point in standing around and waiting for a slew of security guards to converge on him. He wouldn’t drop the hammer on a cop, whether a sworn peace officer or just a simple security guard. Those men and women had families, and they were simply doing their jobs.

Bolan traded out clips as he left the chaos of the store unmolested. He quickly crossed the street through the logjam of traffic created by the swarm of people reacting to the gun battle. He easily got lost in the crowd. He stopped at a nearby bistro and politely requested use of their bathroom. He splashed cold water onto his face, straightened his clothing and headed for the café where Grano and Ape were supposed to be waiting. Bolan found the coffee shop without much trouble and found the hoods waiting for him, true to Grano’s word.

They rose without a word and led him to a back alley where a midsized luxury sedan was waiting for them, engine running under the watchful eyes of a pair of large bulls. Ape climbed behind the wheel, and Grano ordered Bolan to take shotgun. He could feel Grano staring at the back of his head, and he knew the house boss wanted him up front where he could keep an eye on him. Yeah, “Loyal” or not, they didn’t trust him—at least not completely.

“So?” Grano asked, once Ape had gotten them out of the downtown area and merged with highway traffic leading toward the Boston suburbs. “What happened?”

“Not much, boss,” Bolan replied, trying to immediately settle back into his role. “I don’t know who the guy was, but I managed to lose him.”

“That right?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you weren’t followed?”

Bolan nodded. “I’m sure, Mr. Grano.”

“Good.” Grano settled back in his seat, and in the reflection of the front windshield Bolan could make out enough of his expression to tell the guy was satisfied. “And you can skip the formalities, Loyal. Call me Serge.”

“I’d like to, boss,” Bolan replied easily, “but it just doesn’t seem natural yet.”

“All right,” Grano said, slapping Bolan’s shoulder. “I guess I can understand that. Let’s just give it some time.” Then he added, “You’re gonna fit right in with us, eh? What do you think, Ape?”

“I think he’s pretty square so far,” Ape mumbled.

Bolan glanced at Ape’s profile a moment, and noticed the guy’s eyes hadn’t shifted from the road and his fingers were tightening on the steering wheel. Obviously, he thought of Bolan as a threat to his own place in the hierarchy. Bolan had met Ape’s kind before. They never went very high in the organization because they were big on brawn, but had little going on upstairs.

These days, mobsters were much more educated than in days gone by; in fact, many of them were college graduates holding a master’s degree and even a doctorate. It was a different kind of organized crime, called by the same name but doing its dirty deeds in a very different fashion. New mobsters came from the halls of places like William and Mary, Yale, Harvard and Stanford. They made their mark in the business world, and after they had amassed enough wealth, or reached positions on corporate boards, they struck like the venomous snakes they really were.

Yeah, the days of public hits in the downtown sandwich shops or dumping bodies into rivers were long gone. Now the Mafia controlled much of their business through legal means such as contracts, hostile takeovers, and mergers and acquisitions. Instead of moving their money through backroom laundering operations, they fronted high-dollar investments through pyramid schemes and paper companies. They were like catfish: bottom feeders. They made their move while the political focus shifted to corporate CEOs running once-legitimate companies before letting greed get the better of them. As political action groups and attorneys battled with Senate hearing committees over the ethics of big business, the syndicate continued its activities right under everyone’s noses.