Don Pendleton: Deadly Command

“You still on R & R?”

There was a hint of something more than just asking about his health.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Bolan said.

“Let’s say a certain incident in Miami aroused my interest.”

“Incident?”

“The kind that sort of has your signature on it. Something I should know about?”

“This is not an SOG issue,” Bolan said. “Flying solo. But I need to talk to the Bear.”

“Okay. Hey, you watch your back, soldier. You want to reconsider the lone-wolf status on this one?”

“Thanks, but no, thanks. This is something I need to do without dragging you guys in.”

“Kind of personal, huh?”

“Kind of.”

“I’ll patch you through.”

“Catch up with you later.”

Bolan heard the soft click as the call was transferred to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s cyber lair. A moment later the recognizable, gruff sound of Kurtzman’s voice came on.

“Hey, big guy, haven’t heard from you in a while. You having an extended vacation?”

“Not any longer,” Bolan said. “I need some intel.”

“Sure,” Kurtzman said. “So what can I do for you?”

“Find out background details on a Chicago lowlife named Fredo Bella, head honcho in the trafficking of stolen arms in the area. A source said Bella’s strings are pulled by a Lou Cameron based in New Mexico. I’m driving to Chicago in the morning, so call my cell when you get the goods. I also need intel on a guy by the name of Guido Bertolli. According to his business card, he runs a financial advisory service in the city. Could be legit, but I found it in the wallet of a dirtbag named Roy Soames. And information I got suggested Bertolli is linked to Bella. I just need you to confirm.”

“You got it, Striker. Anything else?”

“No,” Bolan said. “Just the intel. And pictures if you can find them. Leave it until morning if you get anything. And thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Bolan put the cell phone on charge before he turned in. Last thing he needed was the phone going dead on him if Kurtzman was trying to send him information.

“YOU PICKED a prize specimen,” Kurtzman said over the cell phone.

Bolan was eating breakfast in the diner down the road from the motel. “So enlighten me,” he said.

“Fredo Bella. He’s forty-two years old and heads up one hell of an organized crime business. Arms dealing is one page in his dossier. The guy will buy and sell anything as long as he can make a profit. This is a slippery character, Striker. The Chicago PD and the Feds have been on his case for years, but the man knows the game too well. He’s lawyered up to the ears. Pays very well and expects the best protection. He’s been charged a number of times, but nothing ever gets beyond that. The guy’s been suspected of a couple of homicides, and I stress the word ‘suspected’ as in legally. CPD know he did them, but they haven’t been able to take it any further. Witnesses have a habit of disappearing, if you get my drift. And Bertolli does have connections with Bella. Looks like he could be the local money guy for the organization.”

“Understood. That’s the intel I got myself.”

“There’s a little more you might be interested in. Bella may be the hotshot in the Midwest, but he does dance to Lou Cameron’s tune. These guys are so connected it’s like an old-style Mafia Family.”

“Well, we know what happened to them, don’t we?”

Kurtzman’s rumbling chuckle made Bolan smile.

“You take care, Striker. These people have bad reputations. I kid you not.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Pictures are coming through when we finish speaking. Any thing else?”

“Background on this Cameron and his outfit might be helpful.”

“Leave it with me,” Kurtzman said. “Oh, and Fredo Bella has a number of properties in and around Chicago. His main residence…”

Fredo Bella’s main residence was a 2,500-square-foot apartment in a glittering steel-and-glass high-rise situated on Chicago’s North Lakeshore Drive. On the southwest corner of the building the apartment looked out over the city skyline and also had a view across the lake. According to Kurtzman’s intel, the apartment cost in the region of $1.5 million. Probably small change to Bella.

Like many career criminals, Bella, who viewed the law with distaste, had a penchant for flaunting his wealth. He was confident enough to show the results of his illegal operations because he felt secure, untouchable. He surrounded himself with legal battalions and bought favors from those in high places.

Bolan located the building on his arrival in Chicago. His drive by was just a recon. He parked up short of the apartment building, looking it over. He liked to know where his quarry was based. He had no hard and fast plans for the man’s home yet. The Executioner was more interested in Bella’s operations. He was hoping that a visit to Guido Bertolli’s office might give him that information.

GREGOR LEMINOV was far from happy, despite the luxurious surroundings of Fredo Bella’s apartment. The Russian Mafiya broker was not in good humor. In the past half hour he had ordered his burly bodyguard to pour him two more glasses of Bella’s expensive whiskey and had quickly downed each tumbler in hefty gulps.

The heavyset Russian stared out through the apartment’s panoramic windows, watching sheets of rain sweep in from Lake Michigan and slam against the glass. The gray clouds over the choppy water matched his mood, and the longer he had to wait, the worse his mood became. Leminov snapped his fingers and held out his glass.

“I might as well drink his liquor,” he said to Mikhail Rostov, his personal bodyguard.

Rostov, who would never drink while he was on duty, took the tumbler and refilled it. He handed it to his boss, then resumed his position close by.

“Is taking a long time, boss,” Rostov said.

“Always one to state the obvious, Mikhail. In this case you are right.” Leminov sat forward. “Perhaps it is time to remind our host how long we have been waiting.”

The double doors to the spacious room swung open then, and Fredo Bella strode through, a beaming smile on his rounded face.

“Gregor, my friend.” He noticed the almost empty glass in Leminov’s large hand. “Let me fix you another drink. What would you like?”

“An explanation would be nice. Fredo, where are Mr.

Poliokof’s machine guns?”

Bella sat behind his curving pale wood desk. The heavy executive chair creaked as Bella’s weight put it under some strain. The man was six feet tall, and carried a lot of weight. Even his hand-tailored Versace suit failed to hide his soft bulk. He was a big man with big appetites.

“No crap, Gregor. I’m nothing if not truthful. There was an incident in Florida. Somebody, and I don’t know who yet, showed up at the exchange. He killed my guy, Soames, and took out the driver of the van. He took off with the cash, as well.”

“What about the weapons?”

Bella dug a finger inside his shirt collar, where it suddenly started to dig into his neck. “Worst fuckin’ part,” he said. “The son of a bitch went and called the cops in. Miami PD have the M240s in their lockup, along with the delivery guy. I am not worried about him, though. His knowledge is limited.”

Leminov felt a compulsion to drain his glass of whiskey. As he held it up for a refill, Rostov stepped forward and took it.

“So everything has gone and the deal falls flat. I have to tell Mr. Poliokof he doesn’t get his weapons?”

Bella held up a hand. “No, Gregor. The guns will be delivered. A fresh shipment. That takes time. It may be a little late, but the weapons will be delivered.” He cleared his throat, forcing words out that plainly hurt to utter. “You won’t be out of pocket. I’ll stand the loss. It was my end of the deal, so I’ll take the hit.”