Читать книгу Exit Code - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Lorenz Trabucco sat in the front passenger seat of the car and slowly pried away the dirt from under his fingernails with a nail file. He hated waiting around, and he still couldn’t believe his damned bad luck. He loathed boring-ass assignments, and he sure as hell didn’t like Texas. He preferred his hometown of Boston any day of the week.

“I don’t know why Serge insists on sending me on these expeditions to shit-kicker land,” Trabucco complained to no one in particular. He looked to his wheelman and bodyguard, Lou Maxim, first then looked into the back seat where Mickey “Bronco” Huffman and Joey DeLama sat. The two were dozing off, and at first Trabucco felt like yelling at them to stay alert, but he opted not to. He figured there was no point in being a dick.

Trabucco returned to his manicure as he continued complaining, “It’s just that I think I’m beyond this stuff. You know what I mean, Maxi?”

“I know what you mean, boss,” the bodyguard replied.

“I shouldn’t have to babysit some techno-geek broad, I should be out enforcing.” He thumped the dash and then patted his chest for emphasis. “I’m a Trabucco. You know what I’m saying? I come from a long line of enforcers. I don’t—”

“Boss, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but it looks like she’s leaving.”

Trabucco immediately looked in the direction of the house. He could see the car being backed out of the driveway. What he couldn’t see was who was in it. “It’s too far away. Can’t tell if that’s her in the car or the old bat who picked her up at the airport. What do you think, Maxi?”

“Looks like her, boss.”

“All right, then follow her,” Trabucco said. “But you make sure she don’t see you. You got that?”

“I got it, boss.”

“Hey, you boneheads!” Trabucco shouted at the back-seat pair as Maxim started the car. “Quit your damn loafing and pay attention. The broad’s leaving.”

“Where’s she going, boss?” DeLama mumbled.

“What?” Trabucco said, reaching back and slapping DeLama’s face. “What the fuck do I look like to you, Joey? Do I look like Mumbo Jumbo the Mind Reader to you, or something?”

“No, boss, course not,” DeLama stammered, his face visibly reddened by Trabucco’s assault.

Trabucco looked at Bronco who was now fully awake and reaching beneath his jacket to check the load in his .45-caliber semiauto pistol. The guy was a strict professional and he loved to kill. The big son-of-a-bitch bruiser—bigger even than Maxim—with his pug nose and shaved head was the only one in the crew that actually intimidated Trabucco just a bit. There were a lot of opinions, mostly conjecture, as to where Huffman had earned the nickname of Bronco, but the widely accepted story was he’d gotten it from the ladies. Supposedly, they loved to ride him like a horse and they insisted he was hung like the same, and that he was a bucking bronco.

Joey DeLama was another story entirely. A young kid who was heir to a Newark crime Family, DeLama had been taken down a few notches because he’d been a big mouth and nearly brought down his entire Family. His father had decided that DeLama needed to go out and get some smarts, so he called his long-time ally, Nicolas Lenzini.

Serge Grano happily agreed to assign DeLama to Trabucco’s crew. He was a wet-behind-the-ears snot, too long spoiled by having a father who was one of the most powerful syndicate guys in Jersey, and yet he didn’t know shit. In Trabucco’s opinion, DeLama was capable of fucking up a wet dream, and the guy had little chance of becoming a made man, never mind heading up the Family business. Trabucco thought it would be better if old man DeLama just killed this spawn he’d sired, and try again.

But that was another story. For now, the important thing was for them to keep up with this government woman. Trabucco didn’t know much about her, beyond that; he didn’t even know her name.

“You don’t need to know her name!” Lenzini had barked at him. “You just need to keep on her ass. I’ve told you where she’s headed, and how to find her. You just make sure you don’t lose her, okay? You think you can handle that for me?”

“Yes, Mr. Lenzini,” Trabucco had said. “I understand perfectly, Mr. Lenzini. Consider it handled, Mr. Lenzini.”

It really jerked his chain that he had to kowtow, but he knew this was his station in life and he had no inkling he’d ever amount to being much more than a bull and at best someday, maybe a head bull. Yeah, maybe eventually he’d get Serge Grano’s job. At present, he was subjugated to lifelong service under a miserable half-breed like Lenzini. The old man’s father, Marcomo Lenzini, had been of pure Sicilian blood, but he’d never wanted to marry—feeling that his business was definitely a man’s business—and instead had chosen to dip his wick in anything that suited him, including one of the young Spanish maids cleaning his house. So in a sense, Nicolas Lenzini was illegitimate, and everyone knew it, but no other woman was able to give Marcomo a son, so he accepted this and made it official by marrying the maid, although they lived separately until Nicolas was born. The old man’s marriage proved short-lived; mother and child died during a second pregnancy.

Nicolas Lenzini was raised an only son, and he inherited his father’s empire when Marcomo Lenzini—a man among men and respected by all of his associates in la Cosa Nostra—died of lung cancer on the eve of his son’s eighteenth birthday. So it went, Nicolas Lenzini, barely out of diapers, took over the family business. He became a hard and embittered man, greedy and ruthless with his enemies. He was not temperamental; in fact, Trabucco never recalled Lenzini even raising his voice. Then again, he didn’t have to—when Mr. Lenzini talked, everybody listened or they’d wind up fish food in Boston Harbor.

“Where do you think she’s going, boss?” Maxim asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Trabucco replied, “but I’d guess into town. Maybe she’s shopping. Maybe she’s baking cookies and forgot something. Maybe she’s going to a bar to get drunk. Just drive, Maxi. Can you do that? Huh? Can you just drive and quit asking me stupid questions?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Maxim replied.

Trabucco knew he was being an asshole, but he didn’t care. He was in charge, and he could be anything he wanted. His men didn’t take it personally. They were still as loyal to him as ever. What really made him nervous about this whole thing was that what he’d been told about this woman. She was going to be instrumental to Mr. Lenzini’s plans, and they were there to insure that nothing bad happened to her. She was insurance, really, against retaliation by the rag heads.

Trabucco still thought that was a huge mistake. He couldn’t figure out why a guy with Lenzini’s clout needed to do business with a group like the NIF. Trabucco didn’t trust them, and he didn’t want to work with them. But Lenzini insisted that they could all get a lot richer and be a lot better off if they cooperated with them. Trabucco didn’t see it that way. He considered the NIF his bitter enemy, just as he considered the cops his enemy, and he wouldn’t hesitate to exterminate every one of them if he thought they were going to try to pull a fast one on the Family. This was his Family and his country, and he didn’t give a fuck about the foreigners and what they wanted. He was only doing this out of loyalty to his people.

So he’d sit and watch over this brainy broad and he’d do his job like a professional syndicate bull, and down the line he would hope there was some reward and appreciation for his work. Yeah, and also some damned consideration. There was nothing he hated more than when he didn’t get any consideration. He didn’t care how the rest of the plan fell out as long as Mr. Lenzini was successful. They had to make the boss look good, because when he looked good they looked good, and while he didn’t really think that much of Lenzini, the old guy did have a reputation for rewarding loyalty. And so Trabucco knew all he could do was his job. And then maybe, just maybe, he’d get some consideration. Yeah, that sure would be a treat.

TYRA MACEWAN PARKED her mother’s car in the lot of a large grocery store and climbed from behind the wheel. She slung her purse over her shoulder, feeling the added but comfortable weight of the .38-caliber Detective’s Special she kept in her bag.

She thought about her father as she walked toward the grocery store. He had taught her respect and appreciation for firearms, and given that a group of strange men were following her, she was all the more thankful for his training. She wished she could talk to him about her situation.

MacEwan also wished Jack or Matt Cooper were around. They would know what to do. She knew she could correct that with a single phone call, but she wouldn’t be able to do it from the store since the bank of pay phones was visible to the entire parking lot and that might look very suspicious to her followers. Cooper’s people had counseled her not to take her cell phone when she returned home, so she couldn’t use that, either. The only phone she’d brought was the emergency unit that allowed DARPA personnel to contact her directly, and she didn’t want to risk using it.

MacEwan got inside the store and immediately located a manager. A few seconds later, she had directions to the woman’s restroom—which she remembered was near a rear exit—and within minutes she was on the back side of the store and crossing a field overgrown with brush, garbage and beer cans.

MacEwan also knew there were an abundance of snakes and rusted metal from junked-out cars in the field. The area had been like this since she was a little girl, and the place really got little attention—except for the Friday and Saturday night police drive-bys—and it seemed the city and public in general had better things to do than worry about this freakish marriage of the natural with the man-made.

After crossing the field unscathed, MacEwan reached a pay phone on the wall of a gas station. She stabbed the buttons mechanically from the number Cooper had given her and ordered that she commit to memory. Within moments a deep, rich voice sounded a greeting in her ears—it was a strong voice.

“Is this Bear?” she asked.

“Yes. Is this who I think it is?” Aaron Kurtzman asked.

“Right,” she said. “Listen, I think there could be trouble. I caught someone…Well, several someones, watching the house. Did you or your people order any type of protection?”

“No,” Kurtzman replied firmly. “We believe the best way to protect people is not to draw attention to them. That’s why you don’t have six big dudes in suits and sunglasses walking around you every second.”

“Well, then, I could have a problem.”

“You recognize any of them?” Kurtzman asked.

“No.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Not even two days.”

“All right, then go about your business. Whoever it is doesn’t plan on harming you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’d already be dead,” he replied chillingly.

MacEwan nodded at the phone; he was right and she knew it. There was no way she’d still be breathing if those men were supposed to kill her. They could have taken her at any time, especially on her drive into town on the virtually empty road that led from her parents sprawling ranch into the city.

MacEwan trusted Cooper’s people, and she knew they were experts in their field. She only had to see the tall, dark-haired, icy-eyed war machine in action one time to know that much. “What are you going to do?” MacEwan asked.

“I’m going to send help. Just sit tight and act normal. I’ll have someone at your place within twelve hours,” Kurtzman said confidently.

“I understand.”

There was a click and the line went dead. MacEwan knew all she could do was wait as Bear had told her. And pray that the promised help came soon.

Boston, Massachusetts

MACK BOLAN DIDN’T HAVE long to wait before he managed to find a nice, private spot in the corner in the menswear area on the second floor. The place was not all that busy; it seemed as if the store catered primarily to a female clientele. The odor of wool, denim and leather permeated everything.

It was simultaneously puzzling and disconcerting to Bolan that someone could be onto him so quickly. It had been the same during his encounters with the NIF. He’d found MacEwan being tortured and beaten by terrorist thugs, and had subsequently joined the battle against NIF fanatics. MacEwan had worked with Kurtzman in the virtual world to match wits against the technical prowess of Sadiq Rhatib. And Jack Grimaldi had nearly lost his life. Through it all, it seemed like someone was onto him every minute, and he had no explanation as to why. Bolan was hoping this man might have some answers.

The Executioner waited until the man—oblivious to the fact he was being followed in his intense search to find his lost quarry—was aligned with an open dressing room before making his move. He quickly stepped forward, shoved the guy into the dressing room and shut the door behind them. The Beretta was now clear of shoulder leather and Bolan had the man on his knees, the muzzle of the Beretta inches from his forehead. Bolan wasn’t surprised to find a gun when he frisked the guy, and he quickly relieved him of the weapon.

“Talk,” the Executioner said.

“About what?” the man asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bolan replied nonchalantly. “How about the first thing that comes to your mind?”

“Well, I’d like to know why you’ve got a gun to my head,” the man said calmly.

Bolan showed him a frosty smile. “Maybe I can tell you that once you explain why you’re following me.”

“Because I was ordered to.”

“By who?”

“By the federal government,” the man said.

“Stop playing games with me,” Bolan replied, tapping the muzzle against the man’s forehead. “The federal government’s pretty broad. Get specific or get dead. I don’t care which, but decide now.”

“All right, all right,” the man said, putting up his hands to demonstrate he’d cooperate. “I’m a special investigator with the Defense Department. I was ordered to follow you by Dr. Shurish. You were supposed to report to work more than two weeks ago, and he hasn’t heard from you. He was concerned, so he filed a missing persons report with the FBI. When some Washington transit cops spotted you boarding a train for Boston, Shurish called me and asked me to find out where you were going.”

Bolan chewed on that for a moment. The story was probably true, although he didn’t completely understand it. Malcolm Shurish was head of the Information Processing Technology Office at DARPA. Bolan had first met him while posing as a scientist intended to serve as a temporary replacement until the authorities located MacEwan. Of course, Shurish hadn’t known that Bolan was really looking for MacEwan himself. And after the NIF tried to blow him up—and take half the IPTO office with him—he hadn’t seen Shurish again.

Shurish’s reaction seemed a bit much; Stony Man would have taken care of any questions about Bolan’s cover. It didn’t sound like the government was looking for him—Kurtzman’s systems would have immediately flagged and intercepted anything that came across official channels.

No, Shurish had to be operating on his own. And Mack Bolan wanted to know why.

“Here’s my advice to you,” Bolan snapped. “I would go back to your own business, disappear, whatever. But don’t follow me any more and don’t let on you found me.”

“You’re kidding,” the agent interjected with an amused expression. “Right?”

The warrior shook his head. “Just trust me when I tell you we’re working for the same side.”

“What am I supposed to tell my people?”

“Tell them you lost me. Tell them I gave you the slip, and you think I’m headed for Canada, so they’ll start looking for me everywhere but here. That will buy me some time to do what I have to do. And then I’ll be out of your life for good.”

“You don’t honestly think I’m going to go back and lie to my people on your word, just because you’ve got a gun to my head,” the man said.

The Executioner nodded. “Think a minute, man. Do you honestly believe if I wasn’t playing for the same team that you’d walk out of here alive?”

The man looked in Bolan’s eyes, and he saw two things: the truth was one, death was the other. Bolan could tell it was taking the agent some time to decide if he would buy anything he was being told.

The soldier knew that if he didn’t meet with Lenzini’s crew soon, it was going to get ugly.

“You’ve got five seconds left,” he said.

“All right,” the agent replied. “I believe you.”

“And you’ll do what I’ve told you to do?”

“Yeah.”

Bolan thought he could trust the man, so he handed back his pistol and stepped out of the dressing room. He looked across the store and immediately spotted a group of security officers led by a man dressed in plain clothes. Probably store security—obviously they had the dressing rooms under some type of surveillance. It was time to find a quick exit, which wouldn’t be an easy task under the circumstances. The whole store was probably under closed-circuit coverage.

Yeah, it was time to leave. And the Executioner fully intended to make haste in his exit. As he descended the escalator to the first floor, he realized that the six, dark-skinned men entering the store toting AKSU machine pistols had other ideas. Mack Bolan knew the moment of choice had come: fight or die.

The Executioner reached for his Beretta 93-R.