Читать книгу Exit Code - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

Boston, Massachusetts

The home of Nicolas Lenzini was more fortress than residence. Not surprising, considering his enemies.

As he rode up the long, winding drive to the main house, Bolan wondered how they could have gathered so little intelligence on Lenzini over the years. He was both an ominous and infamous figure in the underworld who happened to enjoy quite a bit of time in the public eye, and yet the government had seemed almost inept at bringing him down.

Bolan couldn’t criticize them too much. They had to operate within constraints he didn’t, follow rules put into place by judges and politicians on Lenzini’s payroll, and wade through bureaucratic red tape. They had to have approval for their undercover ops, many times by people who golfed with Lenzini or rubbed elbows in the same social circles. Well, the Executioner didn’t have to do any of that, and it was time to bring the numbers king to his knees.

As Bolan got out of the car, he took a quick count of the guards and their positions. Given the size of the grounds, there was no way his initial numbers could represent the entire complement. The guards that weren’t visible posed the real threat to him, and given his present count, he believed there were probably quite a few who fell into that category.

“Come on inside,” Serge Grano said, motioning for Bolan to follow him. “We’re late for our meeting with Mr. Lenzini.”

Bolan followed Grano inside, ever conscious that Ape was right behind him and watching his every move. At first they had seemed friendly enough, but as they’d approached Lenzini’s estate, he’d noticed a shift in their attitudes toward him. Perhaps they hadn’t completely bought his story about the cop who’d followed him, or maybe they were beginning to feel like he’d brought them some unwanted heat. Either way, something had definitely changed and the Executioner knew he was going to have to keep close tabs on the environment.

They seated him in a large, spacious office, and then Grano held out his hand. “Turn it over.”

“What?” Bolan asked, feigning confusion.

“Your piece. Nobody does one-on-one with the old man armed. Not even me.”

“Oh.” The Executioner looked at Grano for a second, making sure to hesitate and show distrust, but then he finally conceded and handed over the Beretta.

“You carrying backup?”

Bolan shook his head.

“Start,” Grano said simply, and then he left.

Bolan occupied his time by pulling a small rubber ball from his pocket and squeezing it. It would look like a nervous habit to any spectators, and Bolan was pretty sure he was under scrutiny by hidden cameras. What observers wouldn’t know was that it was also therapy for the arm wound he’d sustained while battling the NIF. Those kinds of details had been left out of his role as Frank Lambretta.

A panel in the wall suddenly slid aside and a man in a motorized wheelchair rolled through the opening. His hair was white, and his face wrinkled and marked by all of the signs of age combined with disease. This was definitely not the man Bolan had expected to see.

“Good morning, Frankie,” the man greeted him cheerily, coming to a stop behind a large cherrywood desk.

Bolan nodded. “I’m, uh—I’m supposed to be meeting Nicolas Lenzini.”

“So you are,” the man said.

“Yeah. So who are you?”

“Nicolas Lenzini,” the man replied.

Bolan shook his head. “No way, pal. This is some kind of joke, right? Like a test of some kind.”

The man’s laugh was really a cackle, which seemed witch-like under the circumstances. “Oh, I assure you this is no joke, Frankie.”

“My name’s Frank,” Bolan said.

“Your name’s what I say it is!” the guy replied. “And I can assure you, I am Nicolas Lenzini. You want to know how I can prove I am?”

Bolan nodded, fully playing his dismay at being smacked down.

“Because if I push the button here under my desk, I’ll have twenty guys here in five seconds who will yank your smart ass outta that chair, beat you senseless, carve you up with a chain saw and flush parts of you down every public toilet in Boston. Got it?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

“I know it. And you’re going to find, Frankie, that if you’re loyal to me, as your reputation dictates, then I’ll be loyal to you. You’ll never want for anything while you work for me. You can ask Serge or any of his boys. Now, I know you’re a contract guy, but I also know you’re out of work and looking for a place to put up your feet. Do this job for me, do it right, and you’ll have a permanent place to call home.”

“That would be nice, Mr. Lenzini,” Bolan replied meekly.

“Now, I know you’ve probably seen pictures of me. And I know you’re probably wondering why I look like this and I’ve got my ass parked in a wheelchair instead of on some hot broad. You wondering that?”

“Yes, actually, I kinda was.”

“Well, the answer is it’s none of your goddamn business! Okay? You just do what you need to do, worry about yourself, and I’ll take of you. My boys can tell you I’m firm but I’m fair. And I only expect to have this conversation once. We see eye to eye with each other now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of here.” As he spun the chair he added, “Serge will tell you what you need to do.”

A moment later, Lenzini exited through the panel almost as quickly as he’d entered. Bolan sat and waited a moment, not sure what to do. He didn’t want to look indecisive, but he had to admit he was a bit surprised by the brief and terse encounter. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. But he could understand now why the federal law-enforcement community had had such a difficult time getting Nicolas Lenzini. Bolan’s meeting revealed that the man the media called Nicolas Lenzini wasn’t really Lenzini. The Nicolas Lenzini known to the rest of the world was an impostor.