Kill Squad. Don Pendleton

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      Washington, DC

      Leo Turrin leaned back in his chair, pondering his next move. Once a deep undercover agent for the Justice Department, Turrin had penetrated the closed ranks of the Mafia and become a trusted confederate. Now he was “semiretired” from the mob and worked in Justice’s headquarters in Washington, DC. His current focus was a crime boss named Marco Conte.

      A case board covered one wall of the little Fed’s office. The current layout was a montage of information on the Conte organization. Pinned in place were numerous photos of the main players—Conte in a variety of poses, his coterie of lieutenants, lesser men in the group and photos of other criminal figures; some friends, some enemies—as well as images of buildings that included houses and office complexes, and vehicles. The board contained anything and everything relating to Marco Conte’s operation.

      Turrin spent a lot of time studying the information, going over what he knew and adding new data whenever it showed up.

      He knew that if he got Conte, Justice would have a shot at taking down the head of the organization, Serge Bulova, an east coast crime lord.

      All he wanted was the one small sliver of data that might give him his way in.

      Finally his patience and dogged persistence had paid off. He’d learned from an inside source that Harry Sherman, Conte’s chief accountant, was in trouble with his boss. Money was missing.

      After researching Sherman, Turrin asked his source to ferret out what he could about the missing money. He had no idea if Sherman would play ball but figured he had nothing to lose and a hell of a lot to gain if Sherman turned out to be the chink in the mob’s armor.

      He decided to reach out to the man.

      Las Vegas, Nevada

      INTEL HAD REVEALED that Harry Sherman stopped at the same café every morning on the way to the casino.

      The little Fed sat at the table behind him, watching and waiting for his moment. As Sherman briefly glanced away from the table, Turrin rose and, slipping a folded note beside the man’s coffee mug, walked away. He didn’t look back.

      He had to wait until Sherman contacted him. If he didn’t, then the Justice man would try another approach.

      The next morning Turrin’s cell phone rang.

      Sherman got right down to business. “Who are you?”

      “Someone who can help,” Turrin replied.

      “Help?”

      “You’re having problems with Marco Conte. He’s a dangerous man.”

      “Who says I’m having problems?”

      “Someone I know. Harry, I have good ears and I’m a listener.”

      A long pause. Turrin knew Sherman was still on the line because he could hear the background noise.

      “Do you have a solution?”

      “I do. I’ll pull you out and get you clear,” Turrin said.

      “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

      “I don’t hear either of us laughing, Harry.”

      “Before I end this call, tell me what this is about.”

      “Someone is taking a gamble, Harry, and is in the right place to do that for you.”

      “Here? In Vegas? Are you trying to get me killed or what? Jesus, if Conte even sniffs I’ve been talking to you, I’m already dead.”

      “So stay ahead of the game, Harry. Make that jump before he decides he can’t trust you any longer.”

      “This is crazy. You know who you’re talking about? Why the hell am I even still on the line?” Sherman asked.

      “Because you know what I’m saying is the truth, Harry. You’re mixed up with a bad crowd. Be honest. You handle the money for Conte. You know the kinds of things he gets involved with using the casino as a front. Do yourself a favor and get out before Conte makes a move.”

      Turrin had no doubt that beads of sweat were sliding down the sides of Sherman’s face, that his body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the weather. The voice on the phone was telling him what he already knew. His days with Conte were numbered—and those numbers were already starting to fall.

      “I’ll be at the café tomorrow, Harry. We’ll talk.” The little Fed ended the call.

      * * *

      TURRIN WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED—and relieved—when Sherman crossed the café and took his usual table. After the accountant had ordered, Turrin stood and crossed the floor to join him. The man glanced up, his face registering slight alarm.

      “I didn’t think you’d show,” Turrin said as he took the seat across from Sherman. “Good to meet you, Harry. I’m Leo.”

      Turrin waited as Sherman’s coffee and roll were delivered.

      “If you can’t help me, Leo, this could be one of my last meals.”

      “You have a cell phone on you?”

      “Don’t they provide you with one?”

      “It’s yours I want. Take it out and place it on the table.”

      Sherman complied, watching as Turrin opened the back and removed the battery and SIM card. He dropped the items into his pocket.

      Sherman stared at him.

      “Calls can be traced. You could be tracked.”

      “So now what? I make smoke signals?”

      Turrin took out a satellite СКАЧАТЬ