Kill Squad. Don Pendleton

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      “Marco, it’s a call for you,” Milo Forte said. “I think it’s Harry Sherman.”

      Conte took the phone. “Yeah?”

      “You double-crossed me, Marco,” Sherman said without preamble. “I valued your word. I should have known better.”

      “Harry, it’s business. Nothing personal. I have to go with the percentages and they were telling me I should cut my losses.”

      “You think? Marco, I might have had respect for you a while ago, but you just proved what a cheap hood you are—”

      “You can’t talk to me like that, you fucking bean counter. You know who I am?”

      “I know what you are, Marco. A scared little gofer who has to jump through hoops every time your Russian boss says so. And right now you’re in trouble. Bulova isn’t going to be happy you let nine million slip through your fingers. I would have stuck to my agreement, but you couldn’t even do that.”

      The silence was thick enough to cut.

      “Where are you, Harry? Tell me so I can come rip your throat out.”

      “I would have helped, but now I’m going to do my best to see that you and Bulova go down. I have the goods on you, Marco. I found your hidden files. The ones that have all the names and dates and payoffs. I made a copy and I’m going to give it to the Feds. You just had to send out your guy with his gun to put me down. The trouble is, he screwed up. He missed me but hurt other people. So to hell with you all. You made me angry, Marco, and it takes a lot to do that, you loser.”

      “We’ll find you, Harry, and I’ll make it my personal business to cut you into little pieces.”

      The phone went dead in Conte’s hand.

      “Milo, that piece of garbage is threatening to hand over files to the Feds. Goddamn it, we need to find him fast or we’re done.”

      * * *

      VITALY DANICHEV SAT in the rear of the SUV, making no move to climb out. His driver sat patiently at the wheel, staring out through the windshield. He knew better than to disturb his employer when he was in such a mood. Tibor Kolchak flanked the driver. Even though he was Danichev’s chief bodyguard, the huge man understood when to remain nothing more than a passive observer.

      “All right, Tibor, let’s get this done.”

      Kolchak climbed out of the SUV and moved his bulk to Danichev’s door, opening it so that his boss could step out. He headed directly for the casino’s entrance. Despite his powerful size, Kolchak stayed ahead of his boss, yanking open the door for him. Danichev walked inside and along the carpeted floor. Even at this time of day the casino was busy with people moving in and out. A constant stream of potential winners and losers.

      “Mr. Conte is waiting for you in the Crater Lounge, sir,” said the floor manager.

      He led them through the casino to a closed door at the far side of the opulent gambling floor. They stepped through the door and into the semi-lit area of the lounge. The empty dance floor was surrounded by tables and chairs, and a long, curved bar sat at the rear. The motif of the room was of planets and stars, the ceiling illuminated by simulated lunar craters and subdued light.

      Marco Conte sat at the bar on a high stool, two of his hardmen close by. His gaze settled on Danichev and remained there as the Russian approached. Conte had a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. He was putting on an act of nonchalance, a display for Danichev’s benefit. It was a wasted effort. The Russian ignored it.

      “Have you found him?” Danichev asked.

      Any form of greeting Conte might have been considering faded fast.

      “No.”

      “And so you sit there doing nothing?”

      “I have my people out looking for him,” Conte said.

      Danichev’s lips curved into a faint smile a second before he exploded with rage.

      “You have people looking for him. What the fuck does that mean? This accountant has run out on you. And you have done nothing to stop him. The Feds want him to give them this evidence he found.”

      Danichev began to speak Russian, his rage filling the room as he subjected Conte to an intense verbal rant. His hands lashed out, knocking the cigar and the glass from Conte’s hands.

      The casino boss took the verbal assault without protest, his shock at being so intensely attacked rendering him speechless. He might be the head man in Vegas but under Danichev’s intense rebuke he could have been a street soldier with no rank. He had heard about the Russian’s powerful presence, but this was the only time he had been on the receiving end. He was physically trembling, his face bloodless; he realized his position so he remained silent. The last thing he needed to do was to offer some lame excuse.

      “Get me a drink,” Danichev said to Kolchak, suddenly reverting to English.

      Kolchak stepped behind the bar. He sought out a bottle of expensive vodka and filled a tumbler, handing it to Danichev. The Russian savored the liquor before taking a swallow.

      “At least this delivers as it should,” he said after the vodka slid down his throat. “Pour one for Marco. I think he is going to need it.”

      Conte took the offered drink without protest. He hated the stuff, preferring a good malt whiskey, but at that moment he wasn’t going to do anything to upset Danichev further.

      “Get rid of the monkeys,” Danichev ordered.

      Conte dismissed his bodyguards. He was aware of Danichev’s scrutiny, so he took another swallow of the vodka.

      “So,” Danichev said in a more conversational tone that did little to make Conte feel any better. “I got angry because you fucked up. You now understand how bad you fucked up. Because of your error the organization is now vulnerable to the Feds. The last thing we need is to be placed in their sights any more than we already are. Do you agree, Marco?”

      “Yes. But we will find him.”

      “That is not the answer I was hoping for. What I asked was whether you think Sherman has left us in a vulnerable position.”

      Conte noticed that his hand holding the glass of vodka was trembling slightly. It angered him that Danichev could have that effect on him. And it annoyed him the way the man talked down to him.

      In the seconds following his thoughts, Marco Conte realized his position, his power over events, was only granted by the ultimate heads of the organization. They wielded the big stick from their power base back east. His empire, out here in the sticks, only existed because it generated revenue—that ultimate power being demonstrated to him by the presence of Vitaly Danichev. If Danichev decided to end Conte’s reign, he could do it simply by clicking his fingers and unleashing the hulking figure of Tibor Kolchak. It could СКАЧАТЬ