Death List. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ a man sitting at the wheel. Of course, he couldn’t take a chance that these were simply innocent people sitting in their vehicles for whatever reason. There was an easy way to make sure of that.

      He reached into his borrowed war bag, pulled out a pair of grenades and yanked the pins. He let the spoons fly free and shouted, “Hey! You guys with the Mob?” As he did so, he held the grenades aloft.

      The two sentries wrenched open their doors, clawing for guns hidden under their coats. Bolan threw the two lethal eggs and then put himself to the sidewalk. The move stung, but it beat eating the shrapnel that was about to—

      The grenades exploded, ripping through the gas tank of the K-car and punching into the engine compartment of the Malibu. The explosions flattened the two sentries. Bolan paused long enough to kick their guns into the burning wreckage, preventing them from being picked up and used against him. He was philosophically opposed to leaving loaded guns on the street for the neighborhood kids to find, too. Bringing up the MP-5 on its sling, he slapped the charging handle, jacking a 9 mm round into the chamber. The Heckler & Koch machine pistol was a fine weapon. It would serve him well, provided it had been properly maintained. Pierce didn’t seem like the sort to tolerate sloppy weapons maintenance.

      Bolan let his foot do the talking. He kicked in the door to the bar and shouted loudly, “Anybody here with the Torettos?”

      A number of people scattered, heading under the tables or out the back door. Bolan would have to trust that Pierce knew what he was doing. He was more interested in the man with the sawed-off shotgun that popped up from behind the bar. He did, indeed, have a scar across his nose.

      Bolan punched a single bullet into the middle of the guy’s face. Jack the Bartender discharged both barrels into the floor as he fell backward behind the bar. There was movement on both sides of the bar as a pair of gunners tried to flank him. Bolan shot first one and then the other. The sound-suppressed MP-5 was not completely silent, but in the close confines of the bar, it wasn’t punishing his ears. Bolan was grateful for that. As much close-quarters fighting as he did, hearing loss was a real concern.

      Bolan looked left then right. The bar was the best cover available. He took it at a run and vaulted over, displacing several glasses in the process. On the other side, he crouched by the body of the dead Mob bartender and waited. The sound of running feet soon reached him.

      “Hi, there!” he said, popping up. The Mob gunners rushing to the front room from the back turned at his words. He shot each of them down in turn, careful this time to sweep their legs. One of them wouldn’t take the hint. He tried to fire back from the floor, so Bolan punched another few shots into him before moving carefully out from behind the bar. This time, he used the opening at the side. The spring-loaded bar top was already open.

      “Don’t try for it,” Bolan warned the man on the floor. The thug was reaching for the .38 revolver he had dropped. At Bolan’s approach, he withdrew his hand and went back to clutching at his lower calf. A neat bullet hole, through-and-through from what Bolan could see, had gouged a hole in the flesh of the man’s leg.

      Somewhere at the back of the bar, Pierce’s shotgun barked. Bolan tensed. There were two more shots in quick succession, as fast as a man could rack the pump. Then the bar was silent.

      Bolan would need to move quickly. It would not take long for the cops to show up, even in a neighborhood like this. One gunshot could be ignored. A few would probably go unnoticed for a little while. But the twin explosions, followed by the battle inside, would bring first responders. Bolan had no desire to be anywhere near there when they showed up. He had always lived by the cardinal rule that he would not engage police officers. He was not about to start now.

      Pierce emerged from the rear hallway. He had his shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm. “All clear out back,” he said. “I tagged a couple. We gotta get out of here, Harmon.”

      “I know.” Bolan dragged the wounded man to his feet. “You know this guy?”

      “Yeah,” the Toretto gunner said with a sneer. “He knows me—”

      Pierce smashed the pistol grip of his shotgun into the man’s jaw. He reeled, and Bolan held him upright. “Shut up, punk. You don’t get to have attitude.”

      To Bolan he said, “He’s one of Toretto’s numbers boys, yeah. I’ve seen him before.”

      “What I need,” Bolan said to the bleeding thug, “is an address. The place where your bosses launder their money.”

      “I’m not telling you—” the thug started, only to have his head snapped back by another blow from Pierce’s shotgun grip.

      “I’ve got this hippie niece,” Pierce said. “She taught me about medicine bags.”

      Bolan raised an eyebrow at that.

      “A medicine bag,” Pierce went on, holding up one finger, “is this little cloth bag full of bits and pieces of things. Crystals. Stones. Herbs. Nonsense like that. Like a little bag full of useless little junk that hippies carry around their necks.”

      “Why you telling me this, man?” the thug whined.

      “Because,” Pierce said, smacking the thug in the chest with the shotgun to punctuate each phrase, “you tell us...what we want to know...or I make a medicine bag...full of your teeth.”

      The mobster managed to blubber an address through the blood in his mouth.

       4

      “This is a money-laundering operation?” Bolan asked.

      “This is it.”

      “This right here.”

      “This right here,” Pierce repeated. He put his hand to his face. Bolan realized he was struggling not to laugh. Bolan, himself, could not help but grin.

      The words “Coin Op Laundry” had been painted, many years ago, on a sign that was struggling not to fall off the ancient brick building. The street it faced was narrow even by congested Chicago standards. Trash was piled high on either side of the building, strewed in clumps across the pavement and blowing past in whirls and eddies of dust and debris kicked up by passing traffic.

      “Get your shotgun,” Bolan ordered.

      “How you want to do it?”

      “You take the back. I’ll go straight in the front.”

      “They’re loaded for hell and gone in there, Harmon,” Pierce replied. “You sure you want to just stick your junk in a hornet’s nest like that?”

      “I’ve done it before.”

      “Not here to judge you,” Pierce said.

      Bolan shot the Mob enforcer a quizzical glance before stepping out of the car. The pair went to the Lincoln’s trunk. This time Bolan selected an AK-47 knockoff and threw a MOLLE rifleman bag loaded with 30-round magazines over his shoulder.

      Pierce raised an eyebrow at the assault rifle. “Why the AK?”

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