Книга - Chicago Vendetta

Chicago Vendetta
Don Pendleton


REVENGE STRIKEWithin hours, several of Chicago's finest police officers are dead in a violent killing spree. But Mack Bolan is certain these murders aren't random—or anywhere near finished. It doesn't take long for him to hone in on Shalib Grec, a terrorist smuggler whose brother died at the hands of police. Grec has vowed revenge, and only The Executioner stands in his way. Now Bolan must turn Grec’s empire against him and evade the terrorist’s expert assassins to deliver final, merciless justice.







REVENGE STRIKE

Within hours, several of Chicago’s finest police officers are dead in a violent killing spree. But Mack Bolan is certain these murders aren’t random—or anywhere near finished. It doesn’t take long for him to hone in on Shalib Grec, a terrorist smuggler whose brother died at the hands of police. Grec has vowed revenge, and only The Executioner stands in his way. Now Bolan must turn Grec’s empire against him and evade the terrorist’s expert assassins to deliver final, merciless justice.







#375 Salvador Strike

#376 Frontier Fury

#377 Desperate Cargo

#378 Death Run

#379 Deep Recon

#380 Silent Threat

#381 Killing Ground

#382 Threat Factor

#383 Raw Fury

#384 Cartel Clash

#385 Recovery Force

#386 Crucial Intercept

#387 Powder Burn

#388 Final Coup

#389 Deadly Command

#390 Toxic Terrain

#391 Enemy Agents

#392 Shadow Hunt

#393 Stand Down

#394 Trial by Fire

#395 Hazard Zone

#396 Fatal Combat

#397 Damage Radius

#398 Battle Cry

#399 Nuclear Storm

#400 Blind Justice

#401 Jungle Hunt

#402 Rebel Trade

#403 Line of Honor

#404 Final Judgment

#405 Lethal Diversion

#406 Survival Mission

#407 Throw Down

#408 Border Offensive

#409 Blood Vendetta

#410 Hostile Force

#411 Cold Fusion

#412 Night’s Reckoning

#413 Double Cross

#414 Prison Code

#415 Ivory Wave

#416 Extraction

#417 Rogue Assault

#418 Viral Siege

#419 Sleeping Dragons

#420 Rebel Blast

#421 Hard Targets

#422 Nigeria Meltdown

#423 Breakout

#424 Amazon Impunity

#425 Patriot Strike

#426 Pirate Offensive

#427 Pacific Creed

#428 Desert Impact

#429 Arctic Kill

#430 Deadly Salvage

#431 Maximum Chaos

#432 Slayground

#433 Point Blank

#434 Savage Deadlock

#435 Dragon Key

#436 Perilous Cargo

#437 Assassin’s Tripwire

#438 The Cartel Hit

#439 Blood Rites

#440 Killpath

#441 Murder Island

#442 Syrian Rescue

#443 Uncut Terror

#444 Dark Savior

#445 Final Assault

#446 Kill Squad

#447 Missile Intercept

#448 Terrorist Dispatch

#449 Combat Machines

#450 Omega Cult

#451 Fatal Prescription

#452 Death List

#453 Rogue Elements

#454 Enemies Within

#455 Chicago Vendetta


Chicago Vendetta

Don Pendleton







ISBN: 978-1-474-08509-0

Special thanks and acknowledgments are given to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.

CHICAGO VENDETTA

© 2018 Harlequin Enterprises Limited

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Worldwide Gold Eagle, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ®are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.


Mack Bolan triggered the first volley on the run as he got behind the late-model Dodge. All four rounds nearly decapitated his target. The torso, topped by a now mangled head, wandered drunkenly for a moment before crumpling to the grimy pavement.

One of the remaining targets spun on his heel and attempted an undignified retreat, but Johnny took him down. Three 9 mm Parabellum rounds left the younger Bolan’s P-320 pistol, punching into the running man’s back.

The Executioner got the last hardman with a rising burst that stitched the enemy hard case from crotch to sternum. Red holes opened up at the front and a few blew plum-sized holes out his back.

Bolan kept one eye on the entrance to the alleyway while engaging his brother with a strong handshake. He could tell Johnny wanted to throw his arms around him, and Bolan visibly fought the urge to reciprocate. The only way they could protect each other was by maintaining the anonymity of their relationship.

“Good to see you,” Johnny said with a steady grin.

“Likewise.”


The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat, and then waited for an opportunity of defeating the enemy.

—Sun Tzu

I’ve always considered the police warriors on the same side. Yet it is my duty to protect them just as they are charged to protect America’s citizens. In that, I’m utterly convinced I have done right.

—Mack Bolan, aka The Executioner







Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com¬mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.


Contents

Cover (#u11cd6704-c38a-532e-b356-1d3be780461a)

Back Cover Text (#uad902d07-c831-5bdd-86e3-3945e82e9070)

Booklist (#ubec3cf27-554e-5c23-80fe-ad001c71feea)

Title Page (#u4843970c-d38e-5f28-bada-ede37e47757a)

Copyright (#uf52d6a3d-bcc0-5963-8d27-c3a28edb77be)

Introduction (#ud54016ce-843e-5a94-ac06-bb7b3b9196dd)

Quotes (#u958d616e-ec31-5a4f-adaf-4d443e83dbba)

The Mack Bolan Legend (#ub48c6b15-4524-5027-b9ff-86192bb8bd40)

Prologue (#u12654891-f7e0-544f-a92e-565051ae45d3)

Chapter One (#u67d2d9ce-05f2-5236-bafb-0aea4a71df27)

Chapter Two (#u1805951d-efa6-53e8-9f24-7ddcd4ccd70c)

Chapter Three (#ubef2f217-22bd-5f53-9542-5bbc2237d58a)

Chapter Four (#u781d91f6-292b-5055-973f-7f0da0b93a7b)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u67dd5a6f-ff2b-5882-8ec8-6a7fe38ab8cc)

Chicago, Illinois

Sunlight cut through the unseasonably cold September morning air and melted frost off the street-side café sign. Despite the low temperature, Richard Walburn fully intended to enjoy this Labor Day holiday by having coffee and bagels at Forno Vicinato with his wife and son. Besides, they were bundled into their fall coats, and it would warm up quickly according to WGN-TV’s weather forecast the previous evening.

“Morning, Silvi,” Walburn said as he entered the café.

Silvano Marchetti returned the greeting with a broad grin. “Rich, my friend. How goes it?”

“It goes.”

Marchetti nodded toward the silhouettes of Walburn’s wife and son, who’d taken seats at a table just outside the window. “I see you brought the family today.”

“You know it,” Walburn replied. “A day off is a rare treat in my world. You take all those moments you can—”

The blast rocked through the interior of the café with such force it blew out the front windows.

Later, witnesses would say they felt the sidewalk rumble as a piece of sharp metal seemed to erupt from the storefront and decapitate Kathy Walburn. Members of the forensic team had to collect various parts of young Daniel Walburn from the rubble.

Nobody inside the Italian café survived, and it would take hours for Emergency Management officials to confirm that Detective Richard Walburn, a fourteen-year veteran of the Chicago Police Department, was among several people who had died in the blast.

* * *

That evening, Detective Sergeant Mick Brett of the warrant squad sat in his unmarked unit a block from the home of one of Chicago’s most wanted criminals. The PD’s Intelligence unit had known for some time the location of the US residence of Axel Madera, a man wanted on at least a dozen charges and most of them class A felonies. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to verify until recently that Madera even occupied the structure. Word had it he’d been lying low at some hideaway just across the US-Mexican border in Brownsville, Texas. Then an eagle-eyed TSA camera agent at McAllen Miller International had spotted Madera boarding a plane for Chicago, and the news came in to put a watch on Madera’s North Side Chicago residence.

“So, when are we going to get this show on the road?” asked Brett’s partner, Reginald “Iggy” Taylor.

“I’m still waiting for the call from Hillman.”

“What’s taking him so long?”

Brett looked at his partner with disbelief. “A holiday weekend and trying to find a judge awake at this hour?”

The cell phone buzzed for attention. Brett looked at the caller ID before answering and said, “Speak of the devil.”

“I finally got Judge Baker to sign off.”

“Took long enough.”

“I had to go to three other places before I got lucky enough to catch her at home. She said, and I quote, ‘Any chance to get this son of a bitch behind bars once and for all, I’m glad to put ink to paper.’ I’m on my way with hard copies, so go ahead and get into position. I’ll be there in less than five with the BearCat.”

“Acknowledged. We’re in position.”

Brett disconnected the call and said, “Let’s do this.”

Taylor nodded, then looked around at the deserted neighborhood street before drawing his .40 Smith & Wesson pistol. He eased the slide back partway to verify a round sat in the chamber, then put the semiautomatic weapon at half cock and engaged the safety.

Brett was out of the car and had the trunk open by the time Taylor joined him. The pair donned their bulletproof vests before each withdrew a Colt M-4 carbine. Unlike the M-4 A1, this variant only supported a safe/semiauto/3-round-burst trigger configuration. With a maximum effective range of 500 to 600 meters and chambering 5.56 mm NATO rounds, the M-4 had a muzzle velocity that exceeded 900 meters per second. It was an effective tool in a modern arsenal required to combat crime. Brett and Taylor were both fully trained and certified on the weapon as full-fledged members of the warrant squad.

As Brett closed the trunk he said, “Let’s take this bastard down once and for all.”

Taylor couldn’t resist flashing a sardonic grin. “You’re such a drama queen.”

His partner chuckled, and the two crossed the street to the sidewalk on the far side. Tall, immaculate hedges lined the walk and obscured their approach. To Brett’s surprise, they hadn’t seen any movement through the visible parts of the massive wrought iron fence surrounding the grounds of Madera’s palatial home. It annoyed the hell out of the detective when he considered Madera had the guts to live in such an affluent neighborhood. While others in this part of town were probably law-abiding citizens for the most part, and had worked to earn a nice home here, Madera had built his fortune selling drugs.

To rub salt in the wound, federal authorities had marked Madera as a person of interest in the murder of a US border patrol agent. They hadn’t gathered enough evidence to secure a conviction, but he was wanted for questioning. Brett hoped if they managed to make the arrest that the Feds wouldn’t swoop in and take charge. While murdering a federal agent was a serious crime, mere suspicion couldn’t trump the various drug-related charges accompanied by a mountain of evidence. That’s what would ultimately put Madera behind bars.

Brett and Taylor made it to the southwest corner of Madera’s property. The senior detective checked his watch, heart thudding in his ears with the surge of adrenaline. He looked down the nearby avenue, searching for the familiar shape of the armored BearCat LE. Manufactured by Lenco Industries and weighing in at almost nine tons, the BearCat could travel at highway speeds and boasted an inch of NIJ Type IV armor. CPD’s SWAT team had two of them in their fleet. Both featured running boards, battering ram, gun ports and a rotating roof hatch. The BearCat would be a formidable weapon against anything Madera could throw at them.

The vehicle passed beneath the illumination of the streetlight as it lumbered into view, its familiar lines sending a small measure of comfort through Brett’s gut. “Right on time, Hillman. Nice.”

Brett heard Taylor stir and turned to see what his friend and partner was saying, but abruptly Taylor’s reply became muffled as the big cop began to choke on his own blood, and a red hole seemed to materialize in his neck out of nowhere. Brett froze; he heard the pop emanate from somewhere, but between the broad street and vast grounds of Madera’s estate, he couldn’t really determine from where the sniper shot had originated. What he did realize, even before he saw Taylor grab at his neck and the spurts of arterial blood, was that they no longer had the advantage of surprise. Brett whirled toward his partner, intending to help his friend, who simply sat down as his lifeblood gushed from between his fingers.

Brett didn’t get far. A bullet slammed into his back, striking him squarely between the shoulders like a sledgehammer with enough force to pile drive him to the pavement. The force knocked the wind out of him, his lungs burning instantaneously as he fought the urge to pass out and stars danced in front of his eyes. Then something burned in his right buttock, and he heard the third pop; the pain grew to excruciating proportions.

Flashing lights from the approaching BearCat were the last things Sergeant Mick Brett saw.

* * *

Just before six o’clock on the following morning, Chicago Fire Engine Company 9 and Rescue Truck 3 were dispatched to a two-story house nestled among houses of similar construction along the historic West Jackson Boulevard District. Several reports had been called in regarding smoke coming from the first story.

They would later discover the home belonged to twenty-eight-year-old Kendra James, a second-shift dispatcher for the Chicago Police Department.

Firefighters entered the structure with a two-inch attack line, knocked down the blaze in the living room and adjoining kitchen, then rescue crews scoured the house. They found James in a second-story bedroom, unresponsive after having succumbed to natural gas exposure. They rushed her to the hospital but she couldn’t be revived. The young woman was pronounced dead at 0704 hours.

For 99 percent of residents, it was just another crazy twenty-four-hour period in the circle of life on the mean streets of the Windy City. But it did capture the attention of one man. Mack Bolan was convinced the events were related, that someone had gone on a killing spree to eliminate Chicago’s finest. The man known as the Executioner was determined to learn the truth about these incidents.

Whatever the cost.


Chapter One (#u67dd5a6f-ff2b-5882-8ec8-6a7fe38ab8cc)

Johnny Gray—born Johnny Bolan—shouldered his way through one of the glass doors of the Chicago PD headquarters building on Michigan Avenue.

The blustery cold of the early morning swirled in behind him, biting at his skin even through his cotton slacks. It made a striking difference from home in Southern California. When his brother called and asked for his help, Johnny dropped everything and hopped aboard the first flight to O’Hare.

Mack was convinced the recent murders of the police weren’t a coincidence. He needed Johnny to check things out on the ground. With the help of Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group—and the rest of the team at Stony Man Farm in Virginia—Mack arranged for it to look as if his brother and Detective Rich Walburn had been longtime friends. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer ace, had used his skills to fake the dossier beyond reproach, complete with photos of Johnny and Walburn together at various ages. It should get Johnny inside the cop shop, after which the rest was up to him.

Johnny welcomed the assignment. He so rarely got a chance to work in concert with his older brother—or to see him off the job for that matter—it was worth the risk.

When Mack called, Johnny knew action was in the wind.

After getting cleared through security, a desk sergeant showed Johnny to the offices of the Internal Affairs Division, which was attached to Intelligence. Within a few minutes, he found himself seated in a cramped office that was too hot and narrow because it was apparently occupied by two detectives. The magnetic plate against the side of one desk had HILLMAN, C. DET. SGT., and the other read RUSCH, L. DET. SGT. in the same block letters.

Johnny got out his laptop and began to boot it. Within ten seconds it had powered up, signed him in and begun communicating securely with a satellite tied directly to the computer uplink at Stony Man Farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Within a minute, a black man with close-cropped hair and about Johnny’s height entered the office followed by a petite female. “Mr. Gray?”

Johnny cradled his laptop in one arm as he stood and shook the man’s hand. “Johnny, please.”

“Very good. I’m Sergeant Hillman.” He jerked a thumb toward the woman and said, “This is my partner, Sergeant Rusch.”

He shook hands with the cute young black woman, whose dark eyes seemed to sparkle in the lights. She had a nice smile, more than cordial, and an electric personality that seemed almost palpable.

“My pleasure,” Johnny told her.

“Have a seat, please,” Hillman said.

When they were comfortable, Johnny said, “I appreciate you agreeing to see me on such short notice. As I explained over the phone, and in my follow-up email, Rich Walburn was a close friend. I want to help find the bastard who killed him and his family. Maybe there’s a connection to the other officers’ deaths.”

“Well, I hope you haven’t wasted a trip,” Hillman replied. “We’ve already looked at this from every angle, and we don’t see how there could be any tie to the particular incidents that came to your attention. In fact, we’ve already gone around and around with inspectors at both the Illinois State Police and the FBI.”

“Understood. But frankly, Sergeant, when you have no less than four police personnel murdered within a short period of time, you can begin to understand why it looks more than a little curious.”

“Um, who was it you said you were again?” Rusch asked.

Johnny pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “I’m a private investigator, now based in California. Rich and I grew up together. I sent Sergeant Hillman the photos of us in my email. Rich was one of my closest friends. I owe it to him to look into this. I’m extremely good at my job and can find out things others can’t. I also have powerful connections in the right places. I’d be an asset to your team.”

Rusch looked at the card, gave Johnny the once-over, then turned to Hillman. “I think we ought to read him in, Chuck.”

Hillman produce a deep sigh. “Damn it, Lakea, we talked about this—”

“He only wants to help.” Rusch slapped her hand on her desk. “Jeez, Chuck, you’re acting like he’s one of the bad guys. Rich was his friend. These bastards killed Taylor and Brett. They were our friends, damn it!”

Hillman’s voice took an edge. “I know who they were, Lakea. Mick and I joined the force together.”

“Uh, did I strike a nerve?” Johnny asked.

Hillman’s eyes had visibly reddened, and his expression gave him the persona of a man who’d been beaten down and was utterly exhausted. “You’ll have to just cut me a little slack, I’m afraid. It’s been long hours around here.” His chair creaked as Hillman leaned back in it before continuing. “I only just came over to IA. I used to be strictly Intelligence.”

“Why the transfer?”

“Happened after two of the guys on the warrant squad were killed.”

Johnny nodded and then referred to his laptop. “That would have been Sergeant Mick Brett and Detective Reggie Taylor. Correct? They were gunned down by someone with a sniper rifle, but the perpetrator was never apprehended.”

Rusch looked at Hillman, who just nodded, and said, “Chuck was on the detail that was first to arrive less than a minute after the warrant officers were gunned down.”

“They were on standby to serve a warrant I’d just had signed,” Hillman went on, “and I was riding shotgun in the BearCat. I talked to Mick just maybe a few minutes before that and told him we were on the way. He and Iggy got into position ahead of time so we could breach as soon as we showed up.”

“According to the forensics reports, both of them were wearing vests,” Johnny said. “And yet they were killed by someone firing a .308 rifle. I also understand the shooter killed both of them when it was dark, and from an estimated distance of about five hundred feet.” Johnny looked from his laptop at each of the cops in turn and shook his head. “It isn’t likely that a thug like Madera would pay for the services of someone having that kind of skill.”

Rusch frowned. “How do you know all of this? We just received that report.”

“I told you, I’m a good investigator with good sources. This was a professional job, and whoever did it knew you were coming. That much is obvious.”

“You see?” Rusch said. “I told you someone else outside the department would figure this out when they started sniffing around. This was never going to be a secret for as long as we’d hoped to keep it.”

Hillman leaned forward, elbows on knees, and leveled a stern gaze at Johnny. “I don’t like private investigators, but over the years I’ve found they can be handy at times. I’m trusting you because you were Rich’s friend. But you need to understand something before we go any further. Everything we’re about to tell you is strictly confidential. Understand?”

“You’d be pretty surprised to know some of the secrets I keep, Sergeant.” When Hillman didn’t say anything, Johnny added, “Yes, confidential...understood.”

Hillman cleared his throat. “There’s a good reason I got transferred to IA. We’ve pretty much figured out the same thing you have. The brass sent me here because they suspect someone on the inside piped the information to whoever was responsible for sniping Mick and Iggy. As for Walburn and James, their deaths occurring around the same time could not be coincidence. The guy who bombed the Italian café had to know Rich was going to be there, and Kendra James’s house fire was ruled as arson.”

“So in all those cases,” Rusch said, “the perpetrators knew these were all employees of the police department. They knew their habits and their neighborhoods, and they knew about otherwise highly confidential police operations.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Johnny conceded. “But what makes the department think it’s an insider or mole responsible?”

“The victims. As you know, Rich Walburn was a computer forensics investigator. Kendra James was a security operations dispatcher.”

“And Iggy and Mick were both on the warrant squad,” Hillman added. “All of these individuals have regular access to the same information because they all worked out of this building, so we’re convinced our mole is here.”

“And the powers that be decided to take someone who has the experience in gathering intelligence, transfer them to IA, and give the insider a boost in confidence nobody’s onto him. Or her.” He looked at Rusch. “Nothing personal.”

She inclined her head. “Fair enough. Everyone’s a suspect at this point, Mr. Gray.”

Hillman scoffed. “Lakea’s not a suspect. I’ve worked with her for years. She comes from a family of cops, and there’s no way this is in her character.”

“And obviously CPD has reason to think you’re above reproach,” Johnny observed. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have transferred you to IA and made such a show of it, to boot.”

“Smart, Gray,” Hillman replied. “You’ve a good head on your shoulders. But you don’t know shit about law enforcement in Chicago. No offense. The blue line here is solid, probably not like anywhere you else you’ve ever been. If someone inside is dirty, it won’t be easy to flush them out, and especially not for an outsider, despite whatever skills you claim to possess.”

Johnny forced a grin. “Maybe not. But I have something that might be of interest to you, something you might not yet even possess.”

“And that is?” Rusch asked, arching an eyebrow.

“A lead,” Johnny said.

* * *

Hillman and Rusch sat a vigilant post in their unmarked squad car in a darkened corner of a parking lot. One of them had an eye on the entrance to the grocery store at all times, determined not to miss their quarry. Parked close by in his rental was Gray, who was keeping his own sort of vigil, despite being told it was against policy to allow him on the team. They agreed to share information, but go their separate ways. Hillman and Rusch knew the private investigator wouldn’t listen, and his presence confirmed it.

“So what do you think?” Hillman asked as he looked out the passenger window at Gray’s car and sighed.

“About what?” Rusch replied, never taking her eyes from the store. “Gray?”

“Yeah.”

“I think...” She paused to lick her lips. “I think the guy’s truly looking out for our best interests while trying to find his friend’s killer. I’d be doing the same thing.”

Hillman looked at his partner askance. “Really? I got just the opposite sense after he told us about his lead but refused to give us any idea where the information came from. And how does he get information so fast?”

“I don’t know. It’s just something in my gut. Call it instinct.” Rusch looked over at Gray’s car, too. “He just seems like a straight shooter. There’s something kind of no-nonsense about him.”

“He’s a private dick,” Hillman replied. “Not one of us.”

“Hold up,” Rusch told him. “There he is.”

A thirtysomething Latino male in a leather jacket emerged. He had a canvas satchel in his grip, and his head moved as if mounted on a swivel. Rusch and Hillman remained still. Any sudden movement or attempt to obfuscate their positions inside the car now would just draw unwanted attention. The man didn’t appear to spot them, or if he had, he didn’t give any sign of it.

Hillman whipped out his cell phone and called Gray. When he answered, the detective said, “Even though you’re not supposed to be here, that’s our guy who just came out. Leather jacket and dark hair, climbing into that silver Toyota.”

* * *

Johnny listened carefully, then acknowledgd Hillman’s intel and disconnected.

Neither of the detectives had been eager to pursue his theory that a young decorated narcotics officer named Javier Esparza could be the mole. Johnny couldn’t blame them, as it didn’t make much sense to him, either. But the fact remained that Esparza had some pretty interesting facets to his personal life. For one thing he had a single younger sister with a checking account on which he was an authorized signer. Despite her unemployed status, Esparza’s sister managed to deposit five thousand in cash into the account every week. Esparza also drove a silver Toyota Avalon that wasn’t registered in his name. The car title was free and clear, and the corresponding insurance and sales agreement for the vehicle had been executed in the name of Omeco Industries, which had the earmarks of a shell corporation based on the data Johnny had received from Aaron Kurtzman at the Farm.

Johnny watched as Esparza climbed behind the wheel of his car and left the parking lot, then drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited to see what Hillman and Rusch would do. Finally the lights came on and their vehicle rolled forward to tail Esparza. Johnny started the engine of his vehicle and fell into line behind the detectives, keeping a distance of a few car lengths at all times. Fortunately, they were on the back side of rush hour, so there were enough vehicles in play to make a tail possible.

* * *

“So, what do you think was in the satchel?” Hillman asked.

“It certainly wasn’t groceries,” Rusch replied with a shrug. “But if I had to guess, I’d say cash. Lots of it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, too,” Hillman replied. “You know, Gray could be right and Esparza is our guy after all. But maybe he had nothing to do with what happened to Mick and Iggy. Maybe he’s just on the take.”

“Good old-fashioned dirty is better?” Rusch asked in surprise.

“I’m not saying that,” Hillman said tersely, wincing as he rubbed at his stiff neck. “But I’d rather bust the guy doing something like that than think he was responsible for the deaths of fellow police officers. Frankly, this whole thing sucks. It’s not like we don’t have enough to worry about out there. We got the damn courts and press breathing down our necks and crying brutality every time we look at a perp cross-eyed.

“Now we add the recent uptick in violence, wrongful deaths that are going both ways, while we’re out here putting our asses on the line for what amounts to shitty pay. After what happened to Mick and Iggy, I just don’t know what to think anymore, Lakea. Sometimes I wonder if it would be better to just hang it up and do something else.”

“What something else?” Rusch replied with a snort. “You love being a cop, Chuck. Don’t deny it.”

“I don’t. But don’t you ever think about a change?”

The city lights flickered in her eyes as she braked for a red light and then turned her head to meet his gaze. “I do. But then I think of all the good I’m doing, and all the times that might have gone wrong if I hadn’t just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. And I figure that’s reward enough.”

As soon as the light changed and cars began to move, Esparza abruptly crossed two lanes of traffic in the intersection to make a right-hand turn onto North Morgan Street. Several angry drivers leaned on their horns while one made a bit of a stronger gesture out the window in true Windy City fashion. There was no way for Rusch to get over, but she noticed Gray had dropped back far enough so that he could adjust.

And he did.


Chapter Two (#u67dd5a6f-ff2b-5882-8ec8-6a7fe38ab8cc)

Johnny saw the radical maneuver Esparza pulled and instantly realized Sergeant Rusch would be unable to compensate and continue the tail. However, he had ample opportunity to get over and he did—not all the drivers in Chicago were rude, and they let him ease over when he put on his signal and wave for permission to cross in front of them. As soon as Johnny got onto Morgan, his mobile phone rang and Hillman’s name came up.

Johnny couldn’t repress a smile as he answered. “I thought I might hear from you.”

“Very funny. Do you have eyes on our guy?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I think he made us. There wasn’t any other reason for him to do that.”

“Unless he was just playing it careful,” Johnny suggested.

A long pause followed that, and then Hillman said, “Okay, you may have a point. Just keep an eye on him and stay on the phone with us. We’ll get back to you. We’re two blocks down and now turning north.”

Johnny kept one eye on the signs while trying to make sure he didn’t let their quarry out of sight. He reported, “Okay, we’re continuing north and going under some tracks. He’s signaling to make a right-hand turn.”

“All right, good,” Hillman replied. “That would be Hubbard Street he’s turning onto. So he’s now going east on Hubbard.”

“Right. He’s picking up speed now and...wait a minute.” Johnny confirmed Esparza had applied the brakes and suddenly did another right-hand turn into what looked like a broad private drive more than a street.

“I’m not sure where he’s going. He’s turning right again, and he’s now going back under the tracks. It looks like some kind of business or factory.”

“I know where you’re talking about,” Hillman said. “Stay with him. We’ll be there in a few minutes. And Gray?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your ass. Esparza is an experienced cop, and he might be savvy to someone following him. Don’t take any chances.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Johnny said before he disconnected and shut off his lights as he turned right to pull in behind Esparza’s car.

Buildings towered on either side of Johnny’s car. Such a place would’ve provided an opportune location for an ambush, but he had some sense that Esparza figured his little maneuver back at the intersection would’ve shaken any pursuers. Still, he wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking that Esparza didn’t have street smarts. Underestimating an opponent got people killed. It was a concept that had been driven into Johnny time and again by his big brother. Mack was a consummate professional and soldier who looked at the world with an icy stare, constantly wary and calculating every advantage. He lived life on the edge, every move tactical, and he’d paid for it dearly by sacrificing any sort of personal life or truly intimate relationships.

Johnny stopped his car and killed the engine, operating on pure instinct at this point. The private drive had continued on between a series buildings, like an alleyway, and with dusk nearly gone, it was getting difficult to clearly see what was beyond the nearest building. He peered through the windshield, and sudden movement directly ahead caused his breath to catch in his throat. It looked like Esparza in silhouette, and Johnny was betting the guy had gone inside whatever business occupied the warehouse-size building situated at the end of the alley-like drive.

The California PI reached beneath his jacket and rested his hand on the cold, reassuring butt of a SIG Sauer P320.

Johnny started at the sudden rap on the passenger window. He looked to see Hillman leaned over, his face fully staring back at him expectantly. He stabbed the power lock switch, and the detective immediately climbed inside, barely giving Johnny the chance to get his laptop off the seat.

“So what’s going on?” he asked.

“I think Esparza went inside there.”

“Did he have the satchel?”

“Couldn’t tell for sure. He was heading inside by the time I got here,” Johnny replied. “But probably.”

Hillman squinted through the windshield. “Not sure if I’m remembering correctly, but I think the building is actually an old brewery.”

“Maybe Esparza is just stopping off for a beer.”

“Doubtful.” Hillman sucked air through his teeth. “Lakea and I were talking about this some. I think Esparza is working as a bagman. But for who? That’s the question.”

“If you’re right, the ‘who’ might give you some idea how to connect the recent deaths in your department.”

Hillman nodded in agreement. “Yeah. It may even—”

“Look out!”

* * *

The shadowy forms that suddenly appeared were trouble. Lakea Rusch noted the shapes of the weapons in their hands, and she watched as the gunners rushed toward her position with obvious purpose. Esparza had led them here, and none of them had the faintest idea what the narcotics cop had become involved in. Still, it wasn’t as if she or Hillman had actually believed Esparza had been up to no good. He could’ve been doing something as simple as a favor for a friend or attending night classes. Hell, there could have been textbooks or a laptop in that satchel.

But the half-dozen approaching gunmen pretty much cinched it. Gray had been right about Esparza, and now she, her partner and the PI were up to their necks in trouble.

Rusch had kept the engine running. She put the gearshift in Reverse and stomped the accelerator, thinking she’d need to make room for Hillman and Gray to back up, as well. Instead, she watched those two idiots climb out of Gray’s sedan and rush to the rear of the vehicle to take cover. By this time, the hardmen had opened up with a full-auto burn. Their weapons produced a furious chatter as they sprayed the alley. Bullets smacked into Gray’s car or whined off the building walls and pavement of the narrow drive.

Rusch slammed on the brakes and went EVA, too, clearing her pistol from leather and drawing a bead on the closest gunman. Gray and Hillman were waving at her to get clear, both men shouting at her to leave them. Or at least that’s what she was assuming by their expressions and gestures of panic mixed with obvious frustration. Rusch then saw what appeared to be a dark stain over Hillman’s left shoulder. He’d been hit—he’d let them get the drop on him and wound up shot!

It wasn’t looking good. The fire zone seemed so heavy that neither Gray nor Hillman would’ve been able to get a clear shot, and now the gunmen seemed to realize, even as Rusch shot the first guy dead with a double-tap to the chest, that they held a clear advantage. The enemy had them outgunned, outnumbered and outflanked.

As muzzle-flashes became visible from where she stood, Rusch suddenly felt a strong hand grab her shoulder and shove her into the car.

She lost her balance, and the pistol got knocked from her wrist when it struck the center console. She turned her eyes toward the source of the shove, a curse on her lips, and found herself staring back at features that looked as if they’d been chiseled from granite. The body, all muscle and sinew, was dressed in a blacksuit, complete with a harness from which dangled a half dozen or so deadly implements of war.

“Pull up!” the stranger commanded.

Rusch chose not to argue with those ice-blue eyes that bore more authority and deadly intent than she’d ever seen in another human being.

She put the car in Drive and smoothly accelerated toward Gray and Hillman’s position. The plan seemed so obvious now that she kicked herself. They couldn’t have hoped to escape in Gray’s car, and she’d backed up like an idiot and given them no place to run.

* * *

As soon as Mack Bolan got the petite black woman inside the car and thinking correctly about the direction she should be going, he turned to the more pressing job at hand. The main weapon for his opening play was an FN FNC. The Belgium-made carbine Model 6000 was chambered to fire the 5.56 mm M193 round. It could deliver 700 rounds per minute at a muzzle velocity exceeding 3,100 feet per second.

In the hands of the Executioner, it sent a particularly lethal message, as the remaining aggressors learned all too well over the next sixty seconds.

Bolan triggered the first volley on the run as he got behind the late-model Dodge, an obvious unmarked police unit. All four rounds nearly decapitated the Executioner’s first target. The torso topped by a now-mangled head wandered drunkenly for a moment before it fell to the grimy pavement. Another gunner realized they had a new threat and tried to adjust his position while searching for cover, but Bolan beat him to it in his beeline behind the police car. The man in black came up a winner on the other side of the vehicle in time to cut a swathing burst across the gunman’s midsection. The guy screamed as the weapon flew from his hand, and he seemed to sit hard first before falling backward to his final resting place.

One of the remaining gunners spun on his heel and attempted a very undignified retreat, but it was Johnny who ended up taking him down as Rusch assisted Hillman to his feet. Three 9 mm Parabellum rounds left the younger Bolan’s P320 pistol, punching into the running man’s back. One clipped the spine, which ceased all communication to the brain as the force drove the runner into an odd tumble exacerbated by the slight downward slope of the drive.

Bolan got the last hardmen with a rising burst that stitched his enemies from crotch to sternum. Red holes drilled into their chests, and the bullets blew plum-size holes out their backs. The men staggered and twitched under the impacts before they finally crumpled to the ground.

“Don’t know who the hell you are, mister,” Hillman said moments later as Rusch eased him into the passenger seat. “But we owe you one.”

Bolan nodded grimly, then looked at Rusch. “Hurry. He’s losing blood.”

She sized him up warily but did as instructed. Bolan kept one eye on the entrance to the alleyway while engaging his brother with a strong handshake. He could tell Johnny wanted to throw his arms around him and fought the urge to initiate a hug. The only way they could protect each other was by maintaining the anonymity of their relationship, and the only way to do that was to make it seem from any outward appearance they were passing acquaintances at best.

“Good to see you,” Johnny said with a steady grin.

“Likewise.”

“I see you got my message.”

“I did,” Bolan replied. “And I have quite a bit of new info.”

The distant wail of sirens brought the two men back to the scene at hand. Johnny said, “They’re playing your song.”

“I can’t get caught up with this right now,” Bolan said, turning on his heel. “Go with them to the hospital, and I’ll meet up with you later at the condo.”

Johnny expressed surprise. “You’re not coming with us?”

“Well, the blacksuit does stand out,” Bolan said drily. “It’s time for me to make myself scarce.” With that, the Executioner wheeled and trotted away.

Some things just never seemed to change.


Chapter Three (#u67dd5a6f-ff2b-5882-8ec8-6a7fe38ab8cc)

After medical staff took charge of Hillman, Rusch didn’t waste any time cornering Johnny in a vacant consultation room off to one corner of the ER waiting area.

“Okay, you want to explain what the hell happened back there?”

Johnny splayed his hands. “What do you mean? You were there. You saw everything I did.”

“Don’t play games with me, Gray,” Rusch said, stabbing a petite but hardened finger into Johnny’s sternum. “You know damn well what I mean. We get pinned down by a half-dozen men armed with automatic weapons. Then in jumps a stranger in black out of nowhere like Captain Commando. It’s obvious you knew him, so you’d best start talking or I’ll turn you over to my superiors and let you take your chances.”

“I’m not sure I’d mention that either of us knew him. Or even saw him for that matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s here to help us.”

“And you know this for a fact,” she said, her head bobbing in a flagrant demonstration of her disbelief.

“I do,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Rusch blew a strand of hair out of her eye and put her hands on her hips. She canted her body backward slightly and cocked her head to study him with a practiced eye. “Why should I believe you?”

Johnny knew there was no way he could tell her that Mack Bolan, the Executioner, was alive and well. That secret had to remain just that. Instead, he came up with a comfortable lie, which sometimes was true. Sort of. “He’s working with the Justice Department.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He is. But not officially. He’s more like a freelance troubleshooter, a page not in the book. Call it what you will to make the cake taste sweeter, because anything else I could say would sound trite.”

“You’re looking at trite in the rearview mirror, Johnny.”

At least she’d called him by his first name this time. “Look, if you expose him or try to hunt him down and ask him to explain himself, you’ll only be doing your team and the whole rest of the Chicago PD a severe injustice. He’s on our side, and you have to believe me.”

“But how do I know that?”

“Because all three of us are still alive and the guys who tried to ventilate us are all dead. That has to count for something.”

“Maybe he was covering.”

“For who? Listen to yourself, it doesn’t even make sense.”

“I suppose.”

“There’s something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I have to leave.”

Rusch expressed disdain. “What? You can’t just leave me here like this to fend for myself. I’m going to need a witness, and the only other person who can explain what happened out there is about to go under the knife for a bullet wound!”

“I’m sorry, Lakea. And I know it’s a shitty thing to do—a shitty thing. But I have to go meet with our man in black.”

“Even if I wanted to go along with some cockamamy story, there’s no way the department would buy it. None of us were armed-up. We couldn’t very well explain how they all wound up dead when we weren’t carrying anything but pistols. Ballistics will nail our asses to the wall.”

“Call it a rival gang war.”

“What?”

“Sure,” Johnny said, attempting to keep a dispassionate expression. “With all the violence in today’s world and all the weapons available out there, it wouldn’t be a hard sell. And especially not if you can tie Esparza into it. We followed him there and then during what we suspected was the drop, a gun battle broke out with what we assumed was a rival gang. We defended ourselves, which would explain how one of your bullets got in one of the deceased, and the rest were taken down by other as-yet-unidentified well-armed subjects.”

“They won’t buy it.”

“Maybe not in the end, but it will buy us time. And that’s something our mutual friend will need.”

“What about you?”

“They can’t prove I was with you, can they? This could be a lead just you and Hillman were following up. My name need not even come into it.”

“What about my partner? He’ll probably be under twenty-four-hour guard now, since the brass might think a buddy of one of those shooters might come calling. There’s no way we’ll be able to corroborate our stories.”

“Maybe send a note in with his nurse? Call it police business.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Johnny. I’ve already made up my mind I’m gonna trust you on this one. But under one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You deal me in on the full story, no bullshit and no withholding anything.”

“Would you settle for 99 percent?”

“No, but I suppose I don’t have much choice. My career as a cop is on the line either way at this point.”

Johnny smiled. “Then we have a deal, Lakea.”

“Uh-huh. And why does it feel like I just made it with the Devil?”

* * *

The man who stood before Lakea Rusch no longer wore the garb of battle. He’d shed the skintight blacksuit and combat boots for blue jeans and a black V-necked pullover. A leather shoulder rig supported a pistol, and nearby on an oval table lay a stainless steel .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.

The weapons didn’t impress Rusch anywhere near as much as their owner. He moved and spoke with the air of a man in complete command of himself and his surroundings. She estimated he was well over six feet, maybe two hundred pounds, or a bit more, with dark hair. His eyes were a striking blue, and they seemed to appraise everything and everyone with the deadly menace of a tiger seeking prey.

The man had seemed pretty calm and collected when Johnny first introduced them in his rented condo. But she had questions, and plenty of them, and she wasn’t going to let him sidetrack her. She’d get answers, and if she didn’t like them, if everything didn’t seem like it was straight on the up-and-up, she’d put this dude in handcuffs and haul him downtown for interrogation.

* * *

Seated on the couch in the condo, the police sergeant introduced as Lakea Rusch crossed her legs and took in the view around her before looking at Johnny. “Pretty nice place for a private investigator, Johnny.”

He shrugged. “I told you, I’m good at my job.”

“I see.” Rusch turned her attention to Mack Bolan. “And you. I suppose if I asked for your name, you’d only lie to me.”

“You can call me Blanski. Or Mike, if you prefer.”

As Bolan took a seat at the table, Rusch said, “Johnny’s told me you’re here to help us.” When met with silence, she continued, “I’m counting on the fact he’s telling me the truth. I’ve disobeyed orders and failed to follow procedure on this entire thing since you guys breezed into town. My career is on the line.”

“It’s more than your career,” Bolan said. “Your life is on the line, along with the lives of your brothers and sisters in blue.”

“How many?”

“All of them, if Grec gets his way.”

“Who?” Rusch and Johnny echoed simultaneously.

“I’ve come across—” Bolan paused a moment and looked squarely at his brother “—that is, we have come across intel that suggests the incidents you linked together, Johnny, were all the brainchild of a man named Shalib Grec. Now, I could produce a litany of crimes he has committed, but since we’ve already determined he’s likely behind the deaths of police officers, there’s no point in airing out all of his lesser offenses. Bottom line, he needs to be stopped.”

“And you’re here to stop him,” Rusch interjected.

“I am.”

“So how did you know where to find us?” Johnny asked.

“I looked for you here, first, then at the station but had been told I’d just missed you. From there, I figured a call to our friend at the Farm would give me your position.”

Johnny nodded at his aha moment. “Of course...my laptop.”

“Your laptop,” Bolan repeated.

He returned his gaze to Rusch. “Johnny’s intuition about your man Esparza was correct. I got intel on the address to where you tailed him. It’s a former brewing company.”

“I knew that,” Rusch said. “I know my own city, Blanski.”

“Well, did you know that it’s supposedly an art warehouse now? One that’s owned by a shell corporation that’s linked back to Grec? The man isn’t an art dealer or brewer. He’s a smuggler, be it weapons, or sex slaves or drugs.” Bolan paused. “Or terrorists. He’s also one of the worst of his kind. Schooled by high-value insiders from ISIL to al Qaeda. He’s a radical Islamic who doesn’t actually practice the religion, and he’s probably responsible for the murder of hundreds if not thousands of innocent people, not to mention those he sees as his enemies. I think he was working with Axel Madera and set up the ambush at the neighborhood where two of your officers on the warrant squad were killed. I also think he hired the bomber who murdered the Walburn family.”

“Okay,” Rusch said. “Suppose you’re right? What proof do you have? We can’t just haul the guy in on supposition and conjecture.”

Bolan put an edge to his voice. “I have no intention of taking him into custody.”

* * *

Detective Javier Esparza wouldn’t have believed it had he not been watching the scene unfold before his eyes.

Axel Madera hadn’t been joking when he’d bragged about the video surveillance around the former brewery the employees of the drug lord’s associate had converted into an art warehouse with a loft apartment. Of course, Esparza had cited his address of record to be the home where his sister lived, but the warehouse was where he spent most of his evenings with his various lady friends either wrapped up in parties or just with their legs around him. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be going back there. He’d escaped through a basement tunnel that led to a boarded-up store next door, and with good reason. The man he knew only as muntaqim owned that property, too.

Esparza sighed. Living what amounted to a double life could be tiring. He knew he’d have to take a bucket of shit from Madera for letting his colleagues on the other side of the line tail him. Now as he sat in Madera’s safehouse and watched the video replay, he scratched his chin while trying not to slosh his drink.

Madera paused the video at one particular point that captured the grainy faces of all four of the enemy combatants who’d gone up against Madera’s guns.

“Recognize any of them?” Madera asked.

Esparza leaned forward and set the double bourbon on the lead crystal top of the coffee table. He squinted at the screen and then withdrew his glasses. He donned them and looked again.

“Two of them. The guy there in the jacket and tie is Hillman.” When Madera only stared at him, Esparza added quickly, “A TAC sergeant who moved over to IA after you smoked Brett and Taylor outside your house.”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Madera said, although clearly agitated.

Esparza remain nonplussed as he looked back at the screen. “The woman is Hillman’s partner, Lakea Rusch. She’s also in IA, but she’s been there quite a while.”

“And the other two?”

“No idea,” Esparza said, shaking his head. He removed his glasses and put them away before grabbing his drink and leaning back on the couch. He kicked off his loafers with a sigh.

Madera looked at him for a time, and Esparza just stared absently into his glass, where the liquor made swirling patterns among the melting ice. Madera didn’t bother him. The guy was a big-time drug dealer, but just a two-bit hood in Esparza’s book. He’d taken down a dozen hoods like Madera without even breaking a sweat, a record that had earned him a detective’s shield and a permanent gig in CPD’s narcotics division for as long as he cared to stay.

The only thing that bothered Esparza was Madera’s connections to the mysterious muntaqim. The drug lord’s associate was obviously some sort of very high roller, maybe even a terrorist, and he had a hard-on for cops. He enjoyed killing them. When Esparza discovered that and saw the kind of resources at the man’s disposal, he’d opted to come over to the other side in order to keep breathing. Esparza hadn’t been involved in whatever had forced muntaqim’s hand, but he thought he knew the particular incident in question. Esparza figured the identity of a principal character killed in that incident would probably give him firsthand knowledge about the identity of muntaqim, but so far Intelligence had been keeping that information tightly under wraps.

“Since you don’t know the other two, we’ll deal with them,” Madera said. “But we’re going to rely on you to take out Hillman and Rusch.”

Esparza took a long pull of his drink before lighting a cigarette. “Not going to happen. I told you going into this that I won’t kill any cops. We had a deal.”

“My associate is altering the deal,” Madera said dangerously.

“Over my dead body.”

“That’s always an option,” another voice said, the cultured tone echoing through the high ceilings of Madera’s vast office.

From the shadows emerged a tall, thin man with dark hair flecked by white at the temples. Impeccably attired, he moved confidently. Authoritatively. Some of that was probably due to the four men who surrounded him with the practiced ease of high-priced security. The newcomer’s dark eyes bore a wicked glint, and the sunken flesh around his cheeks and chin made his cheekbones seem prominent. As the man drew closer, Esparza noticed a long, thin scar that arched over his left eyebrow and traced an irregular pattern until it dipped out of sight beneath the very angular left jaw.

The net result left Esparza with the sense he’d looked into the partially decomposed skull of a mummy.

“Mr. Esparza,” the man continued. “In addition to the considerable sum of money I’ve paid you, and the extra tangible benefits you’ve enjoyed at my sole expense, there is your family to consider. For example, your lovely sister remains under my full protection, but that can change.”

Esparza stood defiantly. “It would be unwise to threaten my family.”

“Sit down!” Madera commanded.

Esparza looked at the drug kingpin a long time before taking his seat.

The gaunt man presented a withering smile. “My reference to your sister is not intended as a threat. Rather a reminder that I’m the provider of your rather lavish lifestyle. It would take only a single phone call to certain persons within your department for all your perks to come crashing down around your ears.”

He took a seat in front of Esparza, and this second smile bore more cruelty than the first. “Now that was a fucking threat, Mr. Esparza. You see, if you’re not for me any longer, then you are against me. And I’m not a person you’d want for an enemy, believe me.”

“I don’t even know your name, friend. How could I be any threat to you?”

“Fair enough. My name is Shalib Grec and I can be, to coin an old Americanism, either your best friend or your worst nightmare.”

“What do you want?” Esparza asked after a beat.

“Much better. I want you to find Hillman and Rusch and kill them. Simple. Just kill them. You’ve killed people before.”

“I’ve killed scum.” Esparza let his eyes flick toward Madera ever so imperceptibly. Or so he thought.

“Careful, Mr. Esparza.” Grec waved casually at the drug dealer. “Mr. Madera is a valued associate, and I would not take kindly to anyone who had an issue with him. It’s probably no secret that I hate your kind.”

“You mean cops.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. But you’ve proven a useful ally in my war on the police in this city. When I’ve achieved my final objectives, I will leave here and you will neither hear from nor see me again. And the bonus is I’ll let you live to a ripe old age.”

“What guarantee do I have of that?”

“Have I given you any reason to doubt my word so far?” Grec asked, arching an eyebrow and wrinkling the scar. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Esparza, plain and simply. I’m not interested in killing you, because you are insignificant. And because Mr. Madera has told me you may be of additional use to him. So you see, we have a deal. You do as you are told, and when our mutual business is concluded, I let you live.”

Esparza downed the remainder of his drink and looked at Madera, who nodded.

“It’s true,” the drug dealer said.

Esparza looked at the video still paused on the faces of two cops he’d known for years and had, until just that moment, considered friends. “Hillman will be easy. I can find out what hospital he’s in. Rusch may be more difficult as I need to get her alone. Isolated.”

Grec stood as he replied, “I will leave the details to you. I don’t care how you do it, or where. Just that it’s done.”

“It’ll be done by tomorrow night,” Esparza replied.


Chapter Four (#u67dd5a6f-ff2b-5882-8ec8-6a7fe38ab8cc)

Mack Bolan sat behind the wheel of Johnny’s sedan and watched the front entrance of the Stratus Club. A half-dozen security types, most likely thugs employed by Axel Madera, were overseeing a line of hopeful entrants cordoned against the side of the club by a scarlet rope running through chrome uprights. Through a bit of creative hacking by Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm and based on the intel Johnny had gleaned in talking with Rusch, they’d managed to work out that this was one of Esparza’s key hangouts. After his frank conversation with Rusch, Bolan had concluded Esparza was the number one candidate for being Shalib Grec’s mole inside CPD’s ranks.

The Executioner kept his attention on the club entrance, waiting for any sign of Esparza. He’d also kept one eye on the vehicle that tailed him from the condo. He couldn’t make out the occupant, but he had a pretty good idea who it was. If Lakea Rusch was anything, it was tenacious. He admired her guts and her loyalty, but she wasn’t much for being low-key in situations like this. Then again, who could blame her? She’d been forced into her situation by events outside her control, and all she really wanted was justice for her friends.

Bolan didn’t know anything about her partner, Hillman, but he didn’t have any reason to think the guy was part of Grec’s cadre. All fingers pointed in Esparza’s direction, so that’s the play the Executioner decided to back. Not to mention Johnny and his new allies had nearly gotten their heads blown off tailing the narcotics detective. That meant something, and Bolan planned to find out what.

Just as soon as he dealt with his tail. Bolan looked toward the entrance again and checked his rearview one more time before exiting the car. He walked around front, stepped onto the sidewalk and made his way to the nearest alley. He found a position in a darkened alcove, pressed his back to the wall and produced a Benchmade 810BK Osborne Contego combat knife. At 3.98 inches, the reverse Tanto-style blade was a perfect companion for urban close quarters combat.

It spoke tales of instant death in the hands of Mack Bolan.

A shadowy figure moved past Bolan a minute later. The soldier stepped from his spot and encircled the follower with a muscular forearm while his other hand jabbed the knife tip hard against the area around the right kidney. His quarry reacted with admirable speed by driving an elbow into where his ribs would’ve been, but Bolan knew the play and had already turned his body so the blow caught the fleshy part of his lower abdomen. He executed a flexing motion that completely cut off air in the woman’s windpipe.

“This is a small sample of what could happen to those who don’t play by the rules because they don’t know the game they’re playing.”

Bolan released Lakea Rusch and pushed her away just far enough that her back kick aimed at his shin or kneecap missed. He shook his head as he folded and sheathed his knife.

“You’re an ass,” she said, her voice a bit raspy as she rubbed at her throat.

“And you seem to have a hearing problem,” Bolan replied.

“Look—”

“No, you look,” Bolan said. “I told you in no uncertain terms how this was going to play out. You should’ve trusted me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I saved your life. You know enough.”

“Yeah, but you’re not police. Even Johnny admits that much.”

“And because of that you don’t trust me,” Bolan finished.

“Right.”

“You won’t live long with that attitude.”

She cocked her head and smiled. “You talk like you know something about it.”

“I do. Look, we should be working on the same side. I’ve never considered the police my enemy, even though my methods admittedly skirt law and order.”

“Obviously,” she interjected, as she continued to rub her sore throat.

“But I also know what you’re up against, and you won’t win this fight on your own. These people are playing for keeps.”

“And who are these people?”

“Esparza for one.”

That caused Rusch to give pause. “So, you think he’s dirty?”

“After what happened in that alley, don’t you?” Bolan countered.

“I guess,” Rusch said with a sigh. “But I sure didn’t want him to be.”

“You can’t wish this away no matter how hard you try.” Bolan grimaced, hesitant to say more, but he felt it was the only way he could get Rusch to come around to thinking clearly about the situation. “And I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but what I’ve learned about Shalib Grec leads me to believe half the Chicago Police Department has a target painted on its back. The only way we can stop him from killing any more of this city’s finest is by going through Esparza to find him.”

“And you’re convinced Esparza’s here,” Rusch said, inclining her head. “At this club. Of all the places in this city.”

“I am.”

Rusch took a deep breath, sighed and studied Bolan for a time before finally nodding. “Okay, I’m willing to try this your way. What’s the plan?”

“I’m sure Esparza isn’t directly connected to a guy like Grec,” Bolan told her. “After all, Grec hates cops. My guess is that Esparza does know Axel Madera, and Madera owns this club.”





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