Deadly command, p.7
Deadly Command, page 7
Zader Poliokof.
Russian Mafiya.
The man who had been expecting the missing weapons.
A cold roll of fear twisted in Costanza’s stomach.
As if he understood how Costanza was feeling, Poliokof gestured toward the chair facing Gottfried’s desk. Costanza sat down.
Poliokof nodded at his pair of bodyguards as they finished disarming Costanza’s own men. Their hands were bound tightly behind them. At Poliokof’s sharp command, one of his men opened the door and took Costanza’s men out of the office, closing the door behind him.
“Don’t glare at Manny,” Poliokof said. “He had no choice when it came to calling you. He had a gun to his head at the time. It’s amazing how quickly loyalty goes out the window when the choice is limited. Manny did not want his brains blown out through the back of his skull.” Poliokof raised the heavy black pistol in his hand. It did not escape Costanza’s notice that the weapon had a suppressor attached to the muzzle. “Unfortunately the threat was only suspended temporarily. Once Manny called you it was restored.” He glanced across at Gottfried. “I forgot to tell you, Manny.”
Poliokof leveled the pistol and fired twice, the slugs coring in just above Gottfried’s left eye. His head snapped back under the impact, one of the slugs burning its way through to blow out the back of his skull, depositing bloody gore on the leather headrest of the seat as it lodged in the frame. The chair rolled back a few inches, swaying slowly as Gottfried slumped.
“Tell me, Nicky, have you been trying to avoid me?”
Poliokof, not known for his tolerance or forgiveness, raised a hand and his remaining bodyguard closed the office door. “I wouldn’t look at it favorably if I thought you were playing games.”
Costanza forced a conciliatory smile. “Hey, we’re in the middle of a deal. Why would I want to skip out?”
“Then where are my guns? I don’t see my guns. You were contracted to supply me. Oh, I remember. You lost the Miami consignment, and the ones here in Newark sort of got blown up.”
“A slight logistics problem. It’s being sorted out even as we speak,” Costanza said in a casual, too slick way. “Logistics? So is that what it is called now?” Poliokof spoke in Russian to his man. It raised a laugh.
He turned again to Costanza. “Do not treat me like an idiot, Nicky. I know what is going on. Your fucking employer is in bad trouble. Two hits already. Miami and Chicago. And now a third here in Newark. My consignment has been destroyed. Blown all over the landscape. There is no logistical problem. You took my money, and my guns have been destroyed. I want what is mine, and I want it now. If I can’t, then you have to absorb the cost. And if you can’t, then I will take it out of Cameron’s hide.”
Costanza was aware of the reputation of the various Russian Mobs. They had zero tolerance when it came to exacting satisfaction. Talk was useless, because people like Poliokof didn’t listen to excuses. There was never a compromise with them. That would imply weakness on their part, something they could not tolerate. It was strength through intimidation. By never giving an inch, the Russians maintained absolute control. Costanza sensed the slow movement of Zader’s bodyguards. The one who had left with Costanza’s men had come back into the office. The pair moved across the room to stand on either side of him. He realized he was in deep trouble.
“Mr. Poliokof, give me the chance to make this right. I’m sure I can work out something to your satisfaction.”
“You obviously don’t understand my position, Nicky. Letting me down means you have also let down my organization. We do not accept failure. If this gets out, it shows us in a bad light. Others will see and think they can treat us casually. As a businessman you must see the impossibility of letting this happen. Show weakness and the hungry dogs will go for your throat.” Poliokof stroked a hand across his smooth, shaved skull. “Under stand, Nicky, this is purely a business decision. I’m sure you have heard the phrase ‘it’s not personal.’ Well, now you can experience it yourself.”
“For Christ’s sake, Zader, this doesn’t have to happen.”
Poliokof took a step back.
A swift movement alerted Costanza to the two bodyguards moving in. He tried to push up out of his seat, but powerful hands clamped down on his wrists, pinning them to the arms of the chair. Costanza stared up into the cold, hard features of the burly man holding his arms immobile. His panicked thoughts reminded him there were two of them. Where was the second guy? He received his answer in the form of a cold, thin length of wire that was snapped around his neck.
Costanza felt the wire pull taut, sinking deep into his flesh. He tried to scream, but the garrote was already cutting into his neck, shutting off his ability to yell. Cold, slithering fear engulfed him. He struggled in vain, not realizing his actions were only helping to increase the effect. Costanza didn’t care. He wanted the cruel grip of the wire to end. He was left thrashing and kicking, only increasing his advancing death. Blood bubbled up from the where the garrote had sliced into his flesh. The bodyguard holding his wrists let go and stepped back, watching Costanza impassionately, stepping to one side so he wasn’t blocking Poliokof’s view. Costanza reached up and clawed at his bloody throat. His fingers were unable to touch the wire now sunk deep into his throat. All he could do was writhe and jerk, half off the seat now, his body weight dragging the wire deeper. He gasped and flailed. His tongue protruded from his bloody, slack mouth. Costanza’s heels drummed on the floor, leaving dark streaks on the boards.
The light was starting to fade as he sank into oblivion. Costanza flopped on the loop of wire, not even aware he had wet the front of his pants as his control went. His killer gave a final tug on the wire, then released his grip and Costanza’s flaccid body slumped to the floor. He half rolled onto his side, his left arm making spasmodic movements for a few seconds.
Poliokof stared down at the corpse. He prodded it with the toe of one expensive shoe, as if convincing himself Costanza was really dead. He bent and felt through the dead man’s pockets until he found his cell phone. He proceeded to take a number of photographs of Costanza and Gottfried. He checked Costanza’s contact list, found the number for Cameron and sent the photos to the man.
Satisfied, he gestured for his men to leave. Following them out, and said, “Tell the boys downstairs in the parking garage to stay around in case any of Costanza’s people show up. If they do, they can join their former employer. It will increase the pressure on Cameron. And he won’t be happy when he receives the pictures I took.”
9
Bolan parked across the street from the dry-cleaning store. It was late afternoon. Dark clouds hung low over the city, and rain was starting to wet the streets. He would visit Manny Gottfried and conclude his business before he vacated Newark.
He had contacted Jack Grimaldi earlier in the day to arrange a pickup once he’d completed his deeds in New Jersey.
“Jack, are you free? I need a lift somewhere.” Bolan asked when the Stony Man pilot answered his call. “When, buddy?”
“Now,” Bolan stated.
“Tell me where you are and I’ll warm up the bird.”
“You sure you can do this? I don’t want to take you away from other business.”
“No problem. I’m between missions at the moment—lucky for you.”
Bolan laid out his needs and Grimaldi listened.
“No involvement for you apart from the ride.”
“If you say so, Sarge. But you know I’m here if you change your mind,” Grimaldi said. “It’ll take me around five hours to reach you. I know a small private strip in your neck of the woods, so you be there and we’re a go. I’ll give you a call when I hit base.”
GOTTFRIED’S DRY-CLEANING business sat between a fast-food outlet and a used-book store. At one corner of the building Bolan saw the exit for the multilevel parking garage. The way into the garage was at the opposite end. He looked the building over. Whatever it might have been in the past, the place had a decidedly down-market look to it. On the floors above the dry-cleaning business many of the windows were dark, in some instances blacked out.
It was the kind of setup a man like Costanza would use for his cash drop-off point. Over the years Bolan had come to recognize this almost classic cover, a quiet, outwardly respectable business that effectively provided cover for illegal transactions. It was a front to conceal the hub of a profitable backroom enterprise. It went back to the old Prohibition days of the Al Capone empire, when outwardly honest stores were used to hide crooked dealings. A simple, but workable ploy—hiding in plain sight.
Behind the drab frontage, Gottfried would take in cash from Costanza’s transactions and work his sleight of hand to make it disappear. Money laundering—and Bolan was not slow in seeing the irony of using a dry-cleaning business as a front—was a process criminal organizations employed universally to manipulate large sums and ease them into the financial system. Passed around, through shell companies, transferred and eventually brought back as clean money, it was part of the criminal machinery. If nothing else, organized crime employed a great deal of ingenuity when it came to protecting its illegal profits.
Bolan understood the frustration of cops like Danny Keoh and Captain Cahill. Despite their dedication and personal risk, the effort they put into a case against the Costanzas of the criminal world, there was little they could do unless evidence was irrefutable and all the legalities had been covered. Months of input could be dismissed if a single word was out of place. Bolan’s sympathy was with the cops. They might know an individual was guilty, but were powerless if they made a single, simple misstep.
Which was why Bolan stepped in to correct those anomalies. His intervention at least cleared the way for the beleaguered cops, gave them hope to carry on with their lawful work with the knowledge someone was doing something to combat evil in its purest form.
Bolan was about to enter the dragon’s den, to face whatever awaited him. In his world any confrontation tended to veer to the hostile. He touched the 93-R nestling in its holster beneath his jacket. His Tanto knife was sheathed against his left hip, pushed to the back of his belt. He was ready both physically and mentally for whatever he found.
Bolan started his engine and eased the vehicle into traffic, taking the first turn he came to. He drove until he spotted a quiet alley between buildings, rolled to a stop, cut the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. He locked the rental, turned and walked back to Gottfried’s building. As he crossed the street he saw the Closed sign on the store’s door. He turned and made his way to the parking-garage entrance and slipped inside. There was no booth. No barrier. The interior was poorly lit, most of the ceiling lights nonfunctioning. He could hear water dripping somewhere close by. Only a couple of vehicles were in view. On an impulse Bolan checked them out, especially intrigued by an expensive-looking SUV. It was a high-end vehicle, and it looked out of place in the gloomy garage. The soldier passed a hand over the hood, feeling the heat from an engine recently turned off. When he checked the interior, he noted the expensive, soft leather upholstery and the abundant electronics.
He made his way to the door, pushing through and checking out the corridor. Empty. The decor had long since lost its shine. The carpet underfoot was worn, the color faded. To Bolan’s left, stairs led to the next floor. He unbuttoned his jacket so he could access the Beretta.
A trace of unease uncoiled itself as he moved along the corridor. The silence was unnatural. The soldier was sure he was not alone—he sensed a closeness, a presence.
Bolan drew the Beretta and moved the selector switch to three-round burst. He held the weapon at his side, the barrel in-line with his thigh.
The first door he came to had Gottfried’s name on it. He tried the handle, and the door opened to his touch. Bolan looked inside. Across from him was the main door, and display window, a counter and racks holding clothing in transparent covers waiting for collection.
A shadow slipped out from behind one of the racks, crossing the floor, coming at Bolan. The slim blade of the knife in his left hand caught the light as it was thrust at its intended target. Bolan saw a hard, bony face, cold eyes. No sound. No hesitation in the guy’s moves. Just the driving force that sped him in for the kill.
That never happened.
The unseen pistol in Bolan’s hand came into play with hard-edged precision. The would-be assassin was no more than three feet from Bolan when the Beretta’s muzzle centered on his face. An expression of pure shock crossed the guy’s face in the brief instant before the 93-R’s subsonic 9 mm slugs caved it in. The three-round burst at close range collapsed the face and turned it into a bloody ruin. One of the mangled slugs cored all the way through and blew out the back of the man’s skull, leaving a mess of bone and brain fragments behind. He slumped to the floor, his body in spasm.
Bolan returned to the corridor, searching for the door that would take him through to the rear of the building and the heart of the dry-cleaning operation. Farther along he saw a pair of wide rubber doors. As he reached them, he picked up the odors of the chemicals used in the cleaning process. He peered through the transparent windows set in the upper section of the doors. His guess had been correct. Through the doors was the cleaning system, with its equipment and machinery. A winding overhead track held clothing suspended for transport. But the track was still now and the mass of machinery covering the area was silent.
Bolan crouched and eased his way through the doors, keeping to one side as he entered the process area.
No sound. No movement. Bolan proceeded with caution. He had thought the front of the shop had been deserted. He wasn’t about to make that assumption again.
He checked out the area, not moving until he was satisfied it was clear.
Two more doors stood at the far side. One was a metal roller door that would take him to the access area outside. The other was in the side wall. Bolan crossed to it in a series of quick moves, using as much cover as he could. The door stood slightly open, and through the gap the soldier saw stairs leading to the next floor. He edged the door open with the barrel of his Beretta until it touched the wall on the other side, then went through. The Executioner went up the stairs and reached the landing. To his left was a door marked Parking Garage. The door to his right was marked Storage. From the landing another flight of stairs led to another story. At the head, a door indicated access to the garage.
The door on his right, this time, led to a short corridor with a number of doors. Bolan scanned the hall. It was clear. He moved along the corridor until he reached the office marked M. Gottfried—Private.
Bolan eased up to the door and listened for a moment. Again only silence. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The office was silent.
Without movement.
But it was not unoccupied.
Death made its presence known in a scene of bloody slaughter that made even Bolan step back as he took it in.
Two bodies. One was seated in the high-backed executive chair behind a cluttered desk, dead from the twin bullet holes directly over the left eye.
The second man had not been allowed to die so easily. He was slumped on the floor. There was a lot of blood down his front from the garrote that had been used to kill him. The wire was still in place, having been drawn so deeply into the soft flesh that it had severed the main artery. Before the men had bled out, a great deal of blood had pumped from his neck. It had soaked his expensive shirt and suit. It was a violent way to die.
Bolan crouched beside the body and eased open the jacket, feeling for a wallet in the man’s pocket. He withdrew it, opened it and found a driver’s license.
The photo and description identified the man as Nicholas Costanza. Bolan glanced across at the other man. Manny Gottfried? He checked inside the guy’s coat and found a second wallet. The contents proved his guess had been correct.
Bolan stepped away from the bodies, trying to figure out what had happened.
And why.
What had he walked in on?
The killings were not random. They had been deliberate, and Bolan sensed a professional hand in the deaths. He had no doubts that Costanza would have enemies, rivals. The only question was who were they and why had they chosen this time to make a hit?
10
Bolan’s deliberations were interrupted as he picked up on voices outside the office. He moved so he could peer around the frame and saw three armed, suited men standing at the head of the stairs leading to the lower floor. They were debating something that was also holding them back from approaching the office. He figured they had found the dead guy downstairs.
To Bolan’s right was the door that led to the parking garage. It was the only way open to his escape.
Aware that the three men might push caution aside and head for the office, Bolan acted. He eased the door wide enough to get through, raised the Beretta and powered into the corridor. He fired off two three-round bursts in the general direction of the group, heard the startled yells. Return shots were fired in haste, gouging the wall, sending plaster dust across the corridor. Bolan kept moving, committed to his action. He reached the door and shouldered it open. A final shot from his pursuers thudded into the door frame inches from his head. The soldier slammed the door shut, knowing his freedom would be extremely short-lived.
The thunder of boots approaching the door and the voices shouting back and forth warned Bolan his time was running out fast. They had his scent—the hounds had taken up the chase and Bolan was the prize. The only thing they should have taken notice of was that this prize had the choice of fighting back.
The Executioner would let them chase him until he caught them. He turned and ran down the flight of concrete steps to the floor below. He had noticed there was little light, only a single fluorescent tube lighting the way down. He hit the next landing, pulled back into the shadows, waiting, and let the advance runners close the gap.
