Poison Justice

Like when throwing the light on cockroaches, they skittered underground in recent years, erecting legitimate businesses to clean dirty and blood money, sons of Dons and capos earning law and business degrees. Armed with education, and with an eye toward the future, the inheritors reached out to incorporate other homegrown gangs of thugs into their ranks, being equal opportunity employers in the new politically correct age. They dealt in wholesale shipments of narcotics from Latin America drug cartels, joined hands with other criminal organizations as far away as Moscow, reaping a big fat buck the common denominator, one for all. At present, with the insatiable hunger for weapons by terrorists that could wipe out tens of thousands, the game had grown even more deadly serious.

That, Bolan knew, was pretty much the gist of Peter Cabriano’s rise to power and present status on the bad-guy list. With his father having wasted away behind bars, a younger brother who was a criminal defense attorney, but died—irony or justice?—from a cocaine overdose, Cabriano was king of New York. And he was reaching out to some of America’s worst enemies.

Bolan had reconned the lot and surrounding block, but searched the premises again. Three gunshots, muffled slightly by the brick wall, had rung out moments ago. Assuming Big Tony Berosa had gone to judgment, Bolan watched the side door open, disgorging the Don of the day. He could have taken both Cabriano and his wheelman right then, but the Executioner had plans for the Don’s future.

Six to eight stops were mentally penciled in on the soldier’s hit list. Depending on how each situation shaped up, who gave him answers to questions that had drawn him into this mission, and provided he was blessed by good fortune—meaning he lived through the first couple of rounds—Bolan intended to net and skin some of the biggest man-eaters in a terror triangle that was, in his mind, both long in coming, and rife with apocalyptic overtones.

Feeling the weight of the mammoth .44 Magnum Desert Eagle riding on his hip, the weapon shielded from the naked eye by his long, loose-fitting black nylon windbreaker, Bolan watched the wheelman hold the door for his boss. Seconds later, the engine gunned, and the Towncar was rolling off into the night.

No problem. Bolan had Cabriano covered. Likewise, the Don’s home, pier, every business clear to his Grand Palace hotel-casino in Atlantic City was under the watchful eyes of official shadows, all of whom answered to the soldier.

Satisfied he was alone with two wise guys about to be burdened with disposal chores, Bolan checked his six. Clear down the alley, but he was mindful of roving blue-and-whites given the coming play. Inside his jacket pocket a thin wallet with credentials declared him as Special Agent Matthew Cooper of the United States Department of Justice. It would pass the smell test, but cops still didn’t like any G-man rolling into their town, shooting up bad guys and blowing up their places of business.

Worst-case, a phone call would be placed to Washington. There, Bolan’s long-time friend, Hal Brognola, could untangle any unforeseen red tape octopus. The big Fed was a high-ranking Justice official, but he also ran the nation’s ultracovert black ops agency known as Stony Man Farm. He was also liaison to the President of the United States, who green-lighted all Stony Man action. And woe be unto the lawman, lawyer or politician who needed to take a call from the White House if Bolan was not given free rein and full cooperation, with no questions asked.

Bolan didn’t have to wait long. The 1958 white Cadillac convertible with shark fins and whitewalls was bucked up against the back door to the garage. A squat bulldog he knew from Justice intel as Bruno Marino waddled through the door. The wise guy threw a look toward the lot, down the alley in both directions, then keyed open the trunk. Frank Brutaglia materialized next, cursing Marino as he lugged the tarp-covered cargo through the door in a fireman’s carry. Brutaglia was dumping the load in the trunk, both of them now grumbling and griping about who would dig the hole, when Bolan made his move. No tough guy farewell line, the Executioner rolled out of the shadows, Beretta up and chugging. The first 9 mm subsonic round cored through the back of Marino’s skull, Brutaglia yelping as he was hit in the face by blood and muck. Dead-weight was crashing into Brutaglia when Bolan slammed the next bullet between his eyes. He made quick work of putting them in their resting place, dumping them on top of Big Tony. It was a tight fit, but there was still a lot to be said about trunk space in the old classics.

The Executioner closed the lid on their coffin and leathered the Beretta. Retreating, he checked the parking lot. Before coming in, the soldier had considered fixing the fleet of fancy wheels with plastic explosives, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. This was a commercial-residential neighborhood, and no one on the block needed to pay indirectly for the crimes of these savages by finding their homes and businesses pummeled and damaged by raining debris.

Melting into the deeper shadows of the alley, Bolan determined for all enemies concerned reality was only just beginning to heat up.

JIMMY MARELLI WAS seething. The image of what the G-man had done, the blatant disrespect shown him, still burned in his mind. A change of clothes, a double Dewar’s or three, and the junior G-man kissing his ass all over the place and swearing he’d get a better TV did not calm the storm inside.

Marelli went to work on his fourth double and fired up a fresh Havana, since he’d chewed the end off the other one during a fifteen-minute tirade. As he blew his way on a thick cloud into the kitchen, he was thinking there was a time not too long ago, Fed or not, he would have beaten the G-man so bad he would have begged for death—take his mother, wife, sister, please, just stop the pain. They didn’t call him The Butcher, he thought, because he worked in a meat-packing plant.

Where had the good old days gone? he wondered, hurling open the fridge, chucking rolls of salami, prosciutto and three kinds of cheese on the counter. He hated living in the past, but couldn’t help wishing he could step back in time. Where a man’s word, his honor, was his own blood. Where a man did what he said he was going to do. Where busting heads or smoking another wise guy—execution-style or shootout—was business. Not like these punk kids today, who enjoyed inflicting pain, but only when it was safe to do so, no threat of payback. Cops, judges, politicians could still be bought, sure, but these days there was no heart in the younger generation, no pride, no honor in even the handling of the easy end. Speaking of easy, they all wanted easy street, but didn’t want to risk getting their hands dirty. They wanted the glory, make their bones and all, but the idea of being a bullet-eater—a survivor who could wear the wounds proud—had about as much appeal to them as rap music to a hillbilly.

Where, oh, where had the days of honor gone?

He knew. They died with the real Don. A bunch of punks who were more show than go had been weaseled into the crew by the kid. No dummy, Marelli saw the future. He was a frightening dinosaur to this new breed, still feared and respected maybe, but things had changed. And when the Old Man died he knew it was time to get out, before one of the youngbloods got popped by the Feds and he found himself filling the Don’s cell. Or some psycho punk with no honor and looking to make a name for himself, walked up behind him and shot him in the head.

Go west then, he’d decided. And he wanted to believe it had been a chance meeting in Vegas. However, the spook knew the kid was looking to go international with guys that would make the World Trade Center suicide bombers look tame and sane by comparison. He and Berosa had decided it was time to think about retirement. A talk ensued, a deal was struck and the kid took the bait. Problem was, the Feds seemed to know about the spook deal even before it happened. Come to find out the kid had been looking to engineer just such a deal with the Colombians and their new Mideast pals. That’s when, Marelli thought, he’d seen the end coming, sure a blade was poised to plunge between his shoulder blades, the whole deal falling into place too easy, and he never trusted easy. Pretty slick, then, putting every shred of detail about the Cabriano Family’s business, A to Z, including the spook angle on disk, and shipping it off where, if needed, it could prove his own life raft if the whole goddamned immunity deal sank like the Titanic.

Muttering a stream of profanity, he began conjuring up ways to get back at the G-man for the insult. Food, like Scotch, cocaine or getting a backroom hummer from one of the girls at the club, normally helped ease the tension, crystalize his thoughts. A fat sub wasn’t going to cut it. First he went to work on the half-empty pot of marinara. Setting another pot on the stove, turning the flame on low, he emptied the marinara into the new pan. To think he’d been cooking for these assholes galled him. Fuck ’em. If they insisted and pleaded for his linguini and white clams, however, he’d reconsider, only next time he’d flavor the sauce with some less appetizing ingredients.

He tossed the empty pot into the sink and grinned at the clattering sound that echoed through the lodge. He was taking a slab of Italian sausage out of the fridge when he found he had company. It was one of the marshals, Gravy or Groovy or something, perching himself on a stool, smack in the doorway, laying the assault rifle across his lap. Like he was making a statement: Jimmy would have to politely excuse himself in order to get past. Was this just another disrespectful asshole move, or was it something else? Marelli wondered. Did the guy want conversation? Was he boxing him in the kitchen for a reason?

Marelli washed a thick cloud of cigar smoke over the guy. Taking a butcher knife, he began chopping up sausage on the cutting board. “What?” he growled. “You wanna shoot my sauce off the stove?”

“He shouldn’t of done what he did, Jimmy. That’s just between us, okay?”

Marelli stared at the guy, didn’t trust something he read in the eyes. He’d been around the block too many times to buy into whatever the guy was selling. No matter how much he gave them, he knew he was still just a murdering scumbag to these guys, smart enough to know all about lines in the sand. He turned and dumped sausage into the pot, turning the flame a little higher. Why were the hairs on the back of his neck rising? Something felt all wrong.

“We’ll get you a new TV.”

“How about a VCR with that shake?”

Groovy nodded. “That can be arranged.”

Marelli grunted, took the knife and sliced open a sub roll.

“Hey, that smells pretty good, Jimmy, whatever you’re cooking.”

Marelli snorted. “Tellin’ me you want some?”

“If you think you can spare a plate.”

“I’ll see what I got.”

THE CABRIANO GENTLEMAN’S club was called the Fireball. For Bolan’s intent and purpose it couldn’t have been more aptly named. Unlike Big Tony’s, the beauty of it was that the building sat alone. Bolan briefly wondered how many city officials were greased to give the immediate area an urban facelift, meaning plenty of elbow room from the Fireball to other establishments.

According to Justice intel, a fair amount of dirty money passed through the back room for the daily count of proceeds from drugs, extortion and local bookies paying their tribute. Agent who had the strip joint under surveillance, inside and out, figured four to six playboy hoods had enticed the girls for some after-hours celebration. The big spenders were enjoying a few hours away from the wife and kids.

The Executioner was moving, north by northwest, ready to veer due west after this stop to the Don’s pier on the East River. That’s where the big money was counted, but Bolan figured to help himself to a nice war chest at the Fireball before raiding the bank by the water. Take the Mob’s money, and more often than not that slammed them with far more impact than blowing away a few street soldiers. After getting a sitrep from his agents, Bolan knew Cabriano was making a pit stop of his own in Cobble Hill, mixing pleasure with the mistress before proceeding to the warehouse on the pier.

Time enough for Bolan to light another fire.

An HK MP-5 with attached sound suppressor hung from one shoulder and a nylon sack dangled from the other side as Bolan rolled out of the alley, Beretta at the ready. He would have picked the lock on the back-door exit to breach the way, but found a wise guy had practically opened the gate for him.

The beefy slab was jangling around about five pounds of gold chains, giving instructions to the girl as he put his hand on the top of her head. It would have been better for him if he’d taken her to some bushes or used a back seat. Animal instinct for more than pleasure sounded the alarm in his head next, as he looked up, his lips moving at the sight of an armed voyeur marching his way.

Bolan saw the man was ready to bark his indignation about the infringement, then his eyes widened, Bolan not much caring what he saw or thought in his final act of desperation. The mobster shoved the girl away and was clawing for his .45 when Bolan tapped the trigger on his Beretta. The man went down, a dark third eye in the forehead. Bolan aimed the sound-suppressed snout at the girl. Shaking from blond mane to high-heeled pumps, she started to plead for her life.

“Do not speak to anybody about what you saw here,” Bolan said. “You never saw me.”

She bobbed her head.

“If you do, I know where you live. Go.”

She went, and the Executioner slid through the door, dragging the body in behind him. He homed in on the laughter and the rock music at the end of the corridor. Bolan stowed the Beretta and filled his hands with the MP-5. Intel had advised Bolan that the office was on the other side of the bar, which was in the middle of the room.

Bolan rolled out into the open and took in the sights on the march. Four big spenders and four party girls in all, they had the place to themselves. To his left, two men were at the far end of the bar, one playing grab ass with a brunette in a string bikini, the other with his face buried in a pile of coke. The blonde on his arm was nudging him to move over and laying on some sass. Off to Bolan’s immediate right, there was a twinkle toes, back turned, hopping from foot to foot in a drunken jig. He was waving bills at a playmate on stage, who, at Bolan’s first glance, appeared to have enough money shoved in both garter belts to balance California’s budget. Number four was the music fan, off with another brunette, fanning the pages on the jukebox, punching in favorites he’d never hear. The young hoods of the new Cabriano generation had probably never heard of Frank Sinatra, but Bolan noted they, like many who had gone before them, still preferred big .45s.

Mr. Hands was the first one to notice the party crasher, losing the girl with a shove and a shout and reaching for his weapon. Bolan responded with a 3-round burst to the chest that blew the gangster off his stool.

Mr. Selfish pulled his face out of the powder long enough to take the next brief 9 mm stream, a rising burst up the spine that pinned him to the barfront before he crumpled in a boneless heap at the feet of the blonde. The after-hours girls were screaming now, but holding their ground. Bolan figured they knew the score, having romped with their playboys long enough to know their day would come, but that they weren’t the targets.

It worked for Bolan.

Tracking on, the warrior hit Twinkle Toes in the sternum as he was digging out his gun. Twinkle Toes was airborne across the stage, gun and cash taking to the air, hammering into and bringing down the mirror when the Executioner finished Jukebox Hero. Another triple load of subsonic 9 mm rounds, this time through the ribs. The wise guy bounced off the jukebox to a spray of glass, and Bolan looked to the partition that separated the office from the games. On the march, he issued the same directive to the party girls as the one he’d encountered on the way in. They were moving out, when Bolan heard a voice he assumed belonged to Bennie Guardino, the club’s manager, cry out from hiding, “I ain’t armed! Goddammit, who are you? Whaddaya want?”

“You alone?”

“Yeah!”

“Step out, hands up.”

A skinny figure in a white silk jacket with slicked back black hair stepped into view.