Chicago Vendetta

* * *

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.”