Target Identification!
Confirmation!
Destruction!
2
As Mack Bolan, a.k.a. Frank “Loyal” Lambretta, stepped off the Greyhound bus in downtown Boston, he knew the two men waiting under the overhang weren’t the only ones watching him.
He’d spotted the tail in seconds, and his cursory glance marked the guy as a cop. Bolan immediately settled into his role as a tough veteran of the syndicate, just out of Rikers on a manslaughter beef that was beat on a technicality by a slick-boy attorney.
The two men waiting for him weren’t hard to spot, either. They were well-dressed, but their suits didn’t quite hang on them in a normal way; their clothes hadn’t been tailored for fashion but more for practicality. Yeah, they were definitely packing heat. Then there were their stances. To any trained expert how the men watched their surroundings was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t just mere curiosity or idle interest—they were looking for trouble, plain and simple.
Bolan ignored the rain that pounded the pavement and rolled off his old Navy pea coat. The Boston weather was a refreshing change to his past two weeks in the dusty climate and mountainous terrain of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Executioner had been to Boston many times before, but it had been a while since his last visit. And every time he stepped foot in Massachusetts it brought back some haunting memories. But Bolan was concerned only with the situation at hand.
The New Islamic Front had proved itself a formidable enemy in its own right, and Nicolas Lenzini had chosen to ally his family with the NIF for reasons still unknown. That gave Bolan a two-front war to fight, and that was never a good situation for a soldier. His body still ached where he’d pushed himself to the limits of endurance fighting the terrorists and destroying their camp in Afghanistan, but Bolan shoved that from his mind as a minor annoyance. He needed to be on top of things every moment. One misstep around these guys and it would be over. They would immediately suspect something was up and then try to take him when he least expected it.
Stony Man had plenty of intelligence on Nicolas Lenzini’s operations, but they didn’t have much on the guy’s personal life, so he’d have to play any direct interaction with Lenzini by ear. That was okay. He’d played this part many times, and while Bolan never made the mistake of underestimating his enemy, he had invented the concept of role camouflage and applied in it ways no other agent who’d ever penetrated the Mob had managed. Most agents either got caught up in the lifestyle, or they just plain got caught.
“You Lambretta?” the shorter of the two men asked.
Bolan nodded. “Are you with Mr. Lenzini?”
As the guy stuck out his hand and Bolan shook it without ceremony, he replied, “Yeah, I’m Serge Grano, the house boss.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of his larger companion and added, “This is Alfonse. We just call him Ape. We’re the welcoming party.”
“I don’t think you’re the only ones,” Bolan replied, flicking his eyes to his left.
Grano turned and looked at Ape. “You know what he’s talking about?”
“Nope,” Ape replied with a shrug.
Grano looked at Bolan again. “What are you talking about?”
“You guys are being watched,” Bolan replied. “By a cop.” Grano started to look around, but Bolan immediately stopped him by adding, “Don’t look for him or he’ll run scared. I’d play cool, wait until he’s where we can deal with it.”
Grano leveled a hard stare at Bolan. “You’re just off the boat, and you think you’re calling the shots—”
“I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Grano,” Bolan replied quickly. “But the guy may be watching me, which means he’s watching you too, and I don’t want to put Mr. Lenzini in any type of a scrape. Okay?”
Grano smiled, obviously pleased by what he was hearing. Part of Bolan’s cover included stories of how he’d earned the name “Loyal.” He was supposedly fiercely dedicated to his employers.
“Sounds like you live up to your reputation,” Grano said. “I think you’re going to find that Mr. Lenzini appreciates loyalty. We all appreciate it.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m already feeling like I’m home again,” Bolan said. “Now, the only question is how you want to handle this situation, Mr. Grano.”
“You any good behind a wheel?” Grano asked.
Bolan nodded.
“All right then,” Grano said, turning to his companion. “We’ll let him drive, and we can deal with this cop.”
Bolan thought furiously. He’d hoped Grano would offer him the opportunity to take the guy out himself—make the new bull prove himself. This was no good. He’d have to act immediately, or there would be trouble.
“We go public with this,” Bolan said quickly, “we could have trouble with the cops.”
“Are you kidding?” Grano said with a chuckle, clapping Bolan on the shoulder. “We’ve got half the force in our pocket. We’d be out within the hour.”
“Maybe, but I’m not so sure we can afford that kind of attention right now. I’m still pretty hot on the list.”
Grano shook his head as he lit a cigarette and then offered one to Bolan, who declined with a shake of his head. “You got a better idea, I’m open to it,” he said.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Bolan replied. “I noticed the guy when I got off the bus. Now, if he’s here for me and I just walk away, he’s going to follow. That proves it’s me he’s interested in and I can certainly deal with him quietly. If I leave and he stays on you guys, then I’d suggest you go and I’ll cover your ass when he’s focused on you. Either way, we can meet after at some place of your choosing, with no fuss, no static. And we don’t draw unnecessary attention to ourselves.”
Grano appeared to consider Bolan’s plan for a long moment. At first, the Executioner wondered if the guy was going to go for it, but finally Grano let out a chuckle and a gust of smoke. He said, “Yeah, that sounds like a pretty good plan, Loyal. You ever been to Boston before?”
Bolan nodded.
“Good. You meet up with us at a place on Lexington and Ninth, little coffee shop there.” Grano handed him a business card that was generic and nondescript. “It’s only a few blocks from here. If you get lost, ask directions. We’ll wait for you.”
Bolan gave another nod then turned and walked purposely past the guy he’d marked as a cop. The man immediately lowered the paper he was pretending to read, turned and fell into step behind Bolan. The Executioner didn’t have to see the guy on his tail; his instincts told him he was being followed. Instinct had saved him more times than he cared to count.
The soldier led the cop from the bus station and immediately crossed the street in the direction of a department store. Despite the inclement weather, the streets were full of shoppers.
Bolan got across the sidewalk and immediately hurried into the store’s revolving glass door. He turned a hard left and slipped behind a display that didn’t expose his back to viewing from the outside but would allow him to reverse roles when his tail came through. He didn’t have long to wait.
The man entered and stopped just inside the doorway, causing a woman behind him to stop short and curse him for his unexpected move. The guy appeared to ignore her as the woman stepped around him, gave him the finger and then continued about her business. Bolan focused on his quarry. The man moved away from him and headed toward the escalator.
Bolan followed. The hunter had just become the hunted.
Amarillo, Texas
TYRA MACEWAN