Kill Squad. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
of the Bulova operation and anything that hurts Conte hurts Bulova. It seems that a recent task force investigation of Conte has made some inroads into his organization. Nothing that could stand up in court yet, but Bulova has been rattled by the interest shown in Conte’s setup. That said, once news reached Bulova that there was a significant problem within Conte’s organization, Justice intel says he sent Vitaly Danichev to monitor the situation.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” Bolan said.
“Danichev keeps people in line for Bulova. He’s got a reputation as a no-nonsense enforcer. He gets results. The hard way, according to intel reports. Never gets his own hands dirty. There’s a team of hit men who clean up any loose ends. They work under Danichev’s control.”
“Guns for hire?” Bolan asked.
Kurtzman nodded. “Unofficially they’re known as the Kill Squad.” He tapped at the slim keyboard on the table in front of him. A grainy image appeared on the large wall monitor, depicting a dark-haired man with an angular face and pale blue eyes. His hard features were clean-shaved and his expression was solemn. “These are the only pictures known to exist of the guy heading the squad and his second in command.”
Bolan studied the face and committed it to memory. He would know the guy if he encountered him.
“Do we have a name?”
“Anatole Killian. That’s all we’ve got. The other guy is Jake Fresco.”
“Not the types you’d want to meet on a dark night,” Price said. “Or even in broad daylight, for that matter.”
“Do we assume Killian was behind the attempt to kill Harry Sherman?” Bolan asked.
“We don’t know. The hit could have been set up by Conte. A sniper made the shot from a rooftop across from the café where Leo was meeting Sherman. You already know what went down. Sherman was on the verge of cooperating with Leo. He was ready to step away from the Conte organization and offer evidence that would give the task force enough to go for Marco Conte. Leo was going to give him protection.”
“But the shooter made a mess of the attempt,” Brognola said. “Hit Turrin instead of Sherman.”
“He tried to clean up by taking more shots as Sherman ran,” Kurtzman said. “He just made things worse, killing civilians, including two children.”
“I haven’t forgotten about the loss of those innocents, especially the kids,” Bolan rasped.
The deaths of the children would be in his thoughts for as long as it took to make things right. And he would. There had to be a reckoning for the indiscriminate slaughter of people who were merely collateral damage for a killer out to make a buck. Bolan would not forget those deaths.
Or the injury to Leo Turrin.
“What have you got on Sherman?” Bolan asked.
“Harry Sherman,” Kurtzman said. Another image flashed onto the monitor. “Thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. Pure and simple? A money man. He ran the accounts for Conte. Kept track of all the cash coming in and never took a wrong step until nine million dollars disappeared. We don’t have all the details, but it looks as if Sherman’s the fall guy for someone snatching the money.
“Sherman has a sister, Gwen Darrow,” Kurtzman went on. “She lives in Des Moines. She’s a lawyer with her own practice in the city. She’s a widow with two kids. Laura is in college. Carl is in the military. He’s on active service right now.”
He brought up a picture of a handsome woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. There were two more images. One of Darrow’s son, Carl, in uniform, and one of her daughter, Laura, who was an attractive, younger version of her mother.
“Good place to start looking for Sherman as any,” Bolan said.
“I’ll make travel arrangements for you,” Price advised, gathering her file and leaving the room.
“Aaron, will you download the intel you’ve gathered to my sat phone?”
“You’ll have it shortly.”
The meeting broke up after another half hour. Bolan made his way to the room he used when he was in residence at Stony Man and packed a bag. Then he dropped by the armory where he chose the weapons he’d need for the mission: a Beretta 93-R and several magazines loaded with 9 mm ammo. He also chose a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, as well as a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife and holsters for both handguns.
He liaised with Price, who set him up with his travel pack. Jack Grimaldi, the Stony Man resident pilot, would fly him to Des Moines.
“Pick up your vehicle at the airfield,” she said. “A Chevy Suburban is being delivered as we speak. Try not to return it to the rental agency full of holes.”
“That’s happened before?” Bolan asked with a grin.
“Take a look at our insurance premiums,” Price quipped and then winked.
“You ready, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.
“Let’s move out.”
As Grimaldi turned and headed for the door, Price leaned forward and kissed Bolan.
“Stay safe, soldier,” she said.
Outside Des Moines, Iowa
GRIMALDI TOUCHED DOWN at a private airstrip a few miles from the main airport. The ace pilot had contacts across the country when it came to safe landing spots. He was friendly with a large number of independent operators and those contacts came in handy when he needed an out-of-the-way place to land. Grimaldi was a sociable man, and when he made friends, those friendships tended to be strong and long-lasting. It was no secret that many of his acquaintances were of the female variety. He was the land-based version of the sailor with a girl in every port.
Bolan took his carry-all and placed it in the rear of the Suburban. He stowed his 93-R and shoulder rig in the glove compartment, within easy reach. He placed the bag holding his other weapons in the trunk.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Grimaldi said as Bolan slid behind the wheel and fired up the Suburban’s engine. “Try not to cause trouble.”
Bolan glanced up from logging Gwen Darrow’s address into the navigation system.
“Do I ever go looking for trouble, Jack?”
Grimaldi grinned. “You said that with a straight face.”
He watched as Bolan drove out of the airstrip and picked up the road for the city.
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