Poison Justice - Don Pendleton

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say. Whatever bullshit gets you through the night, ’cause this is your last one.”

      Guardino began stuffing the money into the sack, pissing and moaning about the plunder the whole time. They really didn’t get it, Bolan thought, but he didn’t expect any other reaction.

      The soldier had reached his own conclusion about the love of money long ago. Unless a man or woman was raising children, giving to charity or feeding or educating a village, how much money was ever enough? For the savages, the answer was obvious. For honest, hard-working folks, live right, and one’s needs were always met. It was the wants that always got in the way, human nature being the one constant in life, and it always ended up with the same result.

      Ashes in the mouth.

      Bolan took and hung the sack over his shoulder, then palmed the cell phone from the desk and handed it to the hood. “You’re about to have a fire, Bennie.”

      “What are you talkin’ about, fire? I don’t smell smoke.”

      Bolan waved with the subgun for Bennie to move out. “Check your watch. Fifteen minutes, not a second before, call your boss. Tell Cabriano his problems have only just begun. Got that?”

      “Yeah, I got it. I also know you’re a walking dead man.”

      Bolan nudged Guardino in the spine with his weapon, heading him out the door. “I’ve heard that before. But here I am.”

      The Executioner took the first thermite canister from the pocket of his windbreaker, armed and lobbed it into the office. He ordered Guardino to hustle out of there, unless he wanted to get barbecued. He pulled the pin on firebomb number two and tossed it behind the bar.

      The club manager was squawking at the sight of the strewed corpses when the first explosion rocked the club. Guardino cut loose with a stream of profanity and threatening noise. A swift kick in the backside shut his mouth and got him moving for the exit. Number two blast, spewing its ravages of white phosphorous, hit Bolan’s back as he trailed Guardino into the alley.

      “Fifteen minutes, not a second before, Bennie,” Bolan warned, checking his surroundings, finding he was all clear. “I might be watching you.” The hood was ready to try to get the last word in, when the Executioner added, “That should be enough time for you to put together a story.”

      “What story? I’ll just tell him the truth.”

      “That’ll be the problem.”

      “I don’t know what your game is…”

      “Cabriano. The man’s going to want to know why five of his soldiers are dead, his club’s in a pile of ashes, his money’s gone, and you’re the only one left to tell the tale.”

      The look on Guardino’s face told Bolan that he finally got it.

      The Executioner left him standing there to ponder his future.

      3

      Peter Cabriano was in no mood for the bookkeeper’s number-crunching routine much less wanting to hear the bottom line on what he owed the government. This was no time to give away the first crumb of the fruits of his labor—inherited or not—to those who could never walk in his shoes. Anybody not in his camp could go straight to hell.

      The Don was in the upstairs office, watching his crew below on the warehouse floor as they loaded the plastic-wrapped bundles of currency on pallets. Working on a Scotch and Marlboro, he was in hope, albeit dim, the alcohol, smoke and sight of the month’s offshore haul—slated for steel containers to be settled in the belly of the Colombian freighter, El Diablo—would smooth out the edges of his raw nerves. Fat chance any indulgence would work. The night was not shaping up to be a stellar success. On all fronts he was feeling burdened by impending disaster. An indefinable ghost of death and destruction was out there. Some bad players were circling like sharks, smelling blood.

      His blood.

      He knew it paid to be paranoid when a man was sitting on top of the world. The problem with being a winner was obvious, he thought. Between jealous rivals, the Feds—even his own shrill, nagging wife—there was always someone ready to chop him off at the ankles. All being king of the mountain meant was that it was a long, hard tumble to the bottom. And if he fell there would be no one there to help him stand.

      Take Pauline, for starters, he thought. No matter how much money, how much jewelry, how many condos, how many vacations to the world’s paradise hot spots he took her, it was never enough. All the high hard ones he drove her didn’t count for much anymore either, not when she was braying all the time these days for something more permanent and long-term, as in life. Pretty much par for the course, as far as mistresses went, but lately she was getting more demanding, more contentious—more threatening. There was, however, an answer for that particular hemorrhoid, but the solution could see him splashed all over the gossip rags, the brunt of talking-head speculation for years to come, everyone waiting for the gavel to fall, the bars slamming behind him.

      Of course, at the top of the list, no question, there was the Marelli problem. And the answer to that crisis, already in the works, could see more heat, more badges, more wiretaps, more armed shadows up his ass than he already had. Next, there was his new venture with the Colombians, a road map to the future of the Family he’d drawn up just before the old man kicked off. If he had trusted them during their narcotics transactions about as much as he would sleep with a cobra, the feeling that far worse treachery now stalked him from their end was tripled, since their joint business endeavor had expanded to a whole new horizon. Toss in the government’s ongoing investigation into the Saudi partnership at the Grand Palace in Atlantic City, bring onboard intelligence operatives who gave a whole new and frightening meaning to the word spook, and he began to question both his sanity and wisdom in upping the ante to grow his kingdom into an international empire.

      Cabriano gritted his teeth when he heard the final tally of how much of the casino’s skim could actually be cleaned, as opposed to how much cash he would have to declare to Uncle Sam. Considering the present audit, or so the accountant more or less told him, it looked like he would have to pony up in the neighborhood of ten million and change to take some heat off the Grand Palace.

      “Did you hear me? Do you understand?” the accountant was asking.

      “Yeah, yeah, I heard you. The percentage you take from me, you ever have any good news, other than telling me I may end up like Al Capone?”

      “Just stating the facts, Mr. Cabriano. Now the way I see it—”

      The phone interrupted more bad news. Cabriano saw the accountant staring at the phone as if it were a land mine. Whoever was calling at that hour, he could fairly guess, wasn’t calling just to check on his emotional well-being.

      “Answer it,” Cabriano snapped, then turned his back to watch his crew wrap the first pallet with thick plastic sheeting. Figure twenty million was ready to be shipped out, and he was wondering if the Colombians would accept the fact he had the government’s cut to consider, but already knew they didn’t want to hear about his tax woes. With those guys, if one dollar was not accounted for against the last shipment, they might reconsider how trustworthy he would prove in the coming deal with their Mideast connection.

      “Who’s this?”

      Cabriano whirled at the note of panic, saw the accountant’s already pale face turn another shade of white. The phone was trembling in his hand, and his eyes bugged behind the glasses.

      “Who is it?” Cabriano barked, the guy sitting there, shaking his head, lips moving, but no sound coming out. “Gimme that!” he snarled, and snatched the phone from the accountant’s hand. “Yeah!”

      “I left Big Tony with some company. You’ll find the three of them in the trunk of the Caddie, at the lot.”

      Cabriano didn’t know the voice, but why should he? What he did recognize was the warning bells in his head that this was no social call. The voice on the other end was cold, lifeless, floating in

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