Read Online MacK Bolan No. 62: Day of Mourning by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Pendleton
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black ace of spades in my wallet, soldier. Come here and take a look."
There was hesitation from the men drawing beads on Bolan.
Ace of spades.
The anonymous calling card of the Mafia's autonomous enforcement arm. The Black Aces.
The aces were a traceless crew of killers who altered their looks with plastic surgery so often to match new names that even they themselves might not remember how they began. They were the gestapo of organized crime, responsible only to the ruling
commissione
in New York. The elite unit kept undesirable hands out of the till and the rightful percentage of
commissione's
tax funneling through laundered setups like Interstate.
Mack Bolan, a master of role camouflage all the way back to Nam, had penetrated Mob defenses posing as a Black Ace before.
"You better tell me more," snarled the voice to Bolan, cautious but a little respectful.
"There's no time for bullshit, soldier," growled Bolan. He started advancing on the two men nearest him. "Check with Riappi if you've got a two-way."
Bolan paused within four feet of the two nearest men.
He held the Beretta down at his side. They stood with shotgun barrels still pointing at the center of his chest.
"Uh, maybe I'd better see that card," growled a voice from behind one of the shotguns, and Bolan knew they'd bought it.
Bolan slowly brought out his wallet with his left hand. He did not break eye contact with those he knew would be gauging his every move from behind the Remingtons. He extracted the ace of spades and extended it.
The guy to Bolan's right reached out for it. Bolan could have killed the guy then, but the odds were against him. The other soldier standing next to the spokesman had his shotgun trained on Bolan. Still another hardman would be covering this confrontation some yards away.
The man who took the card studied it, made a grunt of assent and handed the card back to Bolan. He lowered his shotgun as he did so.
"Put it down, Chuck," he instructed the man next to him. "Can't be too careful," he said to Bolan. "You know how it is."
Then the guy made a waving motion to the hardman down the line and that gunman returned his attention to the Interstate building and the parking lot.
Bolan pocketed the specially laminated card that he always carried even though the Executioner's war against the Mafia was a thing of the past.
"I know how it is. You the headcock here?"
"Yes, sir. My name's Giancola. The boys call me Pepsi."
"Riappi didn't say anything about backup?" asked the Executioner.
"No, sir, no backup. Just me and Chuck and Horse down there. Uh, sorry, sir, about drawing down on you like that."
"You did right, Pepsi. You call me Frankie."
"Uh, sure, Frankie. Thanks."
"You going to call Riappi?"
"Naw. No one knows about them black cards, sir, uh, Frankie, except the organization. Impersonating one is suicide."
Bolan nodded toward the dark Interstate office building beyond the hedge.
"The Armenians. You going to hit them when they come out?"
The headcock nodded.
"They figure to find Mr. Spinelli and his men in there in the basement cutting up the day's take like always. The guy who set us up for them is on our payroll. When these crumbs don't find nothing, they pull out. That's when we mow their asses down. But, uh, of course, now with a Black Ace sent down to handle this, uh, if you got any other ideas, Frankie?"
"I've got an idea," acknowledged Black Ace Bolan.
He raised his Beretta and blew away a chunk of Pepsi Giancola's skull.
The mob headcock was still pitching backward into the hedge when Chuck brought up his Remington pump shotgun. But he was not fast enough to stop Bolan's Beretta from tracking sideways like lightning and spitting another 9mm challenger that blasted a hole through Chuck's left nostril.
Horse, several yards away, heard the silenced chugs of the Beretta. He called out in a hoarse whisper.
"Hey, what the hell? Pepsi?"
Bolan fell away in a racing half-circle to come up behind the third
There was hesitation from the men drawing beads on Bolan.
Ace of spades.
The anonymous calling card of the Mafia's autonomous enforcement arm. The Black Aces.
The aces were a traceless crew of killers who altered their looks with plastic surgery so often to match new names that even they themselves might not remember how they began. They were the gestapo of organized crime, responsible only to the ruling
commissione
in New York. The elite unit kept undesirable hands out of the till and the rightful percentage of
commissione's
tax funneling through laundered setups like Interstate.
Mack Bolan, a master of role camouflage all the way back to Nam, had penetrated Mob defenses posing as a Black Ace before.
"You better tell me more," snarled the voice to Bolan, cautious but a little respectful.
"There's no time for bullshit, soldier," growled Bolan. He started advancing on the two men nearest him. "Check with Riappi if you've got a two-way."
Bolan paused within four feet of the two nearest men.
He held the Beretta down at his side. They stood with shotgun barrels still pointing at the center of his chest.
"Uh, maybe I'd better see that card," growled a voice from behind one of the shotguns, and Bolan knew they'd bought it.
Bolan slowly brought out his wallet with his left hand. He did not break eye contact with those he knew would be gauging his every move from behind the Remingtons. He extracted the ace of spades and extended it.
The guy to Bolan's right reached out for it. Bolan could have killed the guy then, but the odds were against him. The other soldier standing next to the spokesman had his shotgun trained on Bolan. Still another hardman would be covering this confrontation some yards away.
The man who took the card studied it, made a grunt of assent and handed the card back to Bolan. He lowered his shotgun as he did so.
"Put it down, Chuck," he instructed the man next to him. "Can't be too careful," he said to Bolan. "You know how it is."
Then the guy made a waving motion to the hardman down the line and that gunman returned his attention to the Interstate building and the parking lot.
Bolan pocketed the specially laminated card that he always carried even though the Executioner's war against the Mafia was a thing of the past.
"I know how it is. You the headcock here?"
"Yes, sir. My name's Giancola. The boys call me Pepsi."
"Riappi didn't say anything about backup?" asked the Executioner.
"No, sir, no backup. Just me and Chuck and Horse down there. Uh, sorry, sir, about drawing down on you like that."
"You did right, Pepsi. You call me Frankie."
"Uh, sure, Frankie. Thanks."
"You going to call Riappi?"
"Naw. No one knows about them black cards, sir, uh, Frankie, except the organization. Impersonating one is suicide."
Bolan nodded toward the dark Interstate office building beyond the hedge.
"The Armenians. You going to hit them when they come out?"
The headcock nodded.
"They figure to find Mr. Spinelli and his men in there in the basement cutting up the day's take like always. The guy who set us up for them is on our payroll. When these crumbs don't find nothing, they pull out. That's when we mow their asses down. But, uh, of course, now with a Black Ace sent down to handle this, uh, if you got any other ideas, Frankie?"
"I've got an idea," acknowledged Black Ace Bolan.
He raised his Beretta and blew away a chunk of Pepsi Giancola's skull.
The mob headcock was still pitching backward into the hedge when Chuck brought up his Remington pump shotgun. But he was not fast enough to stop Bolan's Beretta from tracking sideways like lightning and spitting another 9mm challenger that blasted a hole through Chuck's left nostril.
Horse, several yards away, heard the silenced chugs of the Beretta. He called out in a hoarse whisper.
"Hey, what the hell? Pepsi?"
Bolan fell away in a racing half-circle to come up behind the third
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