Read Online MacK Bolan No. 62: Day of Mourning by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
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mobster.
The Executioner materialized out of the shadows behind Horse. His left arm went under the hardguy's throat and yanked him back.
Horse dropped his shotgun.
Bolan smashed the butt of his Beretta down against Horse's skull hard enough to cave in the man's head.
Bolan released the dead body and cautiously advanced toward the building. He came to a side window facing away from the parking lot.
He tapped the corner pane of the window.
The glass fell inward. Bolan reached in and unlatched the window. He raised it and climbed in, lowering it behind him. He crouched in the darkness of a room, waiting to see what the noise of the shattering glass would bring.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized he was in some kind of an office. He made out the forms of a desk and filing cabinets.
The noise brought a response from outside. Bolan heard approaching footsteps and a whispered exchange.
"Here's a broken window," a voice said close to where Bolan crouched with the Beretta, ready.
"And here's a damn sight more," an older voice said from a bit farther away. "Jesus for breakfast. Three dead guys. I wonder. Phoenix."
"You call it, Bob," the younger voice said.
"We go back out front," said the older man. "Be careful, Davey. Three dead already. Whatever way this breaks, there's going to be more blood."
"You too," said Robbins, and the footsteps padding out of Bolan's earshot.
It played clear enough to Bolan. The Mafia thought they were canceling out two Armenian strongarms most likely seeking revenge in a drug deal turned sour. The Riappi family had conned the terrorists who supported their activities with drug trafficking. The Justice Commandos of Armenian Genocide were out for blood and were supposed to walk to their deaths when they thought they were hitting a family bank.
Bolan moved out of the office, into the main corridor of the unlighted Interstate Loan Association building.
He heard whispered voices, foreign, guttural, from the end of the hallway.
Bolan flattened himself against the wall, bringing up the Beretta and flicking the 93-R to its automatic three-shot mode.
He had found Ismet Kemal and Mustafa Izmir, the terror merchants from Istanbul.
The Armenians sounded angry after finding an empty building where they had hoped to recoup their losses.
The Executioner raised the Beretta to terminate these scum.
A door latch clicked.
Kemal and Izmir ran from the building, not even aware that quiet death was so close behind them. Bolan went after them.
* * *
Bob Gridell crouched near some rhododendron bushes that he hoped offered him some cover. He had a clear view of the glass door that led to the parking lot where the Toyota sat. The CIA man held his .38 revolver in standard two-handed grip.
Gridell's rookie partner, Robbins, was in a similar stance behind some shrubbery on the other side of the door.
Gridell hoped the kid would do all right tonight.
The door swung outward without noise.
Agent Gridell saw it and tensed.
Two men rushed out of the building, walking briskly toward the car: Izmir and Kemal.
"Freeze right there," Gridell snapped from cover of darkness. "You two men. Raise your hands."
The Armenians moved away from each other to opposite sides of the Toyota.
The terrorists raised their submachine guns and opened fire. The angry chatter of automatic weapons split the night and illuminated the killzone with wild strobelike flashes.
Gridell felt an excruciating blaze of pain as he slammed into the ground. He knew that he was hit in his right leg.
"Bob!" cried the younger agent's voice with the shock of seeing Gridell go down.
Robbins materialized from the gloom off to the right, advancing cautiously but still anxious to reach his partner. The two terrorists saw him. The Armenians swung their machine guns in Robbins's direction.
From where he lay on the ground, Gridell felt the hot flashes brought on by loss of blood. He swung his .38 around to track on the two hit men.
"Dave! Fall
The Executioner materialized out of the shadows behind Horse. His left arm went under the hardguy's throat and yanked him back.
Horse dropped his shotgun.
Bolan smashed the butt of his Beretta down against Horse's skull hard enough to cave in the man's head.
Bolan released the dead body and cautiously advanced toward the building. He came to a side window facing away from the parking lot.
He tapped the corner pane of the window.
The glass fell inward. Bolan reached in and unlatched the window. He raised it and climbed in, lowering it behind him. He crouched in the darkness of a room, waiting to see what the noise of the shattering glass would bring.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized he was in some kind of an office. He made out the forms of a desk and filing cabinets.
The noise brought a response from outside. Bolan heard approaching footsteps and a whispered exchange.
"Here's a broken window," a voice said close to where Bolan crouched with the Beretta, ready.
"And here's a damn sight more," an older voice said from a bit farther away. "Jesus for breakfast. Three dead guys. I wonder. Phoenix."
"You call it, Bob," the younger voice said.
"We go back out front," said the older man. "Be careful, Davey. Three dead already. Whatever way this breaks, there's going to be more blood."
"You too," said Robbins, and the footsteps padding out of Bolan's earshot.
It played clear enough to Bolan. The Mafia thought they were canceling out two Armenian strongarms most likely seeking revenge in a drug deal turned sour. The Riappi family had conned the terrorists who supported their activities with drug trafficking. The Justice Commandos of Armenian Genocide were out for blood and were supposed to walk to their deaths when they thought they were hitting a family bank.
Bolan moved out of the office, into the main corridor of the unlighted Interstate Loan Association building.
He heard whispered voices, foreign, guttural, from the end of the hallway.
Bolan flattened himself against the wall, bringing up the Beretta and flicking the 93-R to its automatic three-shot mode.
He had found Ismet Kemal and Mustafa Izmir, the terror merchants from Istanbul.
The Armenians sounded angry after finding an empty building where they had hoped to recoup their losses.
The Executioner raised the Beretta to terminate these scum.
A door latch clicked.
Kemal and Izmir ran from the building, not even aware that quiet death was so close behind them. Bolan went after them.
* * *
Bob Gridell crouched near some rhododendron bushes that he hoped offered him some cover. He had a clear view of the glass door that led to the parking lot where the Toyota sat. The CIA man held his .38 revolver in standard two-handed grip.
Gridell's rookie partner, Robbins, was in a similar stance behind some shrubbery on the other side of the door.
Gridell hoped the kid would do all right tonight.
The door swung outward without noise.
Agent Gridell saw it and tensed.
Two men rushed out of the building, walking briskly toward the car: Izmir and Kemal.
"Freeze right there," Gridell snapped from cover of darkness. "You two men. Raise your hands."
The Armenians moved away from each other to opposite sides of the Toyota.
The terrorists raised their submachine guns and opened fire. The angry chatter of automatic weapons split the night and illuminated the killzone with wild strobelike flashes.
Gridell felt an excruciating blaze of pain as he slammed into the ground. He knew that he was hit in his right leg.
"Bob!" cried the younger agent's voice with the shock of seeing Gridell go down.
Robbins materialized from the gloom off to the right, advancing cautiously but still anxious to reach his partner. The two terrorists saw him. The Armenians swung their machine guns in Robbins's direction.
From where he lay on the ground, Gridell felt the hot flashes brought on by loss of blood. He swung his .38 around to track on the two hit men.
"Dave! Fall
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