Extreme Justice. Don Pendleton
her purse aside and turning toward her open window.
“Wait. How many rounds do you have left?” he asked her.
“Eight.”
“What caliber?”
Another bullet struck the Ford, making her wince as she replied, “Three-eighty.”
“Better save them for the main event,” he said. “I can’t replace them.”
Main event, she thought. Kill or be killed.
“But if they overtake us—”
“Two blocks, tops,” he promised her. “We ought to have some stretch then. See what happens.”
As if answering his comment, two more bullets whispered through the broad rear window’s vacant frame and punched holes through the windshield. Herrera was surprised that it did not collapse entirely.
With windows blown away or open, Herrera smelled the Rio Torres well before she saw it, with the docks along its southern bank. Another moment, and she saw warehouses where the merchant ships unloaded cargo seven days a week. Some also docked at night, she reasoned, but she saw no crews at work in the immediate vicinity.
What now? she wondered, startled when Matt Cooper answered her. She wasn’t aware that she had spoken.
“Now we improvise,” he said. “No rules. We need an edge of some kind, but I haven’t found it yet.”
Cooper had turned onto the waterfront. Behind them, Herrera saw the chase cars following.
Squeezing the pistol in her fist until her knuckles ached, she watched their enemies and told him, “I think we have run out of time.”
“WE HAVE THEM NOW,” Armand Casale said. The anger that had burned inside his gut during the chase was fading now, relaxing into satisfaction.
Killing was the best part, always.
“After them,” Casale ordered, settling back into his seat as his driver stepped on the gas. Off to their left, the other chase car kept pace, both engines growling in the night.
Casale didn’t know these people who had snatched his target out from underneath his very nose, killing a number of his people in the process. Given half a chance, he would’ve liked to question them at length, but something told him that they were not likely to surrender.
Fine.
Eliminating them would be the next-best thing—more satisfactory for him, in fact, than keeping them alive. Above all else, he had to carry out his main assignment and make sure Gil Favor’s mouth was shut for good.
Casale carried a submachine gun manufactured from a Ruger Mini-14 automatic rifle, designated the AC-556F. It had a folding stock, unlike the parent weapon, and could fire full-auto or in 3-round-burst mode, using a custom brake to keep the muzzle from climbing. If he needed backup with a little extra kick, the stainless-steel Colt Anaconda in a shoulder rig below Casale’s left arm ought to fit the bill.
Casale didn’t care about the men he’d lost so far that evening. They were expendable, no friends of his, and could be easily replaced. Only his duty to Antonio Romano mattered at the moment, and that duty was to guarantee that prosecutors in New York would have no traitors to support their case against the Don.
The Rio Torres waterfront appeared to be deserted at that hour, no one to disturb them or to summon the police. Casale clutched his weapon as they sped along behind the bullet-scarred sedan, wondering whether any of the shots they’d fired so far had wounded Favor.
Maybe he was dead or dying even now, huddled inside the vehicle.
Be sure. And kill the others, too.
No witnesses.
It was a rule that always served Armand Casale well.
So far, he hadn’t fired his weapon during the pursuit, but that would change as soon as they were close enough for him to reasonably guarantee a hit. He had spare magazines, along with other tools and weapons, but Casale hated wasting ammunition—hated wasting anything, in fact, except the people he was paid to waste.
And this time he was being paid quite well.
The bullet-pocked Ford was doing sixty miles per hour, based on the speedometer on Casale’s own dashboard. Granted, his vehicle was stolen, like the other chase car, but its gauges seemed to function properly.
At that speed, his intended prey would soon run out of waterfront.
As if on cue, the unknown driver whom they were pursuing hit his brakes, the taillights flaring, while he whipped the steering wheel hard to his left. Casale knew it was the left, because the Ford spun to his left, tires shrieking as the sedan made a quick one-eighty and rocked to a halt, maybe a hundred yards in front of him.
Now, what the hell…?
The old guys back in Jersey called that fancy driving a bootlegger’s turn, something from their whiskey-running days, before Casale’s parents had been born. The faceless driver had a certain style, but what he didn’t have was any hope of getting off the riverfront alive.
“Slow down,” Casale told his wheelman. “Let’s see what he’s got in mind.”
The driver slowed but didn’t stop. The other chase car took its cue from Casale’s, keeping pace.
“He wants to go down fighting,” Luca offered from the backseat.
The faceless driver who had let Gil Favor live on borrowed time was revving his engine now. Not going anywhere, just goosing it, the way street racers do at traffic lights sometimes.
Was it a challenge? Casale wondered. Did he want to play a game?
Let’s play a round of chicken, Casale thought. And I guarantee you I won’t flinch.
Of course, it didn’t really matter what the nameless driver wanted. Once they closed the gap a little more, Casale meant to kill the stranger and his passengers. His firing would unleash the other members of his crew, and they would turn the Ford into a giant colander.
Only a few more yards…
When they were almost there, the bullet-punctured Ford leaped forward and charged directly toward the narrow space between Casale’s stolen chase car and its mate.
“IS THIS THE MAIN EVENT?” Blanca Herrera asked.
“This is what we’ve got,” Bolan replied. “Soon as we’re close enough, unload with everything you have.”
Eight rounds, he thought. Not much, but maybe she’d get lucky.
Maybe.
“Now!”
He stamped on the accelerator and released the parking brake. Some kind of gasping, squeaking noise came from Gil Favor, lying on the rear floorboards, then Bolan lost it in the clamor of his engine and their guns.
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