Chicago Vendetta. Don Pendleton
your ass. Esparza is an experienced cop, and he might be savvy to someone following him. Don’t take any chances.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Johnny said before he disconnected and shut off his lights as he turned right to pull in behind Esparza’s car.
Buildings towered on either side of Johnny’s car. Such a place would’ve provided an opportune location for an ambush, but he had some sense that Esparza figured his little maneuver back at the intersection would’ve shaken any pursuers. Still, he wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking that Esparza didn’t have street smarts. Underestimating an opponent got people killed. It was a concept that had been driven into Johnny time and again by his big brother. Mack was a consummate professional and soldier who looked at the world with an icy stare, constantly wary and calculating every advantage. He lived life on the edge, every move tactical, and he’d paid for it dearly by sacrificing any sort of personal life or truly intimate relationships.
Johnny stopped his car and killed the engine, operating on pure instinct at this point. The private drive had continued on between a series buildings, like an alleyway, and with dusk nearly gone, it was getting difficult to clearly see what was beyond the nearest building. He peered through the windshield, and sudden movement directly ahead caused his breath to catch in his throat. It looked like Esparza in silhouette, and Johnny was betting the guy had gone inside whatever business occupied the warehouse-size building situated at the end of the alley-like drive.
The California PI reached beneath his jacket and rested his hand on the cold, reassuring butt of a SIG Sauer P320.
Johnny started at the sudden rap on the passenger window. He looked to see Hillman leaned over, his face fully staring back at him expectantly. He stabbed the power lock switch, and the detective immediately climbed inside, barely giving Johnny the chance to get his laptop off the seat.
“So what’s going on?” he asked.
“I think Esparza went inside there.”
“Did he have the satchel?”
“Couldn’t tell for sure. He was heading inside by the time I got here,” Johnny replied. “But probably.”
Hillman squinted through the windshield. “Not sure if I’m remembering correctly, but I think the building is actually an old brewery.”
“Maybe Esparza is just stopping off for a beer.”
“Doubtful.” Hillman sucked air through his teeth. “Lakea and I were talking about this some. I think Esparza is working as a bagman. But for who? That’s the question.”
“If you’re right, the ‘who’ might give you some idea how to connect the recent deaths in your department.”
Hillman nodded in agreement. “Yeah. It may even—”
“Look out!”
* * *
The shadowy forms that suddenly appeared were trouble. Lakea Rusch noted the shapes of the weapons in their hands, and she watched as the gunners rushed toward her position with obvious purpose. Esparza had led them here, and none of them had the faintest idea what the narcotics cop had become involved in. Still, it wasn’t as if she or Hillman had actually believed Esparza had been up to no good. He could’ve been doing something as simple as a favor for a friend or attending night classes. Hell, there could have been textbooks or a laptop in that satchel.
But the half-dozen approaching gunmen pretty much cinched it. Gray had been right about Esparza, and now she, her partner and the PI were up to their necks in trouble.
Rusch had kept the engine running. She put the gearshift in Reverse and stomped the accelerator, thinking she’d need to make room for Hillman and Gray to back up, as well. Instead, she watched those two idiots climb out of Gray’s sedan and rush to the rear of the vehicle to take cover. By this time, the hardmen had opened up with a full-auto burn. Their weapons produced a furious chatter as they sprayed the alley. Bullets smacked into Gray’s car or whined off the building walls and pavement of the narrow drive.
Rusch slammed on the brakes and went EVA, too, clearing her pistol from leather and drawing a bead on the closest gunman. Gray and Hillman were waving at her to get clear, both men shouting at her to leave them. Or at least that’s what she was assuming by their expressions and gestures of panic mixed with obvious frustration. Rusch then saw what appeared to be a dark stain over Hillman’s left shoulder. He’d been hit—he’d let them get the drop on him and wound up shot!
It wasn’t looking good. The fire zone seemed so heavy that neither Gray nor Hillman would’ve been able to get a clear shot, and now the gunmen seemed to realize, even as Rusch shot the first guy dead with a double-tap to the chest, that they held a clear advantage. The enemy had them outgunned, outnumbered and outflanked.
As muzzle-flashes became visible from where she stood, Rusch suddenly felt a strong hand grab her shoulder and shove her into the car.
She lost her balance, and the pistol got knocked from her wrist when it struck the center console. She turned her eyes toward the source of the shove, a curse on her lips, and found herself staring back at features that looked as if they’d been chiseled from granite. The body, all muscle and sinew, was dressed in a blacksuit, complete with a harness from which dangled a half dozen or so deadly implements of war.
“Pull up!” the stranger commanded.
Rusch chose not to argue with those ice-blue eyes that bore more authority and deadly intent than she’d ever seen in another human being.
She put the car in Drive and smoothly accelerated toward Gray and Hillman’s position. The plan seemed so obvious now that she kicked herself. They couldn’t have hoped to escape in Gray’s car, and she’d backed up like an idiot and given them no place to run.
* * *
As soon as Mack Bolan got the petite black woman inside the car and thinking correctly about the direction she should be going, he turned to the more pressing job at hand. The main weapon for his opening play was an FN FNC. The Belgium-made carbine Model 6000 was chambered to fire the 5.56 mm M193 round. It could deliver 700 rounds per minute at a muzzle velocity exceeding 3,100 feet per second.
In the hands of the Executioner, it sent a particularly lethal message, as the remaining aggressors learned all too well over the next sixty seconds.
Bolan triggered the first volley on the run as he got behind the late-model Dodge, an obvious unmarked police unit. All four rounds nearly decapitated the Executioner’s first target. The torso topped by a now-mangled head wandered drunkenly for a moment before it fell to the grimy pavement. Another gunner realized they had a new threat and tried to adjust his position while searching for cover, but Bolan beat him to it in his beeline behind the police car. The man in black came up a winner on the other side of the vehicle in time to cut a swathing burst across the gunman’s midsection. The guy screamed as the weapon flew from his hand, and he seemed to sit hard first before falling backward to his final resting place.
One of the remaining gunners spun on his heel and attempted a very undignified retreat, but it was Johnny who ended up taking him down as Rusch assisted Hillman to his feet. Three 9 mm Parabellum rounds left the younger Bolan’s P320 pistol, punching into the running man’s back. One clipped the spine, which ceased all communication to the brain as the force drove the runner into an odd tumble exacerbated by the slight downward slope of the drive.
Bolan got the last hardmen with a rising burst that stitched his enemies from crotch to sternum. Red holes drilled into their chests, and the bullets blew plum-size holes out their backs. The men staggered and twitched under the impacts before they finally crumpled to the ground.
“Don’t know who the hell you are, mister,” Hillman said moments later as Rusch eased him into the passenger seat. “But we owe you one.”
Bolan nodded grimly, then looked at Rusch. “Hurry. He’s losing blood.”
She sized him up warily but did as