Death List. Don Pendleton

his life but wasn’t a member of the family itself. The syndicate has changed, Harmon. We used to believe in loyalty.”

      “Yeah,” Bolan said, unable to help himself. “It’s like a guy can’t shark loans at three hundred percent interest and then sell his clients’ daughters into prostitution to pay off their debts anymore.”

      “Hey, hey, that’s not fair,” Pierce protested. “I don’t go in for any of that crap. I don’t run girls and I don’t have a hand in any of that type of thing. It’s my job to keep the other families from killing the Corinos. I run our guns and I make sure security is tight. I’m a security specialist, Harmon, not some loan shark’s leg-breaker.”

      “It’s a dirty business,” Bolan said. “I’m not sure anyone can dip his hands in that river of blood and come up clean.”

      “Says the guy who kills people for a living,” Pierce shot back.

      “Touché.”

      “Anyway,” Pierce said, “I’m not going to be doing this forever. I’ve been saving my money. I’m gonna open up my own shop.”

      “To sell what?”

      “It’s not important,” Pierce replied. “C’mon, let’s focus on the task at hand. You know where we are?”

      “The south side.”

      “No kidding.” Piece sounded annoyed. “I remember I used to walk into the room while my old man was watching television. I’d say, ‘What you watching, Dad?’ And he’d say, ‘A movie.’ Look, Colonel Obvious, this is Toretto territory. We’re way behind enemy lines down here. Keep your eyes peeled for gun barrels pointed our way.”

      “What’s your plan?”

      “This is your show,” Pierce said. The Corinos figure you’re the guy who can bring down the Torettos where I’ve failed. Well, fine. Show me you can do it.”

      Bolan shrugged. “You don’t think we should gear up first?”

      “Trunk’s fully stocked,” Pierce said. “We’ve got everything you could ever need.”

      “You might be surprised,” Bolan replied. He paused, mulling over the situation. It was not the first time he’d had to think on his feet. “You don’t know where the Toretto headquarters is, but you know this is their territory. That means they’ve got business holdings in the area that you do know about.”

      “Right.”

      “Take us to one,” Bolan said. “Someplace where a lot of money changes hands.”

      “We know the Torettos have a laundry,” Pierce told him. “But they keep the location as secret as their headquarters. For obvious reasons.”

      “Doesn’t matter. Someplace that handles a lot of cash would have to have that cash laundered. We find the first, it leads us to the second, assuming we leave at least one person alive.”

      Pierce stared at Bolan for a long moment before turning his eyes back to the road. “What about a numbers joint? Sammy Pinch books for the Torettos out of the back of a bar on 79th. The Rose, it’s called.”

      “Numbers? There’s still money to be made with all the lotteries that offer the three-number game?” Bolan asked.

      “You’d be surprised. The payoffs are larger and a bettor can run a tab. Can’t do that with the state lottery.”

      “Okay. That’ll do.”

      “There’s always a bunch of guys guarding the place,” Pierce warned. “A couple of cars outside and plenty of triggermen inside. The Torettos don’t screw around when it comes to their cash.”

      “I’m counting on that. Just get us there.”

      “So what about you, Harmon?” Pierce asked. “You aren’t what I expected.”

      “What did you expect?”

      “I dunno,” Pierce said. “A skinny guy in a black-on-black suit and a pencil-thin mustache, constantly playing with a switchblade. Maybe a silenced pistol in a shoulder holster. That kind of jazz.”

      “Yeah, well, I don’t have a mustache.”

      “You aren’t exactly skinny, either,” Pierce said. “You’re tall, though. I’d have to get up on my own shoulders just to look you in the eye.”

      “I’ve never known a man’s height to make much difference in his ability to fight.”

      “Me, either,” Pierce said. “But you’d be surprised how many of the Corinos’ own bully-boys have tried to take a shot at me over the years. They see a short guy, they figure he goes down easy.”

      “But not you.”

      Pierce raised his right hand and made a fist. His knuckles were massive knobs. “There’s not a knuckle in this fist that hasn’t been broken,” he said. “I drove a truck over the road for eight years before I came to work for the Corinos. My shifting arm still hits like a hammer.”

      “I’ll remember that.”

      “Yeah,” Pierce said, laughing. “I bet you will.”

      It didn’t take much longer for them to reach the bar in question. Bolan surveyed the neighborhood with a practiced eye. “This place have a back door?” he asked.

      “Yeah. That alley goes all the way back to the other side.” Pierce jerked his chin in the direction of the alley.

      “Park us around back. You promised me a fully stocked trunk.”

      “Yeah, we got that,” Pierce said.

      With the Lincoln parked to block the rear entrance, Pierce popped the trunk.

      Bolan whistled in appreciation. “You do have all the toys,” he said.

      “Never leave home without ’em.”

      Packed away in the trunk were at least half a dozen submachine guns, loaded magazines and a couple of shotguns. A pair of AK-47 assault rifles had modular bags beside them that Bolan assumed contained 30-or 40-round magazines, and a bandolier of grenades. A couple of nondescript crates sat underneath the weaponry, which Pierce kept concealed beneath a black wool blanket. The Lincoln’s trunk was very deep, allowing a person to transport a great deal of cargo.

      “All this weight, it’s a wonder it doesn’t play hell with your air suspension.”

      “You know about that, eh?” Pierce said. “Yeah, it’s a pain. But I like the old girl. She has a sense of style. Show me another car that will let me haul a payload like this and still give me room to bring home groceries.”

      “Do a lot of grocery shopping, do you?”

      “It sounds better than saying I can still fold a guy up and fit him in there.”

      “I can’t argue there.”

      Pierce selected a 12-gauge Mossberg 500 shotgun. A Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment—MOLLE—pouch full of shells was part of the arsenal inside the trunk. The little Mafia operative tucked the tab of the bag into his belt, giving him fast access to reloads. He jacked the first shell into the shotgun.

      “Cover the rear door,” Bolan ordered. “I’m going to go around the front.” He selected an integrally suppressed HK MP-5, as well as several loaded 9 mm magazines clamped together in groups of two. Bolan took a canvas shoulder bag from the trunk, slung it across his chest and tucked magazines and grenades into it.

      “You sure you wanna do that?” Pierce asked. “I just got done telling you there’s always a bunch of guys in there.”

      “I like the direct approach when it’s appropriate. Anybody who comes at you who looks like a Toretto doesn’t get to leave. Anybody else is not our problem. Can you handle that?”

      “I