Kill Squad. Don Pendleton

from an inside source that Harry Sherman, Conte’s chief accountant, was in trouble with his boss. Money was missing.

      After researching Sherman, Turrin asked his source to ferret out what he could about the missing money. He had no idea if Sherman would play ball but figured he had nothing to lose and a hell of a lot to gain if Sherman turned out to be the chink in the mob’s armor.

      He decided to reach out to the man.

      Las Vegas, Nevada

      INTEL HAD REVEALED that Harry Sherman stopped at the same café every morning on the way to the casino.

      The little Fed sat at the table behind him, watching and waiting for his moment. As Sherman briefly glanced away from the table, Turrin rose and, slipping a folded note beside the man’s coffee mug, walked away. He didn’t look back.

      He had to wait until Sherman contacted him. If he didn’t, then the Justice man would try another approach.

      The next morning Turrin’s cell phone rang.

      Sherman got right down to business. “Who are you?”

      “Someone who can help,” Turrin replied.

      “Help?”

      “You’re having problems with Marco Conte. He’s a dangerous man.”

      “Who says I’m having problems?”

      “Someone I know. Harry, I have good ears and I’m a listener.”

      A long pause. Turrin knew Sherman was still on the line because he could hear the background noise.

      “Do you have a solution?”

      “I do. I’ll pull you out and get you clear,” Turrin said.

      “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

      “I don’t hear either of us laughing, Harry.”

      “Before I end this call, tell me what this is about.”

      “Someone is taking a gamble, Harry, and is in the right place to do that for you.”

      “Here? In Vegas? Are you trying to get me killed or what? Jesus, if Conte even sniffs I’ve been talking to you, I’m already dead.”

      “So stay ahead of the game, Harry. Make that jump before he decides he can’t trust you any longer.”

      “This is crazy. You know who you’re talking about? Why the hell am I even still on the line?” Sherman asked.

      “Because you know what I’m saying is the truth, Harry. You’re mixed up with a bad crowd. Be honest. You handle the money for Conte. You know the kinds of things he gets involved with using the casino as a front. Do yourself a favor and get out before Conte makes a move.”

      Turrin had no doubt that beads of sweat were sliding down the sides of Sherman’s face, that his body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the weather. The voice on the phone was telling him what he already knew. His days with Conte were numbered—and those numbers were already starting to fall.

      “I’ll be at the café tomorrow, Harry. We’ll talk.” The little Fed ended the call.

      * * *

      TURRIN WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED—and relieved—when Sherman crossed the café and took his usual table. After the accountant had ordered, Turrin stood and crossed the floor to join him. The man glanced up, his face registering slight alarm.

      “I didn’t think you’d show,” Turrin said as he took the seat across from Sherman. “Good to meet you, Harry. I’m Leo.”

      Turrin waited as Sherman’s coffee and roll were delivered.

      “If you can’t help me, Leo, this could be one of my last meals.”

      “You have a cell phone on you?”

      “Don’t they provide you with one?”

      “It’s yours I want. Take it out and place it on the table.”

      Sherman complied, watching as Turrin opened the back and removed the battery and SIM card. He dropped the items into his pocket.

      Sherman stared at him.

      “Calls can be traced. You could be tracked.”

      “So now what? I make smoke signals?”

      Turrin took out a satellite phone and placed it between them on the table.

      “Use this one,” he said. “It’s clean and can’t be traced. My people can track you with the GPS that’s installed. And it has my contact number. If we get separated, you can call me.”

      Sherman didn’t touch the phone. He had a look on his face that told Turrin he was unsure.

      “Okay, so you’re here. What’s going down?”

      Sherman laid it all out, about the missing money, Sol Lemke and the deadline Conte had given him.

      “He’ll do it,” Sherman said. “Conte has a simple rule. Do it to them before they do it to you. Old school. He believes in bringing the hammer down if he sees a problem. Right now he doesn’t trust me any longer. Even if I found his missing money, the suspicion would still be there. He gave me a few days. I know I’m reaching the end of my rope here.”

      “You’re right about Conte. He’s a low-life thug, and he’ll want you dead. No two ways about it. Come on board and I can set things in motion. We relocate you somewhere safe. New identity. New name. You can rebuild your life.”

      “It sounds so easy when you say it. I have family. A sister and her kids.”

      “We’ll look after them, too. Harry, I won’t lie. This won’t be easy for you. A lot of things will change. Harry Sherman will disappear. You and your loved ones will get new identities. If you have any doubts, think of the alternative.”

      Sherman reached out, picked up the sat phone and dropped it into his pocket, knowing that “Leo” was right. He understood a man like Conte, knew the man’s capacity for revenge, retribution. The man had no conscience. His instinct was tuned toward his own survival. Nothing else mattered to him.

      “I have information you can use to nail Conte. I recently discovered it.” Sherman told Turrin what he had uncovered. “Do what you’ve promised and I’ll give it to you when I’m safe.”

      “Then let’s get out of here,” the little Fed said, pushing back his chair.

      Sherman pushed his seat back and stood. He caught his foot on the leg of his chair and stumbled slightly. It was just enough to take him out of the trajectory of the slug that missed him by inches and slammed into Turrin. The impact shoved the Justice man back, his seat toppling and taking him with it. He hit the ground hard, blood spreading across his shirt from the hole high in his chest.

      The other customers panicked as realization hit in the wake of the gunshot. They scattered, Harry Sherman among them, and two more people were hit as the shooter attempted to pin Sherman down.

      By the time the first police cruisers arrived, it was over.

       2

      In hospital and under guard, Leo Turrin was slowly recovering from surgery to remove a slug from his chest. The bullet had clipped a lung and had lodged in muscle.

      Family and friends had visited after hurried cross-country flights. Even Hal Brognola, Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, a secret antiterrorist organization based at Stony Man Farm, had shown up, then quickly departed.

      Turrin had given his evidence to the investigating team from Justice. Now, in the silence of his