Death List. Don Pendleton

It was his intelligence that made the man so dangerous...and that had kept him out of the hands of law enforcement since he’d first taken to contract killing.

      Getting the details of the initial meet with the Corinos, and presenting himself as Harmon, had gone off without a hitch. According to the internet chatter intercepted by the Farm, as well as some not-so-legally sifted emails from Corino family members, the meet was to initiate the relationship between Harmon and the Corinos. He had the talent; they had the job that needed to get done. Bolan just had to walk in as Harmon, gain their confidence, and play out the role until he got the information Brognola and the Farm required. It would be relatively simple to safeguard the targets on the list after that. At least, it should have been.

      * * *

      COULD’VE, SHOULD’VE, WOULD’VE, Bolan thought as gunfire tore into the corpse he was using for a shield.

      He ran the events of the last few moments back in his mind. He had walked into the restaurant at the appointed time for the meeting. Immediately, a couple of thick-necked Corino leg-breakers had approached him. They had traded meaningless greetings as he’d reached out to shake the lead thug’s hand. Then the gunfire had started.

      From his vantage on the bloodstained carpet, Bolan could see three men at the south entrance. The restaurant was raised from street level, which meant those entering from the south, off the street, had to traverse a half flight of stairs to get to the main dining floor. The gunmen were using the stairwell as cover, spraying the dining area with automatic weapons fire. Bolan could not make out all of the weapons used, but at least one of them was a MAC-10 machine pistol with a large suppressor. The muffled clap of the weapon was unmistakable, as was its thick, black muzzle. Bolan was, without a doubt, outgunned.

      Not that it would make a difference.

      Bracing his arms against the back of the dead man, Bolan extended both of Vincent Harmon’s Berettas. The pistols, despite their gaudy handles, were finely tuned and well maintained. Harmon was evidently a man who understood good gear, if not good taste.

      In Bolan’s pocket was an expensive OTF automatic knife with a blade honed sharp enough to shave hair. That, too, had belonged to Harmon. On Bolan’s belt were Kydex holders for extra magazines. Something Harmon had not carried, but that, for matters of sheer survival, the Executioner had insisted on. It was unlikely anyone would notice or care.

      The lead gunman poked his head up again and again, trying to scope out targets. Sporadic fire erupted from the dining level as the Corinos tried to regroup. Nearby, a man was gurgling loudly. It was the second of the two button men who had braced Bolan. The wounded man would not live long, but he would be in pain for every second that he did. He had been shot multiple times, including the throat. The dark arterial blood pooling beneath him told Bolan the whole story.

      The Executioner considered sparing the dying Corino a mercy round, but fought the impulse. Mack Bolan might give the man a clean death, but Vincent Harmon would not.

      The lead gunman poked his head up once again. This time Bolan was ready. He squeezed the trigger of his right-hand Beretta, putting a 9 mm hollow-point bullet through the shooter’s left eyeball. There was a shout of alarm from another attacker, probably because the dead gunner’s partners were now coated in his blood and brains.

      Bolan wasted no time. He dropped the Beretta in his left hand, popped to one knee and snatched a pepper shaker from the nearest table. He tossed it overhand at the south stairs.

      “Grenade!” Bolan yelled.

      It was a dime-store trick in his estimation, but it worked. The remaining shooters scattered, trying to climb out of the stairwell to avoid the clattering object. They were shooting as they went, but Bolan was already prone again, well below the level of their wild spray-and-pray barrage. He punched one then two bullets through the heart of the first man. His second target was shot in the neck and jaw. The results were messy and final.

      Bolan waited patiently as the Corino hardmen expended several more shots in the direction of the south entrance. Eventually, though, they figured out that the worst was over. Silence, broken only by the moans of the dying Corino button man, descended on the room.

      The Executioner stood. He looked left then right, making eye contact with the other Corino gunners in the room. One of the older ones, probably the leader of the contingent been sent to meet him, nodded. Bolan nodded back and, gun in hand, scouted the south stairs. Among the bodies he found a fourth man still alive. Bolan kicked away the man’s weapon. It was the MAC-10 he had spotted right away.

      “Who sent you?” Bolan asked, standing over the dying man. Blood coated the shooter’s face. He stared upward, blinking and trying to talk.

      “Don’t bother,” said a voice next to Bolan. The soldier turned and sized up the newcomer. The man was shorter than the Executioner by almost a foot. He had a solid build and a bullet-shaped head that had been shaved smooth. He wore a thin goatee and a suit more expensive than anything Bolan had owned in civilian life. In his hand he held a short-barreled, Commander-length .45 automatic pistol.

      “Why’s that?” Bolan said.

      “He’s with the Torettos,” the newcomer replied. “Unfortunately he was also born with a terminal disease.”

      “What’s that?” Bolan asked.

      “It’s called being a Toretto.” The shorter man raised his .45 and put a bullet between the Toretto gunman’s eyes. Then he turned and stuck out his hand. Bolan, surprised, took it, finding the smaller man’s grip firm and confident.

      “Vincent Harmon,” Bolan said.

      “David Pierce. Son of a friend of the family,” he added.

      “If you say so.” Bolan was watching his back as the remaining Corinos began policing up the dining area and securing the other exits. The dying button man had stopped moaning. Pierce followed Bolan’s gaze.

      “That was Sammy,” he said. “He was a good kid.”

      “I’m sure he was.”

      “Neat trick you pulled with the saltshaker.”

      “Pepper,” Bolan corrected.

      “Whatever.” Pierce shrugged. “Come on. Mr. and Mrs. Corino are going to be plenty happy to hear that you saved our butts.”

      Bolan raised an eyebrow and looked around at the carnage in the dining area. “You don’t think they’ll be saddened by the loss of... Sammy...over there?”

      “I said he was a good kid,” Pierce stated. “Not irreplaceable. Besides, they’re looking to hire the best. So far, you’re not showing me anything otherwise, Harmon.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.” As Bolan holstered Vincent Harmon’s gaudy Beretta—he would have to retrieve the other gun from the floor—he reminded himself of who he was and why he was there.

      He had to play the role of Vincent Harmon, but he didn’t have to like it.

      What he would like, however, would be to take out every last one of these Corino thugs.

      “You okay?” Pierce asked. “You all of a sudden look like somebody slapped your old lady.”

      “Just thinking.”

      “About?”

      “About all the work there is to do,” said the Executioner.

       2

      Pierce, behind the wheel of a gold Lincoln Town Car whose vintage had to be late nineties, hauled the wheel over and brought the Detroit battleship yawing around a turn. He drove quickly and aggressively, but his efforts were hindered by the marshmallow air suspension of the luxury sedan.

      Bolan