Baltimore Trackdown (3 page)

Davis wiped his prints off the cold gun with his handkerchief, then slid it thirty feet down the aisle. He mopped sweat off his forehead, ran three more aisles over, then saw a uniformed cop coming.

“Hold your fire! He got out a far window down there, all the way on the end.”

The uniformed officer found Lieutenant Paulson first, as Captain Davis had planned.

“Christ! The lieutenant is dead!” the cop said as he knelt beside the body. “Jesus! You never said...“

“Don’t just sit there!” Captain Davis roared. “Call for an ambulance! Move it!”

The cop ran down the main aisle, the fifty dollars in his pocket feeling like blood money. He’d had no idea anyone was going to die! He radioed for an ambulance and the coroner. He tried to throw up, but he could not.

An hour later people still milled around the death scene. An assistant chief, Larry Jansen, kept shaking his head. Paulson had been the chief’s fair-haired boy. Jansen had helped promote him over a dozen older men who had scored higher on the testing.

Davis watched the two cops warily, but they said exactly what they were supposed to. The suspect fled into the warehouse. They didn’t see that he was armed. They blocked off all the escape routes but one. The killer used it after shooting the officer. They had no idea why he dropped his gun. Perhaps the captain had wounded him, maybe hit his arm and the weapon fell. It was too dark in the warehouse to describe the man except by saying he appeared to be black and in his twenties.

Captain Davis sat on a box. He was visibly shaken. He did not have to fake it. He had killed before, but never a cop he had worked with, and not this way. He knew he had to do it, but he was sure he could never do it again. He had paid his damn dues! If the Mafia don wanted more from him, he would have to raise the pay scale to three thousand a week.

Chief Jansen touched the captain’s shoulder.

“Harley, take the rest of the day off. Don’t come in tomorrow, either. I know how this hurts. You’ll get over it. It’ll pass. But don’t rush it. Come on, I’ll drive you to your car.”

After he talked with Nino Tattaglia, Mack Bolan looked up the pool hall on Grand, then dialed. He talked to two flunkies before he got Wally “The Beast” Franconi on the line.

“Is this Wally Franconi?”

“Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“Recent acquaintance of yours. Remember the guy who broke your arm last night?”

Bolan waited until Franconi stopped screaming. Eventually, the flood of words and insults tapered off. When the Executioner could interrupt, he spoke sharply.

“Franconi, you’re not very well adjusted. Are you still there?”

“I’m here, you fucking bastard!”

“Good. We should get together. I figure I proved to you that you need a guy like me around.”

“Hell, no! I... hey... whaddaya mean?”

“Protection. Those goons who were with you didn’t help you much. You ain’t all that big without your rod, and like I thought, you sure as hell need some help.”

“Man, I gotta say you got guts. But even if I agree to a meet, why wouldn’t I show up with six guys bigger than you and bust both your goddamned arms?”

“You’re smart, that’s why. And so am I. Busting me up ain’t gonna make you no money. Staying alive and healthy so you can use your equipment makes you a money man. I can help you stay in action and turning the coin. Just figures.”

“I got protection. Who you with before?”

“West Coast. Got a little hot out there. Boss said take off a year. I don’t need the money. But I work for six hundred a week.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe we should have a meet and talk. No promises.”

“Hey, none needed. I’m nuts about racing. Know that little one-eighth-mile dirt track just north of town by Parkville?”

“I can find it.”

“Just to talk. About noon.”

“I don’t know. Damn arm still hurts.”

“Take some pain pills. A long drive in the country’ll do you good.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there. Just be sure you come alone.”

“Right, Franconi, alone. See you then.”

It was eleven o’clock when Bolan arrived at the little race course. There was a dirt track. There were rickety stands for about two hundred people and pits with no garages. A summer operation. The gate to the track was open, so he put the rented Chevy around the oval at a leisurely pace, figuring to shake loose somebody in charge.

A grease-marked man wearing only shorts and running shoes waved the car into the pits. The Executioner stopped.

“You run the show here?”

“Me and the bank.”

“Hear you got some hot destruction derbies going.”

“Now and then.”

“You got a car I can buy for the destruct?”

“Might. Cash?”

“Right on the radiator. It’s got to have a good solid rear end and reverse and low forward.”

“Any make?”

“Most of them are several makes.”

The man laughed. Bolan figured he was thirty. The Executioner got out of the car and extended his hand. “Scott’s the handle. Where is this bucket of bolts?”

The man said his name was Castile and that he owned the spread. He led Bolan to a battered car and outlined its history.

The destruct racer had started life as a ‘69 Chevy, had outlived three engines and six radiators and all its fenders, but it still owned both low and second and reverse.

“Got a V-8 in there right now that can snarl your pants off. I won the last two destruct derbies we had here with that little cranker.”

“How much?”

“Well, I got six seventy-five in her and she’s a winner. Purse goes two hundred. Eight-fifty and she’s yours.”

“Sold, if I can use your track this afternoon for a couple of hours. You’ll have to clear out. Want the place all to myself and this guy who challenged me.” The Executioner took out his wallet and counted out nine one-hundred-dollar bills. “Close enough,” he said.

“You own it,” Castile said.

Bolan found what he needed in the shop after Castile left. He put strands of strong wire in six places around the front bumper, and looped them for quick use. Then he wedged some sheet steel between the steering wheel and the dash — a perfect shield, in case he was fired upon. The pliers went in his back pocket.

He fired up the Chevy and backed it around the track. A giant X-shaped roadway marked the infield, where the close-clearance races were held. He soon got the knack of driving in reverse, putting the battered hulk exactly where he wanted it.

It was eleven-thirty by the time Bolan was ready. He put two weapons in the battered veteran — the “flesh-shredding” .44 AutoMag and a French infantry rifle, the 5.56 FA MAS, which is easy to handle, has great balance and keeps on target even when firing fully automatic. It spits out 3-round bursts or full-auto and holds a 25-round magazine. Four loaded mags were on the seat beside him.

The Executioner counted on Franconi bringing at least two cars full of armed soldiers. He figured The Beast would talk first, size him up and plan some diabolical end to the man who had humiliated him before his peers.

Satisfied with the weapons and the battered Chevy, Bolan drove to the small shack that served as office, ticket booth and living quarters for the owner. He nosed the vehicle into the shop section backward so he could race it into combat. He climbed the open steps to the upper floor and opened the window to check his field of fire. Perfect. The enemy crew wagons would probably not stop until they were directly below.

His only problem was getting Franconi alone inside the shack. The upstairs window would be a good firing point to fall back on. He checked the Chevy destruction monster and removed the weapons. If he stood at the front door, he should be able to lure Franconi inside. He knew the Mafia hit man would not be satisfied with a quick kill. And he would not let any of his men do the killing except in an emergency. This would be Franconi’s show, and that would be his fatal mistake.

Bolan waited at the front door. At five to twelve, two black crew wagons rumbled off the side road, then swung into the dirt lane toward the shack.

The Executioner wore no weapon. Big Thunder lay on one side of the door and on the other the French chatter-gun was hanging on a nail.

He wiped his hands on a rag as the Mafia rigs came to a halt twenty feet from the door.

A six-foot-six-inch-tall goon got out of one car and walked with apelike strides to the shack. He was big, ugly and mean looking.

“Boss wants to see you,” the Cro-Magnon said, jerking his thumb toward the car.

“Soldier, you tell Wally I don’t like the inside of wagons with twenty guns in my nose. Have him come over here and you guys stand guard.”

The goon stared in surprise. Usually people did exactly as he suggested. He shook his head and returned to the car. The door was still open. He said something, then repeated it, and Wally Franconi, scowling, slid out of the back seat. His left arm was in a cast to the elbow.

Franconi took a deep breath and stepped within three steps of Bolan.

“Okay, wise-ass, we talk. Who the hell are you? Where you from? What can you do?”

“Name is Mike Scott, from L.A. I’m a wheelman, bodyguard, persuader and action man.”

“And you use your feet — I remember that!”

“Yeah. I’m ready to show you how I can wheel. Want to look at the inside of this place? Got my destruct derby car in here and it’s a beaut.”

Franconi’s face lit up. “Mean where those assholes back up and try to kill off all the other cars? Last one running wins?”

“That’s the contest. She’s mostly Chevy. Got her nosed in here. Want a look?”

“Always wondered how they beefed up those things. Always wanted to try it.”

“Hell, try mine. Come on in.” Bolan stood to one side. Franconi made up his mind, gave a hand signal and walked into the shack.

When Franconi stepped out of sight of the crew wagons, the Executioner slammed the big silver .44 AutoMag down on his head. Bolan dragged the unconscious body to the front of the destruction derby car, hoisted it to the front bumper and, using the positioned wires, tied it securely lengthwise along the bumper. Bolan put boards under the wires before cinching them up so the wire would not cut into flesh. When the mobster was solidly fastened to the bumper, Bolan grabbed both weapons, put them in the car and fired up the V-8. It popped and snarled, and then he roared from the shack in reverse, turning so the hoodlums could plainly see their boss.

Leaning out the window, he fired one AutoMag flesh-shredder into each crew wagon, then raced to the far end of the dirt oval and waited. One of the crew wagons moved slowly along the edge of the track.

Bolan put the rig into low and ground forward toward the nearest crew wagon, with the Beast leading the way on the front bumper.

He could imagine the confusion and shock in the crew wagon as the men tried to figure out what to do. At last someone decided the destruction derby rig must not hit the crew wagon and raced it away. Bolan fired three rounds from the French army rifle and watched the Cadillac soak up the bullets. He wondered how far they penetrated. One shattered the rear window, turning the safety glass into ten thousand small granules.

Bolan chased them halfway down the track, then stopped and punched ten rounds into the front tires. Two or three found their mark, the right front tire blew and the rig slowed to a stop. Handguns came out the windows, popping at him. Then all was quiet. The goons were afraid they would hit the boss on the bumper.

Slowly Bolan accelerated in reverse. He could hear someone screaming. It was Franconi.

Bolan ignored the sound and raced the engine. He barreled across the track toward the stricken crew wagon. Its driver gunned it away, flopping tire and all, to the cover of the other Caddy.

Bolan kept coming. Franconi kept screaming. The Cadillacs parted as the Chevy rushed toward them, and as soon as it had passed a dozen shots slammed into it. Bolan ducked and spun the wheel, turning and driving forward straight for the hoodlums. One man dived from the car and into a two-handed stance with his weapon. The Executioner cut him down with six rounds from the FA MAS. The second crew wagon turned toward the road. The remaining rounds in the MAS magazine shattered its right rear tire. When the rubber blew, the car stopped.

Bolan slammed a fresh magazine into the FA MAS and fired. As the windows shattered, the Mafia soldiers fell out the far doors. Two tried to run for the highway, but they were brought down.

Three down. How many to go?

The Executioner raced past the closest Caddy, ducked, slammed into reverse and rammed the luxury car, sending forth from its radiator a cloud of steam and a stream of water into the dirt.

A dozen shots from handguns peppered the demolition car. Bolan turned it around and raced toward the crew wagon again. He stopped just in front and, aiming over the metal shield, blasted the remaining windows of the second Cadillac. Two men slid out on the far side and Bolan wished he had some grenades. He circled, firing at anyone who moved.

He aimed the AutoMag at the gas tank. Three heavy rounds pumped into the volatile fluid before it exploded, showering human parts and pieces of metal over the track. One lone Mafia hoodlum staggered away from the pyre. The Executioner slammed a flesh-shredder through him.

Bolan crawled over the immovable door of his Chevy and looked at Franconi, still wired to the front bumper. His eyes were wild, his mouth slobbering drool. He had been screaming as loud as he could, but now his voice had given out and only a croak came through. Bolan slapped his face until the hoodlum’s eyes focused.

“This is for Beth Hanover.”

The Executioner got back in the Chevy, raced the engine and stormed after the last crew wagon.

He saw a white handkerchief flutter.

Bolan killed the Chevy’s screaming engine fifty feet from the dead Cadillac.

“We give up!” a voice shouted.

“You wanted Franconi, you got him!” someone else said.

Bolan fired three rounds from the French army rifle into the windowless Caddy.

“You give up the way you let Beth Hanover give up when you raped and tortured her last night?”

“Franconi did it!” came a third voice.

Three of them. He wanted one to get back to Nazarione and tell the Mafia boss exactly what happened at the little track and how two crews and his best hit man were wasted.

“Okay, you have one chance. The three of you run for it. Get out the far side and run for the road. One of you will make it. That’s better odds than you gave Beth.”

The three jumped from the car and raced for the road. They spread out and ran as hard as they could.

Bolan nailed the first with a 3-round burst. The second took nine shots to put down. He fired over the head of the third, who made good his escape.

When Bolan was satisfied both Mafia goons in the dirt were dead and that only he and Franconi were left alive, he checked the cars.

He backed up the destruction derby Chevy, then raced toward the flaming Cadillac. At the last second Franconi screamed and he wound the wheel to the right, grazing the crew wagon. Four times he flashed past the furiously burning Caddy. Then he stopped and checked on his reluctant passenger.

Franconi had passed out again. Bolan made sure the wires were tight, then slapped Franconi awake. The hit man screamed and groaned.

“It’s all over, Franconi. I just passed sentence. For what you did to Beth, you don’t deserve to live. Nothing elaborate, just a little car crash.” Bolan started the Chevy, and pushed it into first. “Have a nice ride, pal.”

He put a rock on the accelerator pedal, aimed the screaming Chevy at the burning Cadillac fifty feet away, tied down the steering wheel and released the parking brake.

The destruction derby car raced forward, picking up speed. Franconi helplessly traveled more than thirty miles an hour toward the Cadillac. When they hit, the Chevy’s gas tank exploded, gas and gas vapor gushed over the Cadillac and both cars burned with a furious intensity, incinerating everything in sight, even melting some of the metals.

Bolan turned and walked away, the FA MAS on his shoulder, Big Thunder in his hand.

“It isn’t much, Beth,” the Executioner said. “But I hope it settles the score. Maybe now you can rest in peace.”