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 know most of the Toretto crew by sight. Shouldn’t be a problem.” When Bolan paused, he said, “Hey, look, Harmon, I don’t go around shooting just anybody. I been in this game too long to be some kind of mad-dog killer.”
“Or an assassin?”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
“Just keep that shotgun at the ready. You’re sure there are no innocents here? I don’t want to cap some guy whose only crime is showing up to work today.”
“The Torettos own the Rose, body and soul,” Pierce said. “The full-time bartender is a Toretto hire, a lifer named Jack. Has a big scar across his nose. You can’t miss him. There are a few waitresses and whatever. They’re not players, but they work for the Torettos, and they know it. No innocents in there by any definition I can speak to, Harmon. They know the score.”
“Fair enough, but just because the waitresses know who they work for doesn’t make them dirty. Just stupid. So take care.” Bolan slung the MP-5 behind his back and made his way through the alley, watchful for enemy gunners. For purposes of this exercise, he had to consider the enemies of the Corinos his own enemies. It was part of staying in role camouflage for an undercover job like this.
He would never forget, nor ever forgive, the role the Mafia had played so long ago in the destruction of those near and dear to him. It was fighting the Mafia that had propelled him onto the path he walked. Organized crime in the United States had lost considerable power over the years, but still, like a bad skin rash, the organization kept coming back. And because he was the Executioner, he would continue burning them out of their hidey-holes wherever he found them.
Despite himself, he found Pierce more than a little likable. The man had the kind of no-nonsense, down-to-earth demeanor that Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi had possessed when he’d first encountered the man on a mission against organized crime. Few people brought up Grimaldi’s past as a pilot for hire for the Mob, but Jack never forgot it, Bolan knew. The man was driven to atone for any early mistakes he might have made in that regard. It was one of the things that made him so brave and committed to the mission of Brognola’s Sensitive Operations Group.
Were there similar redeeming qualities in Pierce? Possibly.
Emerging from the alley, he surveyed the street in front of the bar. Pierce had said there were always a couple of cars out front. Those would be guard vehicles, with sentries posted inside. Probably something nondescript, so that sentries could sit and watch unnoticed. It was less conspicuous than posting men outside the bar itself, especially if they were typical Mob toughs. A practiced eye, including those of law enforcement, could spot a character like that from blocks away.
It didn’t take him long to find what he needed. There was an old Chrysler K-car on one side and a newer Chevy Malibu on the other. Each had a man sitting at the wheel. Of course, he couldn’t take a chance that these were simply innocent people sitting
