trained eye would notice the bulge of the Beretta 93-R that rode in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit. Even an expert might miss it, however, since Bolan had long ago perfected the art of role camouflage, and learned how to walk with a gun in a way that eliminated the telltale signs most looked for on any person carrying concealed.
Bolan drove straight to the outdoor area where they were having the memorial service reception, a small park just a few blocks from the Marciano home. The Executioner took note of the two squads he passed through on the road that ran the circumference of the park, as well as the pair of suited agents wearing sunglasses standing post at the park entrance. One waved him down and he complied, rolled down his window and flashed the Justice Department credentials that identified him as a member of the FBI.
The guy studied the creds carefully, gave Bolan a once-over, then nodded and waved him through. Bolan drove on—he was just another federal cop showing up for some free food and to pay his respects, of course. According to Brognola, Gary Marciano had been a popular man among both his peers and other members of the law-enforcement community. A real friend of cops, Brognola had recalled fondly.
The fact MS-13 would pick this place and time to make its hit might have seemed insane to others—given the sheer number of cops that would be present—but to Bolan it made perfect sense. They would look to make a big and spectacular statement, and wouldn’t it be a great bonus if they could take out a few cops in the process? Bolan understood that psyche all too well; he’d seen it more times than he cared to count. MS-13 had stated in no uncertain terms it desired to be the biggest and baddest gang in America, and their target was suburbia because MS-13 probably felt it would prove harder for the police agencies of smaller communities to combat the gang’s varied and illicit activities.
Bolan had no such limitations, legal, jurisdictional or otherwise. He would hunt down every last one of them, utterly destroying their organization wherever it reared its ugly head.
Bolan left his car and made his way casually to the group of attendees already ensconced beneath the massive white canopies they had erected over row after row of tables and folding chairs. A small buffet and portable wet bar stood at the end of one of the canopies, attendants hovering over the silver trays from which people served themselves. Just to the left of the entry point of the buffet stood about a dozen well-dressed people greeting the attendees: survivors of the Marciano family. Bolan searched his mental files and immediately recalled the faces of their three children, but he didn’t recognize any others. The youngest child stood solemnly between his two older siblings.
Bolan let his gaze rove over the remaining attendees, and he eventually spotted Smalley standing at the table and talking with people. The police chief had shown up dressed in full parade uniform, the gold stars that rode along his collar shimmering almost as if in rhythm with ornate braid on his sleeves and the brim of his cap. Bolan passed over the crowd after a second and marked the faces of several men in suits and sunglasses stationed along the perimeter of the gathering. FBI? BATF or maybe even Secret Service? They didn’t carry themselves like plainclothes detectives, although he wouldn’t have put it past Smalley to keep a loyal man or two on hand as a bit of insurance.
The conversation seemed a bit solemn and reserved, but the sheer number of voices maintained a steady buzz that seemed to grow in volume as Bolan took in the sights. The Executioner didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so he kept moving along the outskirts of the congregation, careful to maintain a casual demeanor. It wouldn’t do to draw anyone’s attention, particularly the security team, as long as he had no reason to do so. For now he would blend in and keep one ear open for any conversations that might give him insight into his mission objectives.
Bolan also kept one eye on the family, as the members of MS-13 might feel the job wouldn’t be completed until they managed to stamp out every member of Marciano’s family. He took special interest in the positions of each man in the security detail, looking for holes or possible weaknesses in their defense. They seemed to have the place pretty well isolated, and unless the gang planned to wade through the crowd and start shooting, it wouldn’t make sense for them to attempt the hit.
The most vulnerable part of the layout was the perimeter itself. Bolan had noticed only a couple of squads positioned on the road that circled the park during his drive. There were no other pedestrians—obviously they had sealed off the park for the services—so that removed any risk to bystanders. No, if the attack came it would have to be from the perimeter.
The flash of sunlight on metal caught Bolan’s eye, and he turned to see a vehicle approaching from the street where it had entered the rotary. It was big, like a Lincoln or Chrysler, painted dark blue and sporting tinted windows. A second vehicle followed it, an SUV that looked similar to the one described in the police reports Bolan had read from witness statements taken after the Marciano hit.
Both vehicles traveled down the road at a high rate of speed. The sedan stopped just short of the curb with a screech of tires and the SUV wound its way around it, increasing speed and jumping the curb to continue onto the grass. Bolan didn’t need any more than that to know he’d called it correctly. He whipped the Beretta from shoulder leather as he dashed from the cover of the tent and charged directly toward a heavy, metal waste container, the fifty-five-gallon drum type, cemented into the ground, with a plastic bag lining its interior.
The Executioner knelt, took up a firing position and prepared to meet his enemy.
Head-on!
2
As the SUV bore down on his position, Bolan moved the selector switch to burst mode, sighted down the slide and took a deep breath.
The vehicle continued on a clear but erratic path in the direction of the clustered canopies. Nobody in the crowd had even seemed to notice the danger yet, which left the Executioner no options. At the rate the truck was closing, it would be on that crowd within fifteen seconds. Bolan’s eyes flicked toward the sedan, from which several occupants had emptied, armed with what looked like machine pistols. He marked their positions and then returned his attention to the SUV, steadied his two-handed grip on the pistol and aimed for the driver’s side of windshield.
Bolan let out half the breath he’d taken and squeezed the trigger. The windshield spiderwebbed even as Bolan delivered another 3-round burst of 9 mm Parabellum rounds, and that second volley rewarded him with a crimson spray erupting in the interior—a clear sign he’d hit the target. The SUV continued on its straight path and then began to shimmy side-to-side as one of the passengers likely attempted to get control of the wheel.
They had reacted a moment too late, though, as the vehicle jumped a sandy play area and caromed off a heavy wooden merry-go-round. The SUV then jounced across a rough patch of play area, fishtailed through a sandbox and finally hit a triplet of fender-high wooden posts connected with a three-inch-thick rope. The makeshift barrier proved effective enough to bring the vehicle to a halt that rocked the occupants violently into one another.
The Executioner didn’t give them a chance to regroup as he burst from cover and charged the vehicle, firing at the SUV on the run. He was careful to remain directly in front of the vehicle, thereby staying clear of the line of fire. The windshield finally collapsed inward, giving Bolan a clear view of the remaining enemy. Bolan assessed the entire situation in a moment.
Driver was down for the count. Ditto for the man seated behind him. Front seat passenger and two remaining backseat occupants were all moving. Bolan slowed as he got near, dropped the pistol’s magazine for a new one and opened up with a fresh salvo. The men in the SUV could do only two things—panic and die—as the Executioner unleashed a fusillade of vengeance on them. Bolan triggered his weapon repeatedly, catching the front seat passenger first as he presented the most immediate threat in bringing his submachine gun to bear. Bolan’s
