Danichev. If Danichev decided to end Conte’s reign, he could do it simply by clicking his fingers and unleashing the hulking figure of Tibor Kolchak. It could happen in an instant and Conte would cease to exist.
“If he manages to hand over that information to the Feds, we could have problems,” Conte conceded.
“Good. With that out of the way we must move to prevent this matter getting any further out of hand.”
Danichev glanced at Kolchak.
The big man took out a cell phone that was dwarfed by his massive hand. He tapped in a speed-dial number and waited until the call was answered. He leaned across the bar and handed it to Danichev.
“Where are you?” the Russian asked. “Excellent. Come straight inside when you arrive.”
* * *
TEN MINUTES and two more glasses of vodka later, Danichev heard the sound of raised voices. The doors to the lounge were pushed open and five men walked in.
“On time, as usual,” he said.
The group was headed by a well-muscled man in his late thirties. His dark hair was close-cut, his angular face tanned, emphasizing the pale color of his eyes.
“Mr. Danichev,” the man said, respect evident in his voice. His gaze passed over Conte before centering on Danichev again. “Ready to go, sir.”
“This is Marco Conte,” Danichev said. “He heads this territory for us. Marco, I want you to meet Anatole Killian. Anatole and his men are here to put right our little problem. I want you to give Anatole all the help he needs. He has my permission to ask any questions. To go through everything there is to know about our absent accountant. He has the full backing of the organization to do whatever is needed to resolve this matter.”
Conte understood exactly what was implied by Danichev’s words. He didn’t need to have it spelled out any clearer. He knew exactly who Anatole Killian was. His team’s reputation within the organization was well known, as was its purpose. He and his men were known as the Kill Squad.
“It appears that Sherman accessed sensitive data from Marco’s computer and saved it to a flash drive,” Danichev said. “That data, if handed over to the Feds, could prove extremely embarrassing to Mr. Bulova.”
Killian considered what had been said. “Is this information that important?”
“Yes. It is Conte’s master list of people, the amount of money paid to them, as well as the reason why it was paid and dates.”
“I can understand why that kind of information is important,” Killian said, “but how did Sherman manage to get hold of it?”
“Because he’s a smart son of a bitch who managed to get into my secure files and access what was on them.”
“Not so secure then,” Killian said.
Conte emptied his drink. “So it fucking well seems.”
“Anatole, don’t upset Marco. He’s not having too good a day.”
“Sorry,” Killian said. “Let me have everything on this Sherman. I need to find a starting point. Contacts this guy might have. Places he might go. Any family he might run to.”
“Sherman has a sister and a niece. They live in Des Moines. A nephew is deployed overseas,” Conte said. “We did a background check when he applied for the job. Apparently, Sherman and his sister don’t really get on. The sister doesn’t approve of his lifestyle. She believes Vegas is not the place to work.”
“You think she is worried we might corrupt him?” Danichev asked.
“Something like that.”
“If Sherman is on the move, he might contact his sister,” Killian said. “Family loyalty.”
“Have a local contact arrange for a home visit,” Danichev said. “The sister might have what we need.”
Killian nodded. “I’ll get on it.”
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Aaron Kurtzman, the head of Stony Man’s cyber team, propelled his wheelchair into the War Room and positioned himself beside Mack Bolan. In addition to the Executioner, Harold Brognola and Barbara Price, SOG’s mission controller, were seated at the conference table.
The cyber wizards had been instructed to dig into Marco Conte’s life and times. His background, the structure of his operations, the people he dealt with, his staff. All details had been entered into the Farm’s supercomputer, logged and pulled into order.
Kurtzman’s team had dug into FBI files, the records from ATF and police records. Even the legal firm Conte used to keep him out of jail had come under their cyber eyes. They had all that, plus the data that had been downloaded from Leo Turrin’s files courtesy of Brognola.
Kurtzman began his presentation.
“The organization run by Marco Conte is ultimately responsible to the crime syndicate headed by Serge Bulova. Conte has complete control of his outfit, but at the end of the day he’s part of the Bulova operation and anything that hurts Conte hurts Bulova. It seems that a recent task force investigation of Conte has made some inroads into his organization. Nothing that could stand up in court yet, but Bulova has been rattled by the interest shown in Conte’s setup. That said, once news reached Bulova that there was a significant problem within Conte’s organization, Justice intel says he sent Vitaly Danichev to monitor the situation.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” Bolan said.
“Danichev keeps people in line for Bulova. He’s got a reputation as a no-nonsense enforcer. He gets results. The hard way, according to intel reports. Never gets his own hands dirty. There’s a team of hit men who clean up any loose ends. They work under Danichev’s control.”
“Guns for hire?” Bolan asked.
Kurtzman nodded. “Unofficially they’re known as the Kill Squad.” He tapped at the slim keyboard on the table in front of him. A grainy image appeared on the large wall monitor, depicting a dark-haired man with an angular face and pale blue eyes. His hard features were clean-shaved and his expression was solemn. “These are the only pictures known to exist of the guy heading the squad and his second in command.”
Bolan studied the face and committed it to memory. He would know the guy if he encountered him.
“Do we have a name?”
“Anatole Killian. That’s all we’ve got. The other guy is Jake Fresco.”
“Not the types you’d want to meet on a dark night,” Price said. “Or even in broad daylight, for that matter.”
“Do we assume Killian was behind the attempt to kill Harry Sherman?” Bolan asked.
“We
