into the effects of such pointless violence. He had learned that several innocents had been killed, including two children. What made it worse: there was not a damned thing he could do about it.
He heard the door to his room swish open. The door closed and Turrin became aware of a presence.
Unobtrusive.
Standing silently beside the bed.
Before a word was spoken, Turrin knew who it was.
“We are going to make this right, Leo.”
When he heard those simple words, the little Fed felt a degree of tension drain away.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“It’s never easy,” Mack Bolan said. “But it’s doable.”
“It should have been straightforward, Mack. Sherman was ready to make a deal. A new identity for information on Conte.”
“Why would he do that?”
Turrin took a breath as a surge of pain slashed through his chest.
“The guy was at odds with Conte. My contact in Vegas said the casino boss was getting more and more aggressive with everyone around him—running the organization as if he was some kind of untouchable. A few people vanished after they had committed some minor discretions. Conte was showing there was no place for mistakes in his organization.
“Sherman knew his time had come when he was accused of stealing money from the accounts. He knew Conte would come after him. He’d want Sherman’s head on a plate. So he took the only option he could.” Turrin took another slow breath. “When Sherman found incriminating information in Conte’s files, he saved it on a flash drive. It was his bargaining chip. When we met, he told me he’d give us the data that would give us the go on Conte’s organization. Now I’m not sure the information will be worth what it’s already cost in lives.”
Turrin asked for water and Bolan obliged. Bolan placed the plastic cup in his old friend’s hand and waited as he sipped the water through a straw.
“Leo, if this is too much right now, we can leave it.”
Turrin shook his head.
“We don’t have the luxury of time. Sherman’s out there on his own. The guy is in a bad place, Mack. He’s an accountant, not a street soldier. I contacted him and offered my help. Now he’s on the run. Conte’s kill squads will be hunting him. If they get to him first, it’s over.”
“Then we stop Conte, Leo. Play him at his own game. By the rules he sets down.”
“Read up on him, Mack. This guy runs his organization through violence and intimidation and doesn’t give a damn about anyone. The casino is his legitimate cover for what goes on behind the scenes. From what we’ve learned that’s a hell of a lot.”
“Justice knows but can’t touch him?”
“Conte has the backing of his people out east. The real power is the Russian mob out of Brighton Beach. They have high-priced lawyers and money to burn on payoffs. These people know how to buy their protection, Mack. Justice has been trying to find a way in, but these guys have it sewed up tight. Sherman’s information could go a long way to bringing them all down. But right now I have no idea where he is or what he’s done with the evidence.”
“The thing about sewing things up is the opportunity to pick at the stitches,” Bolan said.
Those few words told Turrin that he could rest a little easier.
Mack Bolan was on board.
The Executioner was ready to roll.
Conte and the Russian mob were in for a rough ride.
“Marco, it’s a call for you,” Milo Forte said. “I think it’s Harry Sherman.”
Conte took the phone. “Yeah?”
“You double-crossed me, Marco,” Sherman said without preamble. “I valued your word. I should have known better.”
“Harry, it’s business. Nothing personal. I have to go with the percentages and they were telling me I should cut my losses.”
“You think? Marco, I might have had respect for you a while ago, but you just proved what a cheap hood you are—”
“You can’t talk to me like that, you fucking bean counter. You know who I am?”
“I know what you are, Marco. A scared little gofer who has to jump through hoops every time your Russian boss says so. And right now you’re in trouble. Bulova isn’t going to be happy you let nine million slip through your fingers. I would have stuck to my agreement, but you couldn’t even do that.”
The silence was thick enough to cut.
“Where are you, Harry? Tell me so I can come rip your throat out.”
“I would have helped, but now I’m going to do my best to see that you and Bulova go down. I have the goods on you, Marco. I found your hidden files. The ones that have all the names and dates and payoffs. I made a copy and I’m going to give it to the Feds. You just had to send out your guy with his gun to put me down. The trouble is, he screwed up. He missed me but hurt other people. So to hell with you all. You made me angry, Marco, and it takes a lot to do that, you loser.”
“We’ll find you, Harry, and I’ll make it my personal business to cut you into little pieces.”
The phone went dead in Conte’s hand.
“Milo, that piece of garbage is threatening to hand over files to the Feds. Goddamn it, we need to find him fast or we’re done.”
* * *
VITALY DANICHEV SAT in the rear of the SUV, making no move to climb out. His driver sat patiently at the wheel, staring out through the windshield. He knew better than to disturb his employer when he was in such a mood. Tibor Kolchak flanked the driver. Even though he was Danichev’s chief bodyguard, the huge man understood when to remain nothing more than a passive observer.
“All right, Tibor, let’s get this done.”
Kolchak climbed out of the SUV and moved his bulk to Danichev’s door, opening it so that his boss could step out. He headed directly for the casino’s entrance. Despite his powerful size, Kolchak stayed ahead of his boss, yanking open the door for him. Danichev walked inside and along the carpeted floor. Even at this time of day the casino was busy with people moving in and out. A constant stream of potential winners and losers.
“Mr. Conte is waiting for you in the Crater Lounge, sir,” said the floor manager.
He led them through the casino to a closed door at the far side of the opulent gambling floor. They stepped through the door and into the semi-lit area of the lounge. The empty dance floor was surrounded by tables and chairs, and a long, curved bar sat at the rear. The motif of the room was of planets and stars, the ceiling illuminated by simulated lunar craters and subdued light.
Marco Conte sat at the bar on a high stool, two of his hardmen close by. His gaze settled on Danichev and remained there as the Russian approached. Conte had a drink in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. He was putting on an act of nonchalance, a display for Danichev’s benefit. It was a wasted effort. The Russian ignored it.
“Have you found him?” Danichev asked.
Any form of greeting Conte might have been considering faded fast.
“No.”
“And so you sit there doing nothing?”
“I have my people out looking for him,” Conte said.
Danichev’s