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 3-round burst split the gangster’s skull wide open and added to the bloodstained décor of the SUV interior. Another died with two rounds to the chest and a third to the throat.
The lone survivor managed to pull himself together enough to bail from the SUV, but he didn’t get far. As he leveled his SMG in Bolan’s direction, the Executioner got him with twin rounds through his right thigh. The gunner twisted away and his weapon flew from his grasp, arcing through the air and skittering across the wet grass on impact, well out of his grip. He began to writhe on the ground, holding his wounded leg, and Bolan knew he was no longer a threat. The locals could take him into custody for questioning.
Bolan heard the tap-tap-tap of the machine pistols and semiauto guns being fired at him, but from that distance the gunners from the sedan were unlikely to hit him. Bolan heard shouts and turned to see the security detail along with about a half-dozen uniforms reacting to the scene, several with pistols drawn and rushing toward him. It was time to take his leave. Bolan turned and sprinted toward the parking lot where he’d left his car. He had a slim chance of catching the gangsters in the sedan who were still plinking at him with only futile results.
Bolan had nearly reached his car when two plainclothes security officers attempted to stop him. He flashed the badge as he reached the vehicle, disengaged the door locks with the keyless remote and jumped behind the wheel. The two men slid to a halt and watched helplessly as Bolan cranked the engine, dropped into Reverse and backed out of the lot with a spew of dust and gravel from his tires. Bolan continued in reverse until his wheels found pavement and then executed a J-turn that swung the nose of Stony Man’s loaner vehicle in the direction he’d been backing.
The V8 engine of the Mustang GT roared beneath the hood as Bolan slammed the stick into Second gear and blasted out of the lot with a squeal of tires. The Mustang accelerated and Bolan smoothly shifted into Third gear, then Fourth, heading along the circular road that would connect him with the sedan crew. He had no doubt these were Guerra’s people. They didn’t operate like professional hitters. They had intended to do a drive-by on the mourners at the park, plain and simple. Bolan was thankful nobody else had been at the park, particularly children playing in the area of his conflagration with the men in the SUV.
Bolan looked toward the sedan just as it executed a tight turnaround and headed the way it had come. The Executioner increased his speed, determined not to let them get away. He checked his rearview mirror and saw the frantic scrambling of police toward their cars. There was no longer a threat at the park; the threat was now wherever Bolan allowed Guerra’s men to lead him. Surely they would know he was following them, and he couldn’t say he really minded. Inside the large, nylon bag on